“Okay…looks good,” I mumbled to myself, but I still unconsciously messed my hair, flipping and unclipping, patting down nonexistent wrinkles in my hand-me-down dress. How old was it again..? Fifteen, twenty years old, maybe. It didn’t matter, of course, I thought to myself with a smile. It was his favorite color.

Why was I so obsessed that day? Prom..? No, that was only last week. Last week? February, right… February seventh. Our two month anniversary. How trivial, I think now.


“Frannie! Charlie’s here, doll,” Dad called from the living room. I smiled, hearing Charlie making my mom laugh again. She loved it when he came over. He always made her laugh, made her smile. That was one reason, I knew, that I liked him. He was that kind of person. The kind that, by just being in the room, he could make you feel better, or happier, or just make you smile by looking at you.



I made my “grand” appearance with barely a thought before jumping at him, and he caught me with a slight bewilderment. He laughed nervously, nearly falling when I jumped into his arms, but he steadied himself and just said, “Hey, Frannie.”

Was it then? No…it wasn’t then, I don’t think.  It was what he said right after that, while Mom and Dad were looking away, not listening, and my ear was right at his mouth.

“You look so beautiful.”



That was it, I thought with a quiet sob, putting my hand to my mouth and wiping away another line of tears that had reached my mouth. Charlie looked at me with confusion, barely looking at his mom. She stood behind me, already very aware of the news. It was the only time she’d ever looked very scary to me, staring at her son was a very apparent disdain that I’d never thought I’d see on her face.

“Wanna hear something funny, Charlie?” I whimpered, gasping in the middle of my sentence. He looked at me with another, bolder look of confusion. I hated seeing him like that, his thin brown eyes full of concern.

“Frannie, just tell me what’s wrong,” he said, moving closer, but I stopped him. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him near me for my own sake. I knew that, after I said what I needed to say, he wouldn’t have wanted to be near me.


Sighing, I wished his mother would have stayed there. Instead, she left us, going to the couch with a low moan, not looking at either of us again.  I looked away from him, feeling another cold wet line of tears flow down my cheeks. “I’m pregnant.”

The name Astor is usually accompanied by the thought of fame, fortune...perfection. But we are not related to John Jacob Astor, by blood or by fortune. My father, Edward Astor, unfortunately married a woman named Samantha. At the time, he knew her well, but didn't know her well enough to the know the person she didn't want him to know.


Samantha became pregnant with their first child, my older brother, and even then Dad didn't notice. He was too happy to notice anything besides the fact that the woman he "loved" was going to have his baby.


But even pregnant, she would go behind his back and love others. It was always more than one, but Dad would only ever find out about one of them. Me and my brother, however, would always secretly know that wasn't the truth.


Henry Astor was their first son, and Dad loved him so much, and again he was blinded by his own happiness.


Shortly after Henry, I was born, and I was named Craig Astor.


After I was born, Dad started catching on to Samantha. She'd be out late without her phone, come home at two or three in the morning.


Without knowing it, they fought just downstairs, and Samantha would always start it. Poking, shoving...anything to make Dad mad.


Finally, after she came home so late, he told her to leave...


...and she did so gladly, without once turning back to make sure Henry and I were happy. She didn't call to check on us and she never came by again to see us.


Dad did what he could to make sure we were okay and happy.


Henry would forever look up to Dad, and I think Dad would look up to Henry as well. I would sometimes catch him looking at him in an admiring way. Henry was always tough and made everyone sure that he was okay.


And all the while, Dad never forgot about me. Henry was a demon on the piano and always played. Dad and I would dance or encourage him. He'd tried teaching me a few times, but I could never make my hands go together all at once.


By the time I was a teenager, everything that had been around when Samantha was there was gone. The wall color had changed, pictures were put up and taken down...


But Henry was always glued to the piano.


The walls of our--Henry and mine--room were littered with drawings I'd done, things that twisted menacingly around the bed. Dad would joke, saying I needed to have a talk with a psychiatrist. Though I'd laugh, I was kind of sure he was right.


Dad and Samantha's wedding photo, which had once hung in their--his--bedroom was now nothing more than a memory he'd rather think of as a nightmare.

Everytime I click Shift+Ctrl+C, nothing happens, and I do it over, and over, and over again too, so it's not just a one time thing.

Does anyone know what to do about this?