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No, worse; I feel like my grandmother.
Following Grace’s line of sight, my stomach twists as I sigh at my angry little sister. I just don’t know what to do with her. I never have, even when there wasn’t something so obviously wrong. If she’d just tell me, I could fix it, but unfortunately, it seems Lottie inherited that standard Jackson urge to fix everything all on your own.
Catching me staring, she barges onto the porch, face twisted in all too familiar glare. “Can I help you?”
Deep breath.
Just take a deep fucking breath.
Holding a hand up in innocence, I shrug and avert my gaze. I wait until the glare falls, until that horrid anticipation infects her too, until she starts to twitch and fret as much as the rest of us, before calling out softly. “Hey, Lot?”
“What?”
“I like your hair.”
* * *
Even from a distance, I see my grandmother’s pursed lips as she exits the car—mercifully alone—familiar disapproval heavy in the air between us. I’m unsure if she’s ever looked at us with anything else. Especially Lux and Eliza and I; we have the great misfortune of looking like our mother. Dark hair, dark eyes, tan skin. Not a hint of our father’s lineage. No, we’re all our mother, all Kimura and only Jackson by name.
Sometimes, when she looks at us like that, I get why our mother left. I don’t blame her. They must’ve looked at her a whole lot worse.
The twins, though, Lottie and Grace, they look like our dad. Like our grandmother. They inherited their lighter features, the paler skin and the lighter hair and eyes. Usually, that grants them a little extra kindness. Today, though, I hold my breath when my grandmother’s gaze lands on Lottie. “Charlotte,” she tuts, her heels clacking as she scales the porch steps. Brow raised, she captures a strand of dyed hair between her fingers. “What’s this?”
We all wince at our sister’s dry reply. “Hair dye.”
“The blonde was so lovely.” Our grandmother’s gaze slides towards Lux, and for a second, I catch a flicker of guilt flashing across Lottie’s face. “Honestly, Alexandra. You let her do this?”
There’s no chance for a rebuttal; even if Lux wanted to inform our grandmother that no one lets Lottie do anything, she couldn’t. With a disappointed sigh and a dismissive wave of her hand, the older woman stalks inside.
“I came to check on the renovations,” not to check on her grandchildren, of course, “and to have a little talk,” she pauses, eyeing the kitchen with nothing short of a sneer before settling her attention on the youngest Jackson, “about you.”
The color drains from Eliza’s face. “What?”
“We heard about your suspension,” that palpable disapproval—almost as perceptible as my confusion—bounces to Lux, “from Principal Matthews.”
Her… “Suspension?” Eliza gotsuspended?
“I was going to tell you.” It’s unclear whether Lux is talking to me or our grandmother but it’s the latter who responds.
“That’s not good enough, Alexandra. We allow you a lot of freedom,” God, that’s a funny way of putting it, “but our generosity has limits. We won’t tolerate you disrespecting our trust.”
I hate that tone. The condescending dissatisfaction within it has a way of making you feel exceptionally small, and watching my sisters shrink is a special kind of torture.
When I whisper for Eliza to go upstairs, she doesn’t need to be told twice. When I nod for the twins to follow, they scarper just as quick. It pains me that I can’t sneak Lux out too, shield her from the full force of Ruth Jackson’s rage, but I do what I can; I deflect.
“It was my fault,” I lie through my teeth, loading my tone with false apology and adopting an expression to match. “I told Lux not to say anything. I didn’t want to bother you over something minor.”
“Hitting another student is not minor, Oscar.”
By some miracle, I swallow my splutter of shock. I resist the urge to gape at Lux—because what the actual fuck—and keep a straight face, an even tone. “It’s under control.”
An unimpressed hum echoes around the kitchen. Reaching into her purse, my grandmother pulls something out, and my stomach twists when I catch sight of leaflets decorated with kids in uniforms lingering in front of big brick buildings. “Some alternative schooling options to consider.”
“They won’t be necessary.”
My grandmother sighs, readjusting her purse with one hand and patting my shoulder with the other. “If something like this happens again, that won’t be your decision to make.”
* * *
