Rainbow State

By Mariah Ashley

Living on a Hawaiian island is no guarantee that life will be all palm trees and pineapples.

Jade fears seeing auras will make her a social outcast. Under no circumstances can her crush, DJ, or unrelenting bully, Laila, ever find out how tragically weird she is. Only— Jade is already alone, grieving her mother's recent death and spiraling— outraged that the crash was her father's fault.

To make matters worse, she's shocked to learn that her parents were survivors of a shipwreck fifteen years earlier and not all the deaths that ill-fated night were drownings.

A trail of ghostly visits, secret notes, and bizarre photos steer Jade straight into the path of DJ, the sweet, goofy boy she's swooning over. Unfortunately, they also make her a bigger target for Laila.

If you'd enjoy a heart-warming YA romance set in paradise, with page-turning adventures on a stole moped, not to mention a sprinkling of magical mystery ... this is your book. Fans of The Love & Gelato Series by Jenna Evans Welch will adore the more tropical, Rainbow State.

If Jade can't hide her parent's misdeeds, will she be doomed to a life of loneliness?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Small Dog Press, LLC
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988141716

Mariah Ashley

Mariah Ashley is a young adult fiction writer who creates stories so tasty you won’t realize they’re good for you. Her secret recipe blends romance, humor, mystery, and a dash of magical realism. Think of Mariah as that loving (sometimes cringe) auntie who will whip up late-night snacks while spinning heartwarming and relatable stories— like brownie sundaes with a side of sentimentality. Mariah is also a photographer, which explains her cinematic style. Fans of her novel, Rainbow State, say they can “see” the story like a movie in their minds. Mariah hopes to inspire young people to recognize their worth and uniqueness. She’ll be successful if she helps even one struggling teen navigate their tumultuous, beautiful life. She can often be found in her happy place, a colorfully decorated writing desk, with her spicy, rescue wiener-mutt, Benji, at her feet.

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Rainbow State

Copyright © 2023 by Mariah Ashley. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, visit

www.mariahashleyiswriting.com.

Published by: Small Dog Press, LLC

48 Willis Avenue | Seekonk, MA 02771 | USA |

www.mariahashleyiswriting.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 979-8-9881417-1-6

For my mother, Wendy,

the cranberry queen

with sparkling green eyes and a heart

of gold.

One

As soon as we’re through the front door, I push past Dad and bolt for my bedroom, but he stays on my heels.

You were rude! That woman was being kind, he scolds.

Yeah, kind of nosy. I haven’t spoken a word to him since that day in the hospital. Still, I fight back in silence as I stomp up the steps two at a time.

I know her, Jade, and so did your mother.

Well, she doesn’t know me! She should keep her opinions to herself!

What’s wrong with what she said anyway? he asks, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. What’s so bad about being compared to your mother?

Fingers on my doorknob, I turn and glare, directing my fury with laser-beam precision. He stops in his tracks. Because my face hints around at pretty, but most people never get the hint. Let’s be honest. That’s the truth.

My mother was stop-in-your-tracks gorgeous, a local beauty. And I . . . well, I am not.

Dad follows after me again. I slam my door and lock it, jamming his toe in the process. He lets out a howl, swearing and hopping around the hallway. I smirk, victorious.

My mother smiles at me from her photo on my dresser, but I know she wouldn’t celebrate my win. She was openhearted and always willing to listen. I run my fingers over the frame, engraved with her name, Bijou, and the date, 1972—the year before I was born. Gah, even her name was flawless, the French word for jewel. Imagine a beam of sunlight and a million tiny particles dancing in it like swirling flecks of gold—that was her. Every moment without her has been like falling down a bottomless well. Three months of agony. And it’s all his fault.

I bite my lower lip and slump against the door, wrapping my arms around my knees. I want to wail like I did at first—but I’ve run out of volume. It feels like a betrayal, not being able to summon that intensity. But after months of heartbreak, I’m weak.

Focusing on the fresh collection of raspberry bruises blooming on my arm, I give myself another extra-hard pinch. The twinge is oddly soothing, like wiggling a loose tooth. I like it; it confirms I’m alive, although sometimes I wish I weren’t.

Dad huffs outside my door, trying to figure out how to crack my shell.

I wish he’d go away.

I long for my bed, its unmade sheets crunchy from three months of tears. I just want to sleep. To crawl beneath my blankets and disappear.

