Chapter 2
My mom gets out of the car, and I follow her up the path to my new home. A very tall, very handsome man with salt-and-pepper locs pulled off his face is holding open a large red front door. My mom scoots past him inside but I stay where I am.
“Travis will get your bag,” she calls back to me.
“Hello, Jasmine,” Travis says in a deep baritone, reaching over. “Would you like to come in?” His formality is unnerving.
“Yes, sir?” I say, edging past him.
My mom stands at a nearby table with a weird look on her face, and I wonder if that was the wrong thing to say. The door closes loudly behind me. She rolls her eyes playfully at Travis.
“Trav, you’re scaring her,” she says. In her tone, I hear all the lightness that was missing from our car trip—a glimmer of the ease that used to exist between us, that she clearly feels with her new husband.
He looks at me and smiles for the first time. “Just call me Travis,” he says, taking the bag out of my hand. His smile is kind and instantly knocks down a chunk of the wall building up around me.
My dad left when I was a baby. Growing up, he wasn’t really a topic of conversation unless someone insisted on our likeness.
My mom would shoot them a sharp look, and I’d be curious enough to make a note in my journal about it, but never enough to really ask anything.
Anyway, I thought my mom wrote off love after him.
She would joke about finding me a stepdad and laugh away the idea because “no one came before her kid.” I always hoped someone would come along and help her see things differently.
Now, I hope I don’t regret it.
The three of us are still standing at the bottom of a long, curved staircase flanked by two large rooms. The room on the right has the kind of setup you see in magazines, staged and stuffy, but the room on the left looks lived in.
I’m practically daydreaming about a nap on the large gray sectional when a girl with long box braids comes running down the stairs.
“Oh my god, hiiii, sis!!!” she exclaims, beaming at me. Her braids are so long they don’t stop with her, and they accidentally slap my arm.
I wave.
She gives my mom and Travis a sarcastic expression. “Hi, parents,” she says. She has a perfectly symmetrical face, skin a few shades lighter than mine, and beauty marks on her cheeks that resemble my own but stand out more on her.
I want to stop staring but I can’t. It’s easier to ignore the existence of the girl your mom’s been sort of raising for a year when she’s not right in front of your face. Finally, I tear my eyes away.
“Nice to see you awake, Kayla,” my mom says jokingly.
Kayla throws her braids to the side and laughs, the kind of laughter that would be contagious if I knew her better. “It’s called beauty sleep, Ma.”
I look at my mom for a signal that Ma is out of the ordinary, but there isn’t one. I try to tamp down the jealousy with the thought that Kayla has her own mother. Maybe Travis isn’t the only replacement around here.
“You didn’t wear the clothes I picked out!” Kayla gestures at my outfit.
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 these nicer pieces.
“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 calls to her and she nudges Kayla as she leaves the room. “Don’t forget the thing for later, please.”
Kayla whines that she won’t, calls her Ma again, 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 so perfect.
“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 tub and a 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 are droplets 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. This is 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.
Back in Lorial, Mom and I loved to eat our meals on the couch while catching up on our shows, so I look in the comfy living room first. It’s empty.
I hear laughter from the kitchen and head down the hallway.
Mom is at the island putting food into serving dishes.
Kayla and Travis are already sitting at the long dining table, both immersed in their phones.
“Hi,” my mom says, “what do you want to drink?”
“I’ll have what everyone else is having?” I say with a shrug.
She nods and points me to the table to sit. I assume the seat across from Kayla is mine and slide myself into it.
Travis smiles. Kayla doesn’t look up.
“Mom, can I help you?” I ask, hoping she’ll say yes and I can get up and do something—anything to avoid the silence that seems to be uncomfortable only to me.
“Nope. Where’s my sous chef?” She waves Travis over. He drops his phone and marches to the counter.
“Right here,” he says, kissing her cheek.
I try to hide my surprise; this is the first time I’ve seen her like this.
On the extremely rare occasions she attempted dating, it never got serious enough to bring anyone home.
She would joke with her coworkers that a relationship would just give her a grown man to parent, and so she didn’t really date—at least as far as I knew.
“Kaylaaaa, how about we do the thing now?” my mom asks.
Kayla finally looks up from her phone and pushes a silver box toward me. “This is yours,” she says with a glimmer of a knowing smile.
I thank her and put the box in my lap, not sure what to do with it, but my mom urges me to open it. I rip a corner of the wrapping paper and almost jump out of my seat—it’s a cell phone.
“Happy belated birthday from all of us!” my mom exclaims.
I haven’t had a phone in forever. The court confiscated the one I’d just gotten for my birthday last year, and the center monitored all our calls.
Good behavior could earn you one unit call a week, but according to them, mine never did.
I don’t exactly have anyone to hit up right now, but that doesn’t matter.
“Thank you so much, guys!!” I exclaim, excitement overtaking my awkwardness.
Travis and my mom high-five each other, pleased with their gift.
“Seriously, guys, it’s just a cell phone,” Kayla groans. “It’s literally the twenty-first century.”
Her dad shoots her a look, and she rolls her eyes in my direction. I give her a polite smile even though I don’t feel that way at all—I’m so excited about my new phone. I don’t expect her to understand.
“Well, just don’t put me on speed dial because apparently, I’m unreliable,” she says, turning to her dad as she forms air quotes.
I realize her attitude might have nothing to do with me.
Travis’s smile flattens and his voice gets a little serious. “Ignore her, please. Emergency contacts are on that wall,” he says, pointing to a whiteboard covered in my mom’s handwriting. “I’m sure you’ll have friends’ numbers to add soon.”
“New friends’ numbers,” my mom says. “Friends who are a good influence. Anyway, you’ll need a phone when you start driving.
” My stomach flips, and I look at Mom with wide eyes.
She gives me a small smile. “We’ll start practicing so you can get your permit.
But again, Jasmine, these are privileges that can be taken away. ”
“I know,” I say, but I can’t stop the grin growing on my face.
Travis and Kayla don’t react, which makes me wonder if this is a conversation they’ve had before. About me showing up, about the “challenges” I’ll face reacclimating to the outside world, about how they’ll have to help me start over? My face flushes in shame, but nobody seems to notice.
Kayla looks from me to Travis and Mom and back again, her brow furrowed. “What did you do anyway?” she asks.
“Kayla,” Travis hisses.
She holds her hands up. “Sorry, sheesh. It was just a question,” she says, and turns back to her phone. But she doesn’t sound sorry at all. She’s probably been asking for weeks, wondering what a teenage girl has to do to get sent away.
If it were a simple answer, I’d give it to her.
“Well, thank you, again,” I say as Travis places the asparagus and potatoes in front of me and my mom puts down a pan with some sort of saucy chicken. Then they each take a seat at opposite ends of the table. It’s like a holiday meal.
Travis asks Kayla to put her phone away and she does. My mom looks at me.
“It’s still in the box,” I say quickly.
“When it comes out, I hope you remember the fresh start we talked about and the trust we’re earning,” she says.
“Got it, Mom,” I say, catching Kayla’s gaze while trying to find anywhere else to look.
My mom’s eyes are a little watery after she says grace, smiling at each of us when we raise our heads. The silence is broken by the sound of silverware clinking and scraping as we all dig in.
I didn’t know my mom could cook like this.
We used to live on easy things that she could make between nursing shifts or that I could throw in the microwave.
It’s like she was saving the best version of herself for a family that would appreciate it.
I feel a knot in my throat and swallow it down with some of the sparkling water in my glass.
She’s thankful I’m home, I tell myself, and for now, that’s enough.