Though I have to say, I did like the daisy.
See you tomorrow, Jihad.
Best,
Jamie
“Ji?” Alexis says, her voice sounding far away. “Are you still there?”
I blink, feeling something unclench in my stomach, and a smile plays on my lips. “Yeah, I’m here. I can’t really change partners with Nicole. The school made it so my buddy would be my partner in assignments and stuff.”
“Oh,” she says, taken aback. “So there’s no way for you to change?”
“I don’t think so.” The lie flows from my lips as easily as the truth. So far today the only person who has shown me unconditional kindness is Jamie.
I’m letting my gut take the lead with this.
Murky Yellow
When I toldMama about the colors—that I could see them come alive—she kissed my forehead and said, “That’s your blessing, albi.”
It was before the cancer festered in her lungs. I think I knew something was there, before we went to the doctor. Mama’s colors were iridescent. They shimmered and flowed, deep blue-green like the sea lived inside her. I could see that. But when the cancer woke up in her lungs, the colors dimmed. They flared for a while like they were fighting against the intrusion, but the enemy was too strong. I was eight, and I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
I remember then Mama set up her easel in the tiny living room and gave me her paintbrush.
“Paint,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a wide smile. I remember how soft her hair looked, the brown a rich color bursting with life.
I don’t remember exactly what I painted, but I remember the joy on Mama’s face. The pride that bloomed in my heart, knowing she loved it.
Amal’s knack for art was very different from mine. She wasstructure where I was chaos. She questioned her blessing and, ultimately, didn’t believe in it. She never realized her analytical mind, her eye for precision, was her blessing. I think it’s because she was expecting it to be huge, like the way Mama could breathe underwater. Something more.
Amal didn’t see what I saw in her. How her colors were deep, something I’d never seen before or ever after. She was a golden-yellow star, the yellow deepening to a fiery red. Her heart felt too much, but she didn’t share all it held.
Baba’s colors were an evergreen forest. The different shades of green each tree has. He’d come alive when he was with us. I could see the way his colors would brighten when he walked into the apartment, throwing his jacket onto the ground so I could run and hug him.
The day I painted on Mama’s easel, she showed it to Baba and Amal at dinner.
Baba raised his spoon. “I bid twenty thousand dollars.”
I giggled. “Baba!”
He waved his hand like he was an art critic at the Louvre. “This painting is my soul. I must have it.” He pointed a finger at Amal. “Don’t think you’ll outbid me.”
Amal was right in the middle of her sulky teenage years at fifteen, so when she cracked a small smile, the whole table cheered.
“Going once!” Mama announced, shaking the painting. “Going twice!”
Baba raised his eyebrows at Amal, who rolled her eyes.
“Fine. One million dollars,” she said.
Baba’s mouth fell open, and he stood suddenly, nearly knocking his plate. “How dare you! One hundred trillion dollars!”
“Sold!” Mama cried.
I laughed, my cheeks warm from being the center of attention.
Mama handed it to Baba, who raised it over his head, cheering.