When I’m dreaming, I’m with Mom. Sometimes we’re at the beach building sand turtles. Occasionally, we’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor playing Scrabble or standing at the kitchen counter baking ginger-lime cookies. She says they’re our spesh-ee-al-it-ee. Every so often, we’re reading books, curled up on opposite ends of the couch with our toes tickling each other under the blanket.

When I’m dreaming, there is no wreckage. She’s still here. I’m still whole.

My bedroom, once my safe haven, is a pressure cooker. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. My long hair— a smothering mane. I ring my ponytail in my hands and pace like a caged lion.

Please tell me, what’s wrong with looking like her? Dad tries again. She was so beautiful, and so are you.

Wrong. She was light. I’m an impending storm. She was understanding. I have no answers. She was wildly talented. I’m uncontrollably weird. I will never . . . I gulp and wipe my nose with my collar. I will never be her, so the sooner everyone stops comparing us, the less disappointed they’ll be.

Your hair, Dad says, his voice breaking. It’s just like hers.

I yank at my ponytail, desperate to be rid of it and of him. It’s my hair, is it?

A pair of scissors on the dresser catches my eye. Easy enough to fix. I snatch them, and with a tenuous grip, I hack my thick, dark hair. Obscene clumps land on the floor.

My fingers tremble, but spite fuels me. I cut another clump and another. Halfway through, I tilt my face to the ceiling, close my eyes, and hold in a sob, but it’s heavy. I have to swallow twice to get it down.

Mom loved my hair. When I was younger, we’d be standing in line somewhere, and she’d wind one of my corkscrew curls around her finger like a thread connecting us in a crowd. A little precaution she’d take to not lose me. As I got older, it embarrassed me, so I’d brush her hand away and roll my eyes. I’d give anything to feel her protective tug at my scalp again.

I pull at what’s left of my locks and gasp for air, but my lungs won’t fill. What have I done? I shut my eyes and silently scream. I need to see the damage for myself, but Dad stands between me and the bathroom mirror.

Jade, what is going on in there? What is that noise? I hear you crying. Please just talk to me.

I drop the scissors and kneel in front of the door. It kills me to break my streak. But whispering doesn’t count, right? I can always go back to my icy silence. This hair situation is an emergency, and emergencies call for sacrifices. Please— My voice cracks, forcing me to gulp before trying again. Please go away. I need to be alone. If you care at all, you’ll leave me alone.

There’s a pause. Okay, Jade. He sighs, then shuffles away.

Once I’m confident he’s gone, I hurry to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.

Oh my God. It’s worse than I imagined. I look like I got tangled in a boat propeller! I cover my mouth with my hands, realizing I got what I wanted. No one will ever mistake me for my beautiful, inspiring, talented mother.

Freak overboard!

I contemplate having another go with the scissors. God, Jade, think! My brain is sludge. Should I try to even it out? No. I’ll make it worse—as if that’s possible. Tears gush as panic sets in. I can’t hide in our bathroom forever. I hug myself, rocking back and forth. I can’t let Laila and her friends see what I’ve done. They’d never ever let me live it down.

Mom’s the one I need, but she’s not going to walk in and gasp, then help me figure this out. The weight in my chest is so heavy, it folds me in half. There’s only one person who can help me salvage this catastrophe. Auntie.

Two

Iclimb out my window and shimmy down my favorite palm tree to avoid Dad. Who needs a ladder when you have a tree . . . the perfect height and slightly bent so you can slide like you’re at the playground. It’s a short walk from our house to Auntie’s shop, but as soon as I’m beyond the shade of our yard, the bright colors of the street assault my eyeballs. Kapaa is inviting, with a tropical meets Wild West vibe. Still, today I’m blind to the charm of the uneven buildings and uneven-er wooden sidewalks. I yank my hood up and jog toward town with my head low. I survey every corner for familiar faces, my heart pounding. Please don’t let me bump into anyone I know.

Though she’s busy, Auntie always has time for me. I hope today she’ll also have a miracle up her sleeve. Auntie is a style expert. She’s always got a glam hairdo, polished nails, and perfect outfits. If anyone can make something out of what I’ve done, it’s her.

Darn it! There’s a roadblock: Benny. He’s gigantic, like a Viking—impossible to miss. He removes his palm-frond hat and waves it to get my attention. His blond hair juts out in mismatched lengths. It seems we have the same barber.

While I look for an escape route, Benny wheels his bicycle straight at me. He has odd traveling companions, an orange chicken named Henny who’s roosting on the left handlebar of his bike, and a spotted brown-and-white chicken named Penny who sits in a basket attached to the front. Both chickens have silver cuffs around their ankles, and a thin rope anchors them to their perch. Auntie’s shop is a straight shot from where I’m standing, but now Benny and his chickens are smack-dab in my way.

