Page 50 of Paint the Town, Dove
She rolled down her sleeve, batting her eyelashes like she had pepper in her eyes.
“Um,” she whispered, “Um,” again, panicking. She picked at papers, this Emory girl, turning sheets over, reading nothing. She pretended to occupy herself.
I wouldn’t let her.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be partners,” she whispered, hiding behind the curls of her hair.
But before she could go, I grabbed her fingers and squeezed tightly. “Can I see?”
We were thirteen, ninth graders, and we’d already mutilated our bodies because the world was unkind.
We talked about it at lunch, tucked away beneath a willow tree. Wedidn’t make it to third or fourth period.
“I was in foster care up until I was eight.” She was fidgeting with her fingers. I placed my hand over hers to stop the shaking.
“I don’t know my parents. I don’t know if I want to know them. I just know – I justwantto know why they gave me up.”
“Having kids is expensive apparently,” I tried. Flack grumbled about it all the time. ‘When’d we even have her, eh Sin? Feels like a lifetime ago and a lifetime longer. Bills, bills, bills.’
She looked up at me with pained eyes, void of contentment. I recognized it all too well. “Then why have one?”
“What?” I was in my head.
“Why have a kid if you can’t afford one?”
I shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. For company, maybe.”
“Then get a dog,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “I’m a person. I shouldn’t –” she paused, sniffing. “I shouldn’t have been thrown away.”
I stared at her. “Was it really that bad?”
Her head shot up. “Are you serious?”
My words lodged in my throat. “I mean… you were surrounded by people. You weren’t alone.”
She was crying now, forearms flying up to show her scars – how deep the cuts were buried in her skin. “I’m not from here, that’s all I know! On paper, I’m Filipino and Venezuelan. Who was who? My mom, my dad? What were they like? How far away from home am I? How did they get here? How didIget here?”
“Emory –”
“Do you know what people called me in there? Do you know how badly I was bullied, shunned, all because of how I look?”
“What?” I veered back. “What’s wrong with how you look?”
“Nothing! Nothing I just – I’m just,” she bit her lip, chewed her nail, “different, I guess.”
I chained my gaze to hers, felt the compulsion to pull her in for a hug, felt like she needed it. I hated hugs. But I… I liked her.
I wanted her to like me.
“I’m sorry, Emory.”
She wiped her eyes. “For what?”
I took a breath, shutting down. “I don’t know what it’s like to be surrounded by people because I’m always alone. I didn’t know that you could be crowded and empty at the same time.”
“Your parents…” she spoke slowly.
“Sinead and Flack,” I corrected.
