I groan. “Whatever.”
She shoots me a look. “Maybe use the day to think about how you can get your act together.”
I want to tell her maybe she can use the day to ask her coworkers if they punish their teenagers for trying to be normal. But probably not, since that would require her to admit that she really is a dictator.
“Yeah sure. My phone?” I say instead.
She looks up from tying her laces, her eyebrows raised.
“How am I supposed to call you if…” I begin.
“If what, Jasmine?” she says. “If you need to reach me? Like you should have done last night?”
“Yeah,” I say, embarrassed by the irony.
She shakes her head and places the phone on the table. “Fine, here. But you should be studying today, not texting Desiree.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, Mom… really,” I say.
“I hear you,” she says, “but this isn’t over. I have to figure out what to do here. We’ll talk more this weekend.” She closes the door softly behind her, leaving me to wonder whether she really means it this time, and if something is actually going to change.
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’dbe 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 thatMais out of the ordinary, but there isn’t one. I try to tamp down the jealousy with thethought 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.