Hey, Benny. I sink further inside my sweatshirt and hope he’ll make this quick.

For her. He points to the gold ribbons fluttering like streamers from his handlebars. Bijou.

My mother?

It’s her color, right?

My heart skips. I suck in my breath, my thoughts reeling. I don’t tell anyone about my colors, except Mom and Auntie. Frankly, it’s weird. I don’t have friends as it is, and I’m sure this piece of Jade intel wouldn’t help. Someday I’ll find a best friend and they’ll be so cool that I can tell them anything. I just haven’t found them yet. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The breeze picks up, and Benny’s psychedelic tie-dyed shirt ripples. Benny’s color isn’t unlike his loud clothing. He’s not varying shades of one color, but lots of bright colors exploding like paint thrown against canvas. It’s dizzying to look directly at him, like I’ve taken one too many trips around the Ferris wheel.

Mom said the ocean was an extraordinary green shade the day I was born, so she named me Jade. I can’t tell you what my color is, but I can see everyone else’s. I don’t mean the color of their skin, hair, or eyes. I’m talking about the inside color, the one that makes you you. This boy at school, DJ, is deep, bottom-of-the-ocean blue. Auntie G is cheerful bubblegum pink. Laila is a nasty orange hue. Everyone thinks Laila is someone special, but that’s because they can’t see her vile vomit color.

I reach out and pet Henny and Penny to avoid looking straight at Benny. But I’m also curious—and a tad nervous—about what my mother may have told him. The chickens peer at me with their unblinking eyes while I stroke their soft feathers. I try to sound casual, but I’m panicking inside. Don’t tell anyone. I drop my voice to a whisper. About the colors, I mean. I don’t want people to know.

What people would I tell? booms Benny, gesturing toward the empty street. And no need to worry; if anyone knows how to keep a secret, it’s me. I only know because your mom talked to me. She didn’t pretend that I’m invisible.

I suppress a smile. Benny is the opposite of invisible, but I suppose that’s not a guarantee he doesn’t feel that way.

Benny and I might be cosmic twins. Here I am, trying to blend in and convince everyone I’m not at best different, or at worst bizarre, and then I go and hack my hair off.

I sigh as Benny’s ribbons flutter. They remind me of the gold flecks that danced around Mom. In the sunlight, she was like a human disco ball, throwing little sparkles everywhere. In the dark, it was like she was surrounded by fireflies. Well, I run my fingers through the streamers, between you and me, it’s a nice tribute to Mom. Thank you, Benny.

Yeah. He shuffles, picks a few loose feathers off Henny’s head, reaches into Penny’s basket, and then pulls out a brown paper package that he shoves at me. For you.

I rub my temple. You’re giving me a present?

Not exactly. Your mom wanted you to have it. She was going to give it to you for your birthday after I fixed it. Benny scratches his scalp. Miniature fireworks of color explode sporadically. She gave me odd jobs sometimes.

I didn’t know, I say. Though it sounds like something Mom would do. She loved the misfits, me included. I swallow a lump in my throat.

Mostly repairing things. I’m good at fixing broken stuff. Benny hesitates. Fixed her darkroom enlarger once. Bought my bike with . . . He trails off, looking as if he wants to pedal away.

Benny just handed me a new Mom moment. Delighted, I lean against Benny’s bike to steady myself and to keep him talking a little longer.

So, you fixed this? I ask, examining the present. I turn it over in my hands and try to imagine what it could be. There’s a festive red bow tied around it. Benny must have wrapped it.

Yes, she told me it was the camera she had around the time you were born. She was going to give it to you, but it took me longer to fix than I thought. Benny’s red face deepens to maroon as his words race each other. It’s old—takes discontinued film—need to special order it—rolls look like little paper cylinders—thought you might want to use it. He fiddles with the cuff on Penny’s ankle and takes a deep breath. Anyway, it’s ready to go.

Unwrapping it, I take care to tuck the red ribbon into my pocket. I hope Benny understands that I appreciate his effort.

The camera is simple and boxy. It has a lens at the front that twists to focus and a viewfinder on the top that Benny shows me how to pop up. I calculate the risk . . . I’ll have to push my hood back so I can peer into it. To hell with it. Benny has fake-looking straw hair, so he probably won’t make fun of me.

