We don’t keep secrets, we exist as them. It’s not intentional, though to untrained ears it sounds like bragging. It’s just a little less poisonous to say it that way than to deny it, and a little less painful than admitting that, try as we might, we will never truly be understood.

***

Ugh.

I wake up with lines from a book I worked on ages ago running through my head on loop. 

Sometimes, there’s just a fragment broken off from the rest of its sentence (‘...as she cried in reverse.’) Sometimes, I remember lines out of context, (“The mirror doesn’t lie, it just speaks a language I misunderstand.”) 

Either way, it’s disorienting. I perceive the same words repeatedly without them ever seeming similar, and my brain fries, trying to make sense of it all as I try to wipe the sleep from my eyes and check the time on my cell.

The whole room seems dimmer than usual, even for this early before sunrise.

It’s only 5:30, but I can already hear Shaun arguing on the phone with Miz Pearl through the wall that separates our apartments.

“Mamma - Mom! I don’t have time for this. Ma. I gotta get ready for work, okay? Okay. Call you later.”

I guess that’s where she gets her early bird nature from.

I hear my front door opening and locking again, Shaun rummaging through the fridge, and the front door opening and then shutting again. 

I get about thirty seconds for my body to assess the situation before the headache is back with the full force it had yesterday.

It doesn’t matter…

If I wake up at 8 a.m., 7 a.m., or 5 a.m. the headache is here anyway, I might as well get up and get ready.

I make my way to the closet and pick myself a fit that looks neat and professional.

A collared blouse. A plain pair of heels. A skirt or slacks in a muted neutral collar. One piece of jewelry that breaks up the monotony and says ‘I’m hardworking and feminine.’ Then, I make my way to the bathroom.

I undo my thick braids and comb out the few tangles that even they couldn’t prevent the ‘fro gremlins,' as Aunt Pat used to call them, from mixing into my curls. Then, I pin it all back again, so I can make myself look ‘pretty.’

Long lashes. Red lips. Fair skin...

I couldn’t make that one happen if I washed my face in whiteout.

...Even complexion.

That one at least, I have naturally.

When I’m done painting my face, I let my hair down again and pick it until it fills all the empty places in the mirror’s reflection.

I rest my hand on it gently when it’s said and done, for no reason at all, rolling a single soft coil around my fingertip as I double-check my expression, practicing my smile.

This is the best I can do.

Shaun is back in the fridge by the time I enter the kitchen, grabbing her bottle of ketchup, and she’s got enough hashbrowns to feed eight giants sitting on my stove in her Dutch oven.

Again, I’m tempted to return to the room until she goes back to her apartment, but instead, I stand dumbly by the doorway, recalibrating.

Ask her about something she likes, or her family, and smile.

“How’s Miz Pearl this morning?” 

My smile sags on one side, and I try to even it out.

“Oh, Angelic as ever,” Shaun smiles back with almost equal weariness in her expression, as she shakes the condensation off her hand into the sink. “Sometimes, I just want to yeet my phone out the window rather than answer her calls this early in the morning.”

Ask a question about what she just said to show you’re listening.

“Yeet?”

She’s serving out hashbrowns and sausage now, laying cutlery down on the table, and wiping extra water from around the sink. Somehow all three all at once.

“Where’d you learn that word?” 

“Ugh,” she raises her eyebrows, “You’d be surprised the kinda nonsense kids will say on the bus like they forget there are respectable adults present. What kinda word is that anyway? Yeet…”

She shakes her head with a sigh that seems to hint at a dozen things as she rams a plate into my chest, and orders “Eat,” with a no-nonsense expression.

“You didn’t have to cook for me,” I start to say slowly.

“Be serious. Do you think I can eat this whole mess o’ hashbrowns myself? I’m still not used to cooking for less than a dozen people, and the last thing I want is for anything to go to waste. It’s the least I can offer for using up more than half your fridge.” 

