Great.
Six years old and she’s already running the boy market.
When I was six, I was rolling my eyes back trying to see my own brain, or testing if my brain would let me bite off my own finger.
I eye the beads. "I don’t know how to make bracelets."
"Knew it." She smirks. "It’s okay. We’ll do it together. But I want payment."
There it is, business mode. I kinda respect it.
"What payment?"
"I want you to…draw a little design on my arm. Like your tattoos. I think it’ll look cool. I brought markers." I burst out laughing.
Bold of her to assume having tattoos means I can draw.
Bolder to think I’ll ink a minor while her parents are ten feet away. I’m not trying to get cuffed by the Fun Police.
Still, she’s staring, waiting.
"Fine," I mutter. "Tiny design. Tiny."
"Wait here," she tells me, then sprints straight into the water. Kids. Tiny gremlins with zero warning labels. She comes back soaked, dripping everywhere.
I slap a hand over the bead box. "Careful, salt water nukes the colors."
"They won’t nuke," she says. "Dad bought me the best beads. Dad never lies."
"Lucky you."
She squints. "Your dad lies to you?"
I flick a rainbow heart bead between my fingers.
Really hoped she’d miss that, but noticingeverythingis her favorite sport. "He once promised we’d race our bikes and the loser would buy gelato," I mumble. "Never happened."
She snorts. "Your dad is probably scared to lose. Gelato is expensive." A low laugh escapes me.
Yeah.
It’s expensive, but I’d pay millions for a single spoonful of gelato if it meant eating it with my dad right now.
Water’s drying on my forehead. I wipe it away.
"Anyway, what are we making?" She shoves a thin cord into my hand. "You do his, I do yours."
"You even know how to spell?" I immediately regret asking. Her head lifts in slow motion. I swallow.
Tiny queen just stands, snatches the bead box, turns to leave. "No no no, Emiliana, I was kidding! I’m sure you know how to spell. I apologize to your superior spelling skills, okay? Please."
She looks at me, then drops back down. Crisis averted. She fishes out three beads and lines them in my palm.
"That’s your name, right?" I nod.
She grabs four more. "And that spells his?" Another nod.
"Good," she says, passing them over. "String them." I start threading everything onto this aggressively tiny piece of string.