I check the street for signs of anyone else and then uncover my head. Benny doesn’t seem to notice my hack job, which cements my new affection for him. As I peer into the camera, the street comes into focus. Auntie’s shop is so close—just out of my reach. Mom wanted me to have this. Of all her things, why did she single this camera out for me?

Benny also brought me a few new rolls of film, and he explains how to load it, depress the shutter, and wind to the next frame.

There are twelve exposures per roll, he tells me.

Only twelve? My camera at home has thirty-six exposures.

With older cameras, you have to be more careful with your moments.

I nod solemnly. We should all be more careful with our moments. If I had known my last moments with Mom were my last moments ever, there are so many things I would have said, so many things I would have done differently.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I immediately pull up my hood. I’ve spent too much time out in the open. Thanks again, Benny, I say, ending our conversation.

No problem. He grips his handlebars. Oh, I almost forgot! He extends his hand to offer me another small item. There was film left in the camera. I was careful with it, even unloaded it in the dark. If you develop it, there might be some photos on there.

Benny presses the roll into my palm, squeezing my hand tenderly with his thick fingers. His face is the color of beet juice.

I lean forward, bouncing on my toes. How old is this film? What kind of photos could be waiting to become exposed? Fantastic pictures of the island like the ones that hang in her gallery? Self-portraits? Or even better, photos of us? My chest expands at the thought of discovering never-seen pictures of my mom.

I’d be afraid to try and develop it, I say. I don’t know how.

Benny pedals away mid-sentence, ribbons and chicken feathers streaming behind him. Maybe it’s just as well. I don’t have time to get distracted by what’s on the film. My priority is getting what’s left of my hair sorted out. I tie the red ribbon around the precious roll to ensure it doesn’t unravel and then shove it in my pocket. Maybe next time I see Benny, I’ll ask him to help me develop it.

I’m just four doors from the safety of Auntie’s shop. I hang back, watching a group of keiki and their parents leave Auntie’s with towering cones of colorful shave ice.

Okaaaaay, that’s a look.

The gleeful sneer shoots over my right shoulder, and I stiffen. My stomach plummets into my shoe.

"That is, you, Jade?"

Laila knows it’s me. She and her friends must have crept up when I was distracted, and now they’re drooling over the too-good-to-be-true opportunity to rip me to shreds. They cackle loud enough for the whole street to hear while I stand immobilized, my brain searching for a comeback to shut them up.

"Why the hood, Jade?’ Laila taunts.

Another girl joins in, Yeah, we already saw your hair when you were talking to that weirdo, so lose the hood.

The pack of hyenas is closing in, their high-pitched giggles getting louder. I turn to face them and clear my throat, but all that comes out are ums and ahs.

Um, um, Laila mocks, narrowing her eyes and grinning. Is that style, like, on purpose?

Was your hairdresser wearing a blindfold, Jade? laughs another.

Oh, I know! She lost a bet, cackles a third.

Just when I thought she couldn’t look worse, tsk-tsks Laila, and the whole pack erupts.

My face is so hot, it burns to the touch, but it’s useless; my brain is malfunctioning. I’ve got nothing.

Another sound, a fwap-fwap-fwap, rises in the distance. My stomach leaps from my shoe to my throat so fast I could vomit it up. Skateboard wheels.

Ha! Here comes DJ! Wait till he sees her. He’s going to die laughing, Laila announces.

Of course, he is. How could he not? I turn my back on the pack and find my reflection in the window. I’m too thin, gray, and now haphazardly half-bald. Despite all the sleep I’ve gotten, I’ve got dark circles and bags under my eyes. I could be an extra in a zombie movie.

The fwap-fwap-fwap grows louder, and my heart starts to pound. I was hoping to make it past the ukulele shop before DJ got to work so he wouldn’t see me posing as a sideshow freak.

In a turtle-ish move, I scrunch my shoulders to my ears. DJ passes right by. He stops before Mr. Ito’s door and steps on the end of his skateboard; it pops, and he catches it midair. Desperate, I try to send him away with my mind. Go inside. Go inside. Go inside. But it doesn’t work. He catches my reflection in the storefront and stops. I freeze, waiting for his reaction.

DJ likes a good laugh. He thinks it’s hilarious to embarrass me in class because I’m quiet. Come on, Jade. You love me, admit it, he teased.

I do not, I growled, hoping no one had heard him.

Well, even if you don’t, I love you.

I mean, come on. Who says things like that? DJ, that’s who.

It takes a minute for him to register that the zombie-girl is me, but when he does, a goofy grin spreads across his sun-kissed, freckled cheeks. He sets his skateboard against the wall. New look?

