It’s not the first time these thoughts have come to mind. I’ve often wondered if the darkness brought the devil to her doorway, too. I was, after all, only a year younger than her when he first visited me. But then I realize I’m not his flesh and blood. I’m just the little girl they adopted. His blooming little flower, even now at the age of eighteen.

“Are you finished with The Great Gatsby?” I ask as a distraction from the visual of my last brief thought continues to conjure in my mind. With my hair still damp, I wonder if it’s worth returning to the vanity to dry it with the blow-dryer that’s plugged in the only convenient outlet in the room. I’ll be forced to look at myself, at my reflection, and though it’s something I want to avoid at all costs, I know Rachel will say something if I go down with damp hair. I want to circumvent any sort of altercation if I can help it.

She turns to me with a dimpled smile, and says, “Almost. But I want to get started on that book you said I’d like.”

“Pride and Prejudice, bottom shelf,” I reply, and cross over to the other side of the room and take hold of the black blow-dryer from the vanity table. “It’s one of my favorites,” I say, mildly.

It seems almost inevitable my eyes should flick across the mirror, forcing me to catch a glimpse of myself. Mismatched eyes; one light blue, the other brownish-green, stare back at me from a dull, oval face, further proof of just how odd I am. I wonder briefly from which parent I inherited these eyes. It’s nothing new. I occasionally think about them, especially times like these when their likeness is reflected back at me through the mirror. The lightness of my skin originates from their combined Creole blood and I’m sure that’s the main reason why Rachel and Tim adopted me. I look like them. My fair skin tone is the closest to theirs. And so it makes things easier for them. Comfortable. More palatable. Never mind that my birth mother was of Cape Verde and Creole descent while my father was a light-skin black man from Louisiana. We don’t talk about these things. Just like we don’t speak of my birth parents’ abandonment, or if they’re dead or alive. My blackness is something they want to pretend doesn’t exist.

I’m not sure how my parents met, but they’d had me young and aside from that I knew nothing else about them. I only learned about their background and my own strictly by accident when I was fourteen. My case file had been hidden in a box in the back of Rachel and Tim’s closet. I’d been helping her clean it out when I found the box. I remember opening it without much thought only to find a small bit of my history and background on the yellowing sheets of papers inside.

Shaking away my thoughts, I find my reflection again. I hate looking at myself because I fear facing the girl staring back. This fragile, spineless ghost of a girl taught to be afraid of her own reflection. I see her now in those heterochromatic eyes. Bronzed brows set just above those eyes, framed by full, black lashes. A small, slightly upturned nose gives the illusion that I think myself better than the world, when in actuality I don’t think very much of myself at all. My mouth forms a grimace at the thought, my self-esteem at an all-time low.

“Got it. Can I take these two also?” Sarah rescues me again from the quagmire of my thoughts and I gratefully turn to her with what I hope is a warm smile. Along with Pride and Prejudice, she holds up another Jane Austen book, Sense and Sensibility.

“Yes, of course. We’ll talk about it when you’re done.”

She smiles brightly, and when she lingers, I realize she’s waiting for me to go downstairs. “You go down first. I’ll be right there, I just have to dry my hair and grab my scriptures.”

She nods. “Just don’t take too long, you know how Daddy gets.” Yes, I do. He’s anal-retentive about most things, and it doesn’t help that his very short fuse goes hand in hand with his neurosis. Being punctual is something he demands of every member of the family, and failing to comply has had adverse effects in the past. The bruises from those mistakes have healed now but they have left ugly scars beneath the surface of my skin. Scars that no one will ever see.

When she leaves she doesn’t close the door behind her, but I won’t be in my room for much longer. Putting the blow-dryer on low, I take hold of the black, wooden back, boar-bristled brush and make short work of drying my hair. It’s roughly twelve minutes later before I set the dryer and brush back down, confident that I’ve taken out every last bit of moisture from the blond strands. It’s not too often that I leave my hair unbound and today won’t be any different as I section it in two parts and go to work on plaiting one side and then the other into my customary French braids. Tying the end of each braid with a clear elastic band from the container closest to the mirror, they hang like two golden ropes down my back. Stepping away from the vanity with the knowledge I look as I’ve always looked, plain, modest, and inconspicuous, I head to my bookshelf to find my scriptures, notebook, and sketchpad. My beige canvas bag and book bag are flopped along the side of my study desk, exactly where I left them the night before. Grabbing my canvas bag, I set my bible, notebook, and sketchpad inside, along with my dark gray charcoal case holder. With any luck I can sneak away during church to get some sketching done.

Chapter 3

Aylee

I make my way down the hallway of the single-family home that they’ve had since before I moved in with them. Artistically placed over the flowered wallpapers are framed photographs of me and them over the years, before Sarah was born. Christmas and birthday photos display a loving family, flanked by Rachel and her ever-present Stepford wife smile at one side and Timothy, the bulky, grim-faced police detective on the other, with my place always being between them. I’m not smiling and I don’t sport exactly the same grim expression as Tim, but I’m just there. Expressionless. I prefer looking at the opposite wall because the photographs on that wall ring closer to the truth. Sarah and her parents—even though it’s not entirely true—give the semblance of a loving, authentic family.

The stairs creak as I descend, making my way to the kitchen. The house’s décor brings to mind a dated bed-and-breakfast. The same pale yellow, flowery wallpaper from the hallway is a persistent theme throughout the house. Speaking all too clearly of Rachel’s bad taste in décor. In the living room, two couches and a love seat in blush rose upholstery dominate the space. The focal point of the living room is the red stone fireplace around which each piece of furniture has been placed. The room further saturated by the massive china cabinet on the left-hand corner. There are more photographs on the mantel, but thankfully fewer of me.

When I finally make an appearance, it’s to find them all in the kitchen. Rachel is at the stove where I’m sure she’s been since seven AM this morning. My eyes shift to the digital clock on the microwave situated on the countertop that now reads half past nine. Two and half hours in the kitchen prepping breakfast for an army when there was only three people to feed. Looking at her, you wouldn’t know she’s been slaving over a hot stove. She’s always been meticulous with her appearance, today she is doubly so because it’s Sunday and church is like her personal runway show. She pays special attention to what she wears. Her strawberry blond hair is pulled up into a clean, tight topknot. The smattering of freckles typically visible on her pale face are expertly covered by a touch of makeup. Her lavender dress fits her petite body nicely, but not tight enough to make it indecent; the gold belt that cinches her waist is a perfect accompaniment to the gold heels at her feet. She wears a large statement necklace that offsets the dress and the watch Tim had gotten her for her birthday a few years ago. Everything looks in place. Perfect. No one would momentarily suspect that beneath the white cardigan she wears over the dress lay healing bruises Tim had given her the week before in one of his alcohol-induced rages. Those imperfections she hides well from the world. She and I are alike in that way.