She shakes her head again slightly, smiling through her frustration. “Just 2 more weeks, the repair man says, and the parts’ll come in that he needs to fix my fridge. Let’s hope this is the last ‘two more weeks,’ and maybe you’ll have put on some pounds by then. You’re thinner than the ghost of a wishbone.” 

“I don’t gain weight,” I smile slightly as I take my first hesitant bite of the hash browns, “I’ve had sweet potato donuts for breakfast every day since last Wednesday, and I can’t get so much as bloated.”

“Quit bragging. I’m trying to get you to gain weight for my sake, not yours,” she laughs, watching my face. 

She’s waiting for me to comment on the meal.

“It’s good.”

I’m assuming.

I give a tiny smile and take a bigger bite. She seems satisfied, spreading the dishcloth out on the little drying rack just at the same time her phone alarm buzzes, and she dries her hands on her pants quickly with a sigh.

“Gotta head out. You can have anything you like from the Dutch oven, and I’ll get the leftovers later.”

With that, she disappears. 

I shouldn’t be relieved.

*

If not for the alarm that goes off at 6:30, I would have forgotten I was supposed to take Ayla to school today. I’m glad I remembered to set the alarm, at least, and I’m almost grateful that Shaun woke me up early, because I know I have a bad habit of silencing my early morning alarms without even reading them.

Mom is still asleep when I get to her apartment, but Ayla is sitting in the seat Mom occupied yesterday, stiller than any child should be, hugging a backpack to her heart, with a little glittery cartoon prince and princess on it in pink and blue. When I open the door, she just looks up without saying anything.

“Are you ready to go?” I whisper, though Mom would sleep through most things.

She nods, still silent, hugging her bag even tighter.

“Did you have breakfast?”

Again she nods. And I think I should ask something else as she gets down from the chair and pushes it back into place, preparing to follow me.

“Who’s that on your backpack?”

She smiles slightly shyly and hugs the bag tighter still.

“Prince Julian and Emily.”

She clearly loves this show. 

I think these are the same characters from the show she was watching the other day. I watch the way her eyes brighten as I pick up her car seat from the corner behind the door, and she walks beside me down to the car.

“Prince Julian is a prince who came from another realm. But now in a strange world, he can’t get on by himself,” she says theatrically, and I get the feeling that she’s quoting the theme song.

I just realized I have no idea whether the car seat is supposed to be fastened in some way, and if so, how?

“He fell through a portal in his mirror and appeared in a little fish pond on Emily’s family farm. And it was so funny because he was all shivery and wet, and when she saw him for the first time, she thought he was a water monster.”

I think it’s fine. There’d be a harness on it of some kind if I was supposed to secure it, right?

I’ll just drive slowly.

“But when the prince got cleaned up, and put on a pair of Emily’s dad’s clothes, he was so handsome. And he got a job working on their family’s farm and he goes to Emily’s school. But he doesn’t know anything about animals, so he has trouble working on the farm. But she teaches him and he learns how to take care of all of the animals. And he’s so handsome and nice.”

She’s lighter than I expected, and I have no trouble picking her up and putting her in her car seat. She keeps talking the whole time, smoothing her frilly tutu the instant I set her down like a little lady.

“It has sparkles on it,” she tells me, as if I couldn’t see that. “See?” 

She points out one of a thousand little pieces of glitter for me to look at, and I resist a sigh but lean forward to admire her tutu.

“It’s pretty.”

“My daddy bought it for me as part of a costume for Emily’s dress. Mom says it’s not supposed to be worn unless I’m playing dress up but Daddy says it’s okay. Do you like playing dress up?”

I almost laugh at that, but just shake my head as I buckle her in, “Not really. Grown-ups don’t usually play dress up.”

Not for fun anyway.

“When you were little like me did you play dress up?”

I didn’t really do that either, but I avert the question, smiling in a way I hope is sweet, “How little are you?”