Huh? I suck in my lower lip and bite down to stop it from quivering. Whatever comes next, it’s not going to be DJ whispering that he loves me.

Laila and her crew grow closer. I can see them stalking me in the reflection. No doubt they’re expecting DJ to join in their Jade barbecue.

Nice hair, right? Laila says. I told you Jade was a freak. I have never been able to figure out why you bother with her.

I consider bolting for Auntie’s and calculate the steps. It’s like ten big strides. I could make it, but I’d look like a pole vaulter doing it, which is more absurd than standing here, speechless. I stare at my feet, waiting for the punchline, but it doesn’t come. When I dare to peek, DJ’s looking past me, staring down Laila’s pack with an intense stink eye. A tingling warmth spreads through me, making my knees wobbly.

Careful that disease doesn’t rub off on you, Laila says, one last reminder for DJ of my terminal unworthiness before she and her gang slink into the shadows.

DJ turns his attention back to me, his color rich like blue velvet. The stern expression on his face passes, and his eyes soften, crinkling at the corners. Before I can step back, he reaches up and pushes my hood away from my face.

Well, Jade, uh . . . I like it. It’s different, it’s daring—just like you. I bet you’re going to start a trend.

Is he mocking me? That’s the last thing I need. I doubt it.

Yep, I can see it now, a trail of discarded braids and limp ponytails littering the whole sidewalk.

My hands ball into fists at my sides as my eyes narrow, and DJ’s smile slips. He’s no longer looking at me. DJ’s shoulders slump, and he gives me a weak smile. Did I hurt his feelings? Was he just being nice?

I’m considering apologizing when Mr. Ito barks from inside his shop.

DJ! Get inside and get to work!

Mr. Ito is unpleasant to everyone. I’ve never even seen anyone buy one of his instruments. DJ sticks around because he loves playing the ukuleles when he’s left to mind the store. Mom used to say that I should be patient because Oliver Ito has reasons for being a grouch. I’m not sure what happened to make him the way he is, but whatever it was, it turned him the color of rotten avocados. Now he’s ruining whatever moment this is.

I’m coming. Geesh! There’s five minutes before I’m supposed to start. I’m talking to Jade!

I’ve got to go anyway. You should go in too. I sidestep DJ. Feeling inside my pocket, I grip the roll of film. I’ve ruined enough moments as it is.

Three

Once inside Auntie’s shop, I lean against the door and exhale—finally safe. I’m alone, except for Auntie somewhere behind the stacks and racks. I peek out the window. Laila’s across the street. Her color gurgles, disgusting as usual. DJ is getting chewed out in Mr. Ito’s doorway. He doesn’t seem to care. I can tell he’s trying to keep a straight face. I clasp my hand over my mouth, stifling a giggle. The worst thing you can do is laugh around Oliver Ito. Happiness aggravates him.

Helping me today, Jade? Auntie asks, the top of her head appearing above a rack of postcards.

I tug on my sweatshirt ties. Actually, I’m the one that needs some help. I kind of did a thing. Teeth gritted, I push back my hood and, unable to control myself a second longer, I erupt into tears.

Auntie pokes her head out and then turns away. A moment later she reappears from behind a stack of towels with a postcard in hand that she uses to fan herself, no doubt in an effort to stay composed. She adjusts her tight dress (it matches her bubblegum color), then charges me. I brace for the squeeze before her plushness envelops me. Her hugs are like getting mauled by a carnival-sized teddy bear. By the time she lifts me off the ground, I can barely breathe.

Jade, it’s okay, she says, setting me down. I can work with this. Listen, we’ve all done it. I gave myself bangs, not once but twice. One time your mom got this perm—oh my goodness! She wouldn’t let me take her photo for six months. She wore bandanas. Even to bed! This is nothing compared to that, I promise you. If you still hate it when I’m done, we’ll both cry, okay? Here, blow your nose, sit on this stool. I’ll get my scissors.

Auntie flips her open sign to closed. We don’t need an audience.

I honk a river of snot into the flimsy tissues she hands me. She shoves the whole box at me with an understanding chuckle, then hurries to the counter to retrieve her scissors.

Getting to work on my patchwork hair, her nimble fingers move slowly and snip lightly. She doesn’t make dramatic noises. Instead, she hums as if enjoying herself. I relax in her chair, knowing I’m in the best hands. There’s a display of beeswax candles next to me. I unscrew a lid and inhale the honey-ginger scent.

Nice, huh? Auntie asks. Relaxing too. Smell the plumeria one; that’s my favorite.

