CHAPTER TWO
Grayson — 15 years old (Freshman year)
Naomi pads barefoot around the living room, gathering her multicolor hair ties as she goes before coming back to me and dropping them into my lap.
I grin, knowing exactly what she’s trying to tell me, without actually saying the words. “You want your hair done?”
She nods, a smile playing across her lips. “What kind of braids do you want?”
My heart thuds in my chest, as I wait anxiously for her response. Just a word, sweetheart. One word, that’s all I’m asking.
She looks over my shoulder, avoiding my eyes. And then her gaze falls to our mother, who is sleeping on the bed in the corner of the trailer. Noami looks back at me, fidgeting with the pink hair tie in her hand.
Speak to me, please.
A minute passes, and when she remains consistently silent, I realize that maybe today is not the day I’ll hear her voice. She continues to fidget with the hair tie, but her movement is more agitated now. Her lips twist grumpily and she stares at me, her eyebrows furrow with great impatience.
“You won’t speak to me, huh?” I ask, as a prompt. She only has to say the word “no” and that will be more than enough for the rest of my miserable life.
She pushes her hand forward, waving her hair tie in my face. As in to ask, “Are you going to do my braids or no?”
Such an impatient, sassy little thing.
“Come here. I’m ever at your service, Your Highness.” I pat the spot in front of my crossed legs, and wait for her to sit down. Once she is tucked against my legs, I hand her Mr. Snuggles, the teddy bear. Mr. Snuggles was mine when I was her age. And it was my first present to Naomi when she was born. The only real ‘present’ I could ever give her. The teddy bear has been washed countless times now, and the color has faded to something dull and lifeless. But Naomi is super attached to it. I don’t have the heart to take it away, and I don’t think I’ll be able to afford to buy her another.
Naomi gives me a little excited wiggle, signaling me to start. “Yes, yes. Patience is a virtue, Your Majesty.”
There’s a breathy laughter from my sister, and my heart expands ten times bigger. Goddamn it, I love her little giggles. I want to bottle them up and keep them somewhere safe.
I grab the wide-toothed hair comb and start on the top of her head. Her hair feels like fluffy cotton: thick and soft. Naomi was born with a head full of beautiful black hair, and as she grew, so did her hair. There are no defined curled patterns; it’s just fluff everywhere.
While my mother used to say that I’m a perfect mix of her and my father, Naomi is a carbon copy of our mother. With her round face, rich cinnamon skin and her dark hair. She even has our mother’s nose and eyebrows. But her eyes — she got her silver-blue eyes from our father.
A father she has never met.
But I don’t think she cares or feels his loss. Naomi has me …and for a while, I think that’s enough for her.
She has seen pictures of him, photo frames that are now lost somewhere in the small living space. The last time I saw my father, Naomi was two months old. That was four years ago. He’s never been around much since I was a kid, but this has been the longest stretch since he disappeared.
I comb through Naomi’s hair, carefully detangling any knots I find. There is so much hair, sometimes I don’t know what to do with all these beautiful curls.
After combing through the strands, I reach for the spray bottle, but Naomi is already grabbing it and handing it to me. “Why thank you, little Miss Helper.”
I can’t see her expression, but I know my sister is preening at the praise. She loves compliments, as much as she loves marshmallows.
In the bottle, I mixed water, conditioner, and coconut oil together. It’s like a natural styling spray and damn, it saved my struggling ass many times. What do I know about styling little girls’ hair? Not much. But I’m learning.
Especially with a demanding princess like my baby sister. She keeps me on my toes, wanting new hairstyles every now and then. And I can’t say no to a pouty Naomi.
Naomi is four years old, and she has never spoken a word to us. I would have thought she was mute, if I hadn’t caught her speaking quietly to her dolls one day. It was a one-time thing, though, and it never happened again. But it was enough to let me know that my sister can speak. She just chooses not to.
So, every day, I try to get her to speak. Whether it’s striking up random conversations, or bribing her with marshmallows. For some reason, Naomi thinks she can’t speak in front of me or our mother.
“I’ll do two pigtails today, okay?”
She nods silently, and I continue with my task. Naomi opens her storybook over her lap and after scanning over the pictures and words, she turns the page. “Do you want me to read you the story?”
She lets out a quiet exhale, which only I know is a happy sigh in her language. She goes back to the first page, and I start with the story, while continuing to style her hair.
I don’t have to look at the pages. I have the story memorized by heart, since I’ve been reading it to her since she was a year old. The Princess and the Pea . It’s her favorite story, along with The Little Mermaid .
They were her bedtime stories, as she cried through the night, and the only thing that ever soothed her was me reading to her. Our mother once said that Naomi must have found my voice calming. I like that idea.
