glance at the screen. His eyes light with evil amusement as he watches me.
“How nice. It’s your parents, right? Who’s this adorable little girl with black hair? Is it your little cousin? No . . . It’s a pretty old picture.” He makes the picture fill his entire screen.
I’m turning redder than a flippin’ strawberry. It’s me, of course. It’s a photo I don’t think I’ve ever seen.
The blurred treeline in the background orients me instantly. I turned eight when my parents put those new rows into the west quarter block. Business was picking up then, which accounts for the pride in my parents’ smiles. I’m not ashamed of my parents, but it never ceases to amuse those who were raised in the city. Most white-collar jackasses like Joshua find it so quaint and cute. They imagine my family as simple folk, hillbillies on the side of a hill covered in rambling vines. For people like Joshua, strawberries come from the store prepackaged in plastic boxes.
In this picture, I’m sprawled at my parents’ feet like a foal. I’m wearing stained, dirty short overalls and my crinkly dark hair is a scribble. I have my patchwork library satchel looped around my body, no doubt crammed with The Baby-Sitters Club and old-fashioned horse stories. One of my hands is in a plant, the other filled with berries. I’m flushed from sun and possibly a vitamin C overdose. Maybe it’s why I’m so small. It stunted my growth.
“You know, she looks a lot like you. Maybe I should send the link in an all-staff email to B&G, asking them who they think this wild little girl could be.” He is visibly trembling with the need to laugh.
“I will kill you.”
I do look completely wild in this photo. My eyes are lighter than the sky as I squint against the sun and do my best big smile. The same smile I’ve been doing all my life. I begin to feel a pressure in my throat, a burning in my sinuses.
I stare at my parents; they’re both so young. My dad’s back is straight in this photo, but each time I go home he’s a little more stooped over. I flick my eyes to Joshua, and he doesn’t look like he wants to laugh anymore. My eyes prick with tears before I stop to think of where I am and whom I’m sitting opposite.
He turns his computer screen back slowly, taking his time closing the browser, a typical male, awkward at the sight of female tears. I swivel and look up at the ceiling, trying to make them drain back down to where they came from.
“But we were talking about me. What can I do to be more like you?” An eavesdropper would think he
sounds almost kind.
“You could try to stop being such an asshole.” It comes out in a whisper. In the reflection on the ceiling I see his brow begin to crease. Oh lord. Concern.
Our computers chime a reminder: All-staff meeting, fifteen minutes. I smooth my eyebrows and fix my lipstick, using the wall as my mirror. I drag my hair down into a low bun with difficulty, using the hair elastic on my wrist. I ball up a tissue and press it into the corner of each eye.
The unsaid word homesick continues to rattle inside my chest. Lonely. When I open my eyes, I can see he’s standing and can see my reflection. The pencil is in his hand.
“What?” I snap at him. He’s won. He’s made me cry. I stand up and grab a folder. He grabs a folder too, and we’re seamlessly into the Mirror Game. We each knock lightly twice on our respective boss’s door.
Come in, we are simultaneously beckoned.
Helene is frowning at her computer. She’s more a typewriter kind of woman. She used one sometimes
before we moved here, and I loved hearing the rhythmic clacking of keys