Page 19 of True Colors

Because, man, it’s been a day, right?

I will work on a massively important project for the company, which is unbelievable for the girl who has trouble presenting her thoughts.

I’m confused about how to feel about what is clearly a victory, but the imposter bitch who lives inside me is certain this is a setup—a trapdoor straight into despair.

Stop with all the negativity, Anouk, I tell myself as I coast past the shops on Haight, the vintage bookstores, the murals, the smell of incense and weed drifting from open doorways.

Remember what Dot said? “You’re the best analyst ever.”

I want to believe her—want to so badly that it hurts. But there are so many other voices playing in my head on a loop.

“You think you can get into Stanford? In which universe?”

“You got into Stanford? Can you even afford that?”

“You have a scholarship? You’re so going to lose it before the first quarter is up.”

“You got a job at HelixSphere? They’re ruthless there. You go up, or you go out. How long do you think you’ll last?”

And then most recently, in fact, just this morning, “If you can’t present your own numbers, maybe someone else should own them.”

I pedal harder.

All my life, I’ve been told I’m not good enough.

My mother made sure of that, and because she had custody of me for most of my childhood, her voice is the loudest.

But then—for nine months—I lived with my father.

The stability of having food every day, of knowing he’d be home when I got back from school, of not having to lie about the bruise blooming on my face.

Papa was an artist and came to San Francisco from Ohio as a student and stayed.

He worked at galleries in Oakland, helping install exhibitions, stretching canvases, hanging other people’s brilliance on walls. He wasn’t well off—not even close—which is why he’d lost custody of me in the first place.

My mother, Cristina, was the opposite—a senior bank executive with a cocaine habit polished into invisibility. To the outside world, she was power suits and perfect hair. Behind closed doors, I was the target of her drug-fueled rages.

I remember watching Papa paint in his tiny studio—sunlight catching in his curls, the whole room smelling of turpentine and possibility—I believed everything was going to be alright.

I believed it with my whole heart.

And then it wasn’t.

One moment, Papa was humming to himself, sliding color across canvas, and the next, paint and blood were running together, dripping down the frame in horrific streaks.

In between those two moments was endless hell.

Me begging my mother to stop.

Me trying to protect my father.

My father trying to protect me.

Both of us failing.

Cristina was taken away in handcuffs.

I was taken to a state home, and the part of my brain that could speak cleanly didn’t break, exactly, but it shut down to survive.