I like knowing that I can soothe her — when our mother won’t.
Not because she can’t.
It’s because she won’t bother trying.
My gaze moves to her sleeping form, a few feet away from us. She’s facing the other side, where the twin mattress is pushed up against the wall. Mothers are supposed to be nurturing, the source of love and affection for their children. Hadley Avery is none of those.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, make her stop!”
I bounce my baby sister in my arms, trying to get her to stop crying. She’s been in tears and screaming at the top of her lungs for hours now, and nothing will make her stop. I changed her diaper, offered her milk, tried to put her to sleep — but she just won’t stop crying.
“She might be in pain,” I whisper, absolutely terrified at just the thought of Naomi hurting and the fact that I can’t help her. I’m her older brother; I’m supposed to fulfill her needs. I always have—
But right now…
I don’t know what to do.
“No!” Our mother growls, stalking across the room of our very small living space. She rummages through our clothes, but I’m barely paying attention to her. “She’s just a fucking brat!”
I have Naomi in the crook of my arm, holding her firmly to my chest. Her tiny face is scrunched up, her lips pursed in a forceful cry. “She’s only seven months old,” I say, defensively.
Our mother huffs impatiently, and then walks back to the mattress. She lifts it up, makes an outraged sound in the back of her throat before dropping the mattress down again. She’s done this three times already, and I have an awful feeling that I know what she’s looking for.
Her fists are clenched, and I can see the visible furious lines of her rigid body.
My fingers brush against Naomi’s cheek, and I swipe away her tears. She looks up at me, her dark eyes blinking tearfully. She hiccups back a sob, and I swear it breaks my heart seeing her like this.
“What are you looking for?”
“The money I kept under the mattress.”
Time to rip off the band aid. “I needed it to buy her milk.”
“That was my last stash,” my mother hisses, her eyes dark and wild. Crazed. “I needed that money, you complete fool!”
Naomi needs it more, but I choose not to say those words out loud.
I know when to keep silent.
Aggression rolls off her in waves, as she runs her fingers through the hair. I’m afraid she’s going to yank it out. “I should have gotten rid of her when I had the chance,” she mutters under her breath, and it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Now, it’s just another useless mouth to feed.”
What?
My arm tightens around Naomi.
I must have misheard my mother.
She’s not affectionate, and can be mean sometimes. But she’s not cruel. These words can’t belong to her. I don’t believe the cruelty in them.
Naomi cries harder.
My chest tightens painfully.
I think…
I’m going to be sick.
“Make her stop!” my mother screams.
I lurch forward, my feet moving before I can stop myself. Running out of the trailer, the door slams behind me, but I don’t stop running until I’m far enough, away from the trailer, until my lungs burn and my body tires.
Naomi is quiet in my arms, and I bring her closer to my face, holding her wet cheek against mine. “I have you. I promise, I got you.”
I’ll never let her go.
Never.
I think I remember a time when she was a good mother — caring and protective, sweet and patient. But maybe that time was just an illusion I created in my head.
Once I’m done with Naomi’s hair, I give her a pat on the head. “Okay, done. Stand up and let me see.”
She does so, and gives me an extra happy twirl. Her two pigtails are slightly sloppy, but I think she looks even cuter with them.
Naomi raises her arms over her head, and her round little belly pokes out from under her shirt. A shirt that’s too small for her now. I make a mental note to make a run to the thrift store tomorrow. I should be able to find something cheap.
I look down at my own faded shirt. The kids at school mock me — trailer trash , they’d say, snickering as I walk by — but I’m used to it now. Opinions of strangers don’t affect me anymore. I only care what my sister thinks of me and to her — I’m the slayer of dragons.
It’s the only thing that matters.
I know I can’t afford to get both of us clothes. Not with the little money I get from working part-time at the junkyard. Kenan doesn’t pay me that much. What I get is barely enough to feed us bread and cheese. I’ve made sure to carefully hide the money from my mother.
“You look like a princess,” I praise, and Naomi’s little face instantly lights up. I swear I’d burn the world down for that innocent smile.
When I stand up, she rushes over to me and wraps her arms around my waist. My throat closes up, emotions clogging my senses.
Sometimes I wonder why I was given such a cursed, worthless life.
Sometimes I think it’d be so much easier if I ran away.
But Naomi is here.
So I can’t leave this place behind.
We share the same parents and experiences. But the thread that binds us goes beyond our shared blood. It’s her innocent adoration for me and my utter devotion to her that keeps us linked. Our lives are interwoven in the most sacred of ways — the innocent bond of siblings.
The greatest gift our parents gave us is each other.
And as long as she is with me, I’m not lonely.