I look down at my uniform and then back at her, my eyes landing on the row of small gold hoops on each of her ears, framing her symmetrical face. How was she able to get that many piercings? I had to fight my mom for one. When I get to Kayla’s cream-colored maxi dress, I realize she wouldn’t wear the clothes she picked for me.
“We were in a rush,” my mom chimes in.
Kayla just shrugs and starts talking to her dad.
My mom motions for me to follow her into the living room. It’s filled with sunlight and furniture that matches the color of Kayla’s dress. A big sofa is pushed under the window, two plush chairs across from it. I know my mom must have picked out the throw pillows because they are the exact same yellow as her favorite flowers. Then I spot a few familiar items: two glass floor lamps on either side of the sofa and a matching glass coffee table.
“Those are the only things from the old place that go with these other pieces,” my mom explains. I hear what she isn’t saying—that they’re the only things from the old place that go with thesenicerpieces.
“We didn’t have nice things?” I ask.
She reaches out to rub my shoulder, and I flinch a little at her touch. “Of course we did, Jasmine. These are just a little… newer.”
Kayla walks into the room and stops when she sees us. “Am I interrupting?”
My mom shakes her head and drops her hand. Travis callsto her and she nudges Kayla as she leaves the room. “Don’t forget thethingfor later, please.”
Kayla whines that she won’t, calls herMaagain, and looks directly at me. Neither of us says anything.
A bead of sweat runs down my side. I want to sit, but I need to make sure I’m not going to leave sweat stains everywhere. Kayla is playing with her braids and still looking at me.
“So how—”
“Is there—”
We speak at the same time.
“You first,” she says.
“Umm, is there a bathroom I can use?” My voice cracks a bit.
With a confused face, she says, “You don’t have to ask for the bathroom. This is your house now, too.” She points over my shoulder before dropping herself onto the sofa.
Embarrassed by her answer, I turn quickly toward a door in the hallway just at the edge of the living room. Walking over, I see a portrait on the wall of the family on a beach: Mom, Travis, and Kayla. They all look so happy. Mom is wearing a long white dress that looks similar in style to Kayla’s short floral one, and Travis is in a linen suit in a close color. I assume this was taken at the wedding. Behind them, the ocean is glistening. Their smiles are wide and real. Everything is just soperfect.
“We’ll get one with you too, Jas, don’t worry about that,” my mom says from the doorway. I wonder how long she’s been standing there.
I nod, mentally photoshopping myself into the image, trying to imagine it: me a part of this happy family. Me a part of this perfect life.
The closet in my room has enough space for us to stand in it together as my mom takes me through rows and drawers of new things. I wouldn’t necessarily have picked out most of them for myself, but at least they seem like they’ll fit. She says she wants me to make good impressions and tells me when it would be suitable to wear each item. Soft cardigans for an evening out with the family, flowy dresses for events, collared shirts and pressed skirts for school—more expensive-looking stuff than I’ve ever owned. I run my hand over the embroidery on one of the green sweaters that are part of my new school uniform. It’s a fancy upgrade from the ones at the center, and I find I kind of like it.
I spot my favorite thrifted hoodie hanging in a small section in the corner, and a few pairs of my old jeans. I’m happy to see them but a little self-conscious about how worn they look compared to everything else.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” my mom says as she pulls the door shut behind her.
Alone at last, I sit on the bed and take in my new room. It’s double the size of my room back in Lorial; one wall swallows up my old dresser and mirror. I look to see what else made the journey and notice my banker’s lamp on the desk by the window, right next to my broken typewriter. I found the typewriter at a secondhand store when I was wandering around town with Desiree one day and immediately knew I had to have it.
I see a door on the other side of the room, slightly ajar. My lips quirk up in a smile—my very own bathroom.
Whoa. This is definitely the best part of the house so far: a tubanda shower all to myself. I turn the water as hot as I can stand and watch puddles form on the floor tiles. I close the glass door once the steam starts to rise, and soon there aredroplets running down the mirror too.Perfect.Hot water and privacy were rare commodities when you had to share everything with so many others. I wasn’t one of the girls who could charm my way into more of either.
I move fully under the stream and close my eyes. Water winds through my twists and they start to unravel under the pressure. I shake my head to help the water find its way through.Thisis a shower.
When I finally step out, my hair is a dripping, moisturized puff of jet-black coils in dire need of a trim. I pull a strand to my nose to smell the lingering scent of shampoo. This is the cleanest I’ve felt in a long time.
I throw open the drawers and cabinets under the sink and find that they’ve also been stocked for me. Grabbing a bottle of leave-in, I squeeze way too much into my hands, then start raking the conditioner through my strands. I pause when I notice how different I look now from when I saw my reflection downstairs—rested, and clean. Like my old self. I pull my hair into my favorite bun.
Standing in the middle of my closet, I rub my skin with lavender-scented lotion as I eye a black dress almost like the one Kayla had on. Instead, I grab a pair of my old jeans and one of my new graphic tees.Welcome back, I whisper as I check my outfit in the mirror. I spray on a perfume that smells like cotton candy and head downstairs.