I do as she says. It smells like open windows and perfumed night air. I love it here. There are macadamia nuts, Kona coffee, flip-flops, bathing suits, and beach towels. The trinkets are fun, but Auntie’s the real reason tourists mob the shop. She doles out vacation tips and the locations of secret beaches. Naturally, Auntie doesn’t reveal the best spots. She insists we should keep some places locals only.

When you were born, you reminded me of a fairy, Auntie says, snipping clumps of hair at my scalp. You were so small and delicate. Pointy ears. Pursed lips. Fuzzy little head. Let’s channel that look. You’ll look other-worldly.

So, like an alien? That sounds about right. My shoulders slump.

Not an alien! You’re a woodland sprite! Mischievous, mythical.

I wince. Hilarious, hysterical is more like it if you ask the girls outside.

Jerks.

Total.

I close my eyes while Auntie tries to salvage my dignity. I wish I were other-worldly. I’d fly back to where I came from. Better yet, if I had one of Mom’s magic balloons, I’d float away.

With each brush of Auntie’s fingers against my neck, I imagine she’s Mom, sitting on the edge of my bed and stroking my hair, tucking it behind my ear.

Want to blow up the balloon? She once asked when I came home in a fury.

I’d felt too old for her Imaginary Balloon of Worries Game, and I considered telling her so. But as soon as I took a breath, the humiliation blew right out of me.

I had gotten stuck in the bathroom with Laila and her rotten friends. One of them had said, we know you’re here, loser. They banged on the stall door and threw sopping paper towels onto my head. Someone had even turned off the lights. I had been afraid to face them, so I stayed next to the toilet, covered in wet, wadded-up paper. I waited so long that I was late to class and got detention. Oh, and just in case I didn’t feel lame enough, they had written STILL UGLY on the bathroom mirror to polish off my self-esteem. After blowing out the shame, I passed the pretend balloon back to Mom.

That’s a full one.

I nodded.

Want to talk about it?

I shook my head.

Okay, here we go, then.

Mom launched the balloon. I pictured it sailing over the tops of the palm trees, my worries shrinking as it disappeared. The best thing about my mom? She always turned my embarrassing struggles into a game I won.

Jade? Auntie stops mid-snip.

I spin to face her. Her complexion is pale. And stranger, her pinkness flickers like a loose light bulb.

Mmm?

"Was that Benny you were talking to outside?

As if there’s any mistaking Benny. Mm-hmm.

Auntie picks at one of her nails. What did he want? Her pink glow dims, and the lively store suddenly feels that much less lifeless.

I shudder. Why would Auntie ask about Benny?

He gave me a gift, one of Mom’s cameras. She asked him to fix it for me. I watch Auntie, monitoring her color. He was nice to me.

That’s kind. Auntie’s rosiness returns, bubbling like she’s carbonated.

It was. I like Benny.

Auntie nods, then swivels my stool to inspect my head. Not bad, not bad. I don’t think you’ll cry, she says, satisfied. "I’m going to open back up. You go upstairs to my bedroom, look in the big mirror, and, please, while you’re there, eat something. There’s mac and cheese in the fridge."

Climbing the stairs to Auntie’s apartment at the back of the shop, I take my time and linger on the dozens of family photos lining the stairway (most of them taken by or featuring my mom). Mom lived with Auntie above the store before she met my dad. I’ve always been curious about their lives as single sisters.

Mom’s former bedroom is at the top of the stairs. Auntie says it’s the same as the day she moved out, which is sweet and sad rolled into one. I pause in the doorway and sniff, trying to detect a whiff of Mom, but the only scent in the air is Auntie’s candles.

One door over, Auntie’s bedroom is jammed with colorful quilts and throw pillows. It’s cozy like her. Despite the cheery atmosphere, I keep my eyes down as I approach her dresser mirror. I raise my eyes slowly, expecting the worst. To my surprise, the view isn’t devastating. When I squint, I see hints of pixie cuteness. Could I be a trendsetter like DJ said?

No. I turn away from my reflection. No use in pretending. I’ll just avoid mirrors for a while and wait for my hair to grow back.

As I pass the kitchen, I can almost see my mom and aunt sitting in mismatched chairs at the long wooden table and sipping tea. Cooking together, staying up late, and lounging on the comfy floral couch as they watch TV. I’m convinced nothing could be better.

I try to picture myself with a friend, someone to share the fun with. We could have boyfriends come over and order pizza. But it’s hard to imagine. I don’t have a sister, and I’ve never had a close friend. No one besides Mom has