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What people see is the perfect facade I’m showing them. A pretty illusion of what Riley Johnson is. In reality, my value is that of a disintegrating butterfly. Worthless and grotesque.
My body is a sinking ship, and I am drowning in the wreckage of it.
I step off the scale, avoiding the mirror. I mechanically get dressed and walk back into my bedroom to find a tray of food on my nightstand. A tray of perfect portions of food. With exact calories and proteins that my mother instructed Miss Miller to give me. My mother controls every bite of food that I take — or so she thinks.
In goading silence, I shove the food in my mouth. Knowing exactly what I will be doing afterward. The laxatives in my nightstand are practically mocking me. I barely taste the food, barely chew, just forcing everything down my throat with the help of water. Once my tray is clear, I grab the small bottle of pills from my nightstand and find my way to the bathroom.
This is my value.
Worthless and grotesque.
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.
