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It’s African. It means strength.
Interesting.
She gives me a prim, uncomfortable smile and follows me to the parked car where she stares steadily out the window again.
I’m debating how to attempt another conversation when my watch begins to blink red.
That’s happened twice today. Should I be concerned?
Yaya taps on her phone.
What’s with the watch?
My niece won two of them from a technology fair at school. She asked me to wear one while she wears the other.
Like a friendship bracelet?
Yaya seems amused.
I guess you can say that.
She cuts eye contact again, but this time she doesn’t stare through the window like she’s plotting an escape.
To my surprise, she shows me her notes app.
Yaya wasn’t the name my parents chose. I changed it when I decided to model.
I knew that already, but I’m pleased that she’d tell me. So pleased that I want to know the designer she’s wearing right now so I can buy her the entire spring catalogue.
I type instead:
Dare.
She looks up inquiringly.
I add:
My friends call me Dare.
Yaya laughs. It’s silent, breathy. But it’s glorious.
How do I make her laugh again?
A shadow appears at the window before I can solve that problem. Mosely. He’s peeking in, eyebrows knitted.
Ignore him, I type.
Your friend seems to think I’ll hurt you.
I chuckle softly.Would you?
I haven’t decided yet.
Her cheekiness brings another smile to my lips.
Even if you decide to hurt me, I’d let you.
I pull back before she reads the note, realizing I need to tread lightly before I scare her. Deleting all the words I’ve written so far, I start fresh.