“Five years little,” she laughs, holding up one of her chubby hands. “Everybody says ‘years old,’ but I’m not old, I’m just a little kid. I’m younger than everybody in my grade, but my mom said I’m smart enough to go to first grade and argued with the teachers until they let me in.”

“Oh?”

It would sound rude to stop there, especially when I have no reason to believe she isn’t smart.

“I guess you must be pretty smart then.”

“Maybe,” Ayla shrugs, “But I’m not as smart as Emily.”

Ah. Back to the cartoon…

“Emily is the smartest girl in her class, and she was helping Julian study because he doesn’t know about a lot of the things in our world. And he’s so nice and buys her chocolates and flowers to thank her.”

That’s not called being nice, kid…

I buckle my seat belt, adjust the rearview mirror and I can see her expression getting dreamy as she goes on.

“And he started a little garden growing roses for Emily because they’re her favorite flowers.”

How original.

“Roses are my favorite too, because they’re red, and red is my favorite color. And I’m going to marry Julian someday.”

“You can’t marry Julian, Ayla,” I say a little more exasperatedly than I intended as I start the engine.

I see the hurt wash over Ayla’s face, and I immediately want to take it back, as she stubbornly sticks out her lip, trying not to cry.

“Why not? Julian says every girl is a princess.”

Ha. 

But I keep my mouth closed about that.

“You can’t marry him because he’s a made-up character, Ayla. He only exists on the TV. When you grow up you can have a boyfriend and then a husband in real life.”

I can see her thinking about that for a minute, a little less distraught than she was a moment ago, but then she asks out of the blue, “Do you have a husband, Miz Essence?”

“No.” I say flatly, trying to ignore her face in the mirror.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

But despite my short answers, she won’t take a hint.

“Why not?”

“Ask somebody else.”

“Don’t you know why?”

I do. But anyone else - my ex, my mother, Aunt Pat - would be more than willing to give her a whole essay about it. I don’t have the time or the energy.

“Miss Essence? Don’t you know?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend because nobody wants me to be their girlfriend,” I say as patiently as I can. Then I feel the need to add something, so she doesn’t ask any more questions. “At least not right now, anyway.”

Ayla considers that, her lip upturned and chin wrinkling.

“So then, when you meet somebody who likes you, then you’ll have a boyfriend?”

Sure.

“Miss Essence?”

“Oh, look. We’re here,” I pull to a stop in front of a little elementary school and quickly come around to help her out of her seat and set her on the sidewalk, nudging closed her door with my knee. 

She stands there a little motionless staring at the school entrance as other early kids wave and hug their mothers goodbye. She stumbles slightly when I try to nudge her forward gently.

“Come on, what are you waiting for?” I try to say cheerfully. “You want to go play with your friends, right? You can have some fun before school.”

She still doesn’t move, looking up at me wide-eyed like she thinks I’m daft, even though the teacher by the front door is starting to get impatient waiting to lead her in.

I’m not sure what to say to get her to go inside. What did my mom always say when I was being obstinate?

“Hurry on, ahead, Ayla. You don’t want to make the teachers mad at you, do you?”

She shakes her head slightly, and looks back at the school, fixing the strap of her backpack as she starts to walk, albeit slowly. I watch until she enters the front door and the teacher's frown relaxes some.

She has to learn. 

But it’s harder than everyone always acts like it is. It seems there are a thousand ways to upset someone, and I’ve probably learned every way under the sun by now.

But knowing doesn’t inherently mean you can do anything about it.

If it did, I would have stopped being so distasteful ages ago. It’s what I remember hearing the most from my mother my whole childhood, and almost nonstop from my ex-boyfriend, the last year we were an ‘item.’

Why don’t I have a boyfriend?

Yes, if I met someone who wanted me to date them, I’d have a boyfriend again, but for both of our sakes, I hope I never do.

The date with Mr. Giang stands at the end of today’s to-do list all in bold and capital letters, and I hope with everything in me that this was just a crazy whim of his, and he’ll give up on trying to love me fast, just like everyone else.