I shrug.
“Well, I’m not mad. I wish you didn’t get so embarrassed over a photo—that was a really good one, by the way—but I’m not angry. It’s just a picture, and if it bothers you, I can respect that. You don’t have to feel guilty just because you didn’t do what I would have liked.”
I feel like he’s telling me it’s okay to disagree with him. It’s a completely foreign concept to me.
“Can I ask you something?” Jamie reaches his hand across his chest and scratches his neck. When I nod, he asks, “What do you see when you look at pictures of yourself?”
I swallow. Someone who looks too Asian to be pretty. Because being Asian means I can never be as pretty as the other girls at school—the girls like Mom. I know this because people like Henry and Adam and Mom keep telling me I don’t have the right face. I know this because when I look in the mirror, I see what they see—a girl who doesn’t belong here. A girl who isn’t good enough.
But I can’t tell him that—he wouldn’t understand.
“Okay. Well, what do you wish you saw?” He tries again when I remain quiet for so long.
Someone with bigger eyes. Lighter hair. A smaller nose. “Someone who looks more like everyone else,” I say at last.
Jamie runs his thumb over the edge of his camera. “Do you know how many people would love to have your face? Yeah, you don’t look like everyone else in this town, but that’s special. You stand out because you’re unique, and people literally never stop trying to be unique.”
I twist my mouth. “But I don’t want to stand out—not at all. I want to be normal. I want to feel like I belong in the same world as everyone else.” If I looked like everyone else, it would probably be easier to make friends. I might even have a mom who cared.
That last part really stings.
“You might feel that way now, but it isn’t like that forever. Wait until you see what the world has to offer besides this small town and your high school. People are different out there.”
I’m assuming he means California. I’m not sure if I believe him. I can’t imagine feeling like I’ll ever belong anywhere. I’m either too white, or too Asian, but never enough of either.
And I’m weird. People don’t react well to weird.
“Besides,” he adds, “if you’re worried you’re not pretty or something, don’t be.”
He catches my eye. What does he mean by that? Does he think . . . ?
“My mom always said you were the prettiest girl in the neighborhood,” he says. Why does it feel like clarification?
I roll my eyes. “Your mom hasn’t seen me since I was nine. And I feel like you’re making that up.”
“Nope,” he says triumphantly. “I’m not. Lying isn’t my thing.”
“Is it anyone’s thing?”
“Probably. Everyone has a thing.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do.”
I go stiff. What does he think it is?
Jamie smiles without his teeth, but it’s still the warmest, kindest smile I’ve ever seen. “You want to make everyone happy. Even if it’s sometimes at the expense of your own happiness.”
“Oh my God, I’m a people pleaser? That’s the worst.”
“I think compulsive liar is a lot worse.”
“Or sociopath.”
“Or serial killer.”
“Or cannibal.”
Jamie laughs and holds his camera back up to his face. “Yeah, any of those.”
I stare into the lens. “Are you taking my picture again?”
“Can I?” he asks.
I wait. I think. And I nod.
? ? ?
I paint a carousel of mirrors and dragons, and inside one of the mirrors is the happiest girl alive, desperate to break free.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s hard not to be irritated about Uncle Max moving in. Besides the fact that deep down he’s a terrible person, he listens to the worst music—nineties heavy metal. And he never closes his bedroom door, so I have to listen to the screams of an electric guitar from across the hall when I’m trying to paint. It’s like creative cyanide.
I set my tools down, roll my chair toward my desk, and rummage through the top drawer for a set of headphones. I have a small pair that I almost always use, but Dad gave me a set of noise-canceling ones for my birthday years ago. It was around the time he and Mom were fighting a lot. Just before Dad’s affair. Just before the divorce.
The headphones make me look like the generic alternative to an X-Wing fighter pilot, so I only wear them when I’m in my room. I connect the headphones to my iPod and roll back to my painting.
I’m at least four songs into my favorite playlist and a good hour away from finishing the piece when someone grabs my shoulder.
I jump, snap my eyes over my shoulder, and find Uncle Max standing there. He hasn’t shaved in days, and his eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept all night.
He probably didn’t. I’m not sure he was even home last night.
My chest tightens like there’s a monster trying to stuff its hand between my ribs and squeeze my heart until it bursts. I feel like I’m sinking lower and lower into the ground, but there’s nothing below my feet to keep me steady. I just keep falling, and something sick and weightless fills my stomach.
I slide the headphones off shakily. “What?” I manage to get out. I want to tell him he’s not allowed in my room. I want to tell him I don’t want him anywhere near me. But “what?” is the only word that escapes me. Because anything else will lead to confrontation. Anything else will give me a panic attack.
He runs his tongue along his molars like he has food stuck there. “You’re going to blow out your eardrums like that, kiddo.” He nods to my painting. “What are you making?”
My instinct is to cover the almost-finished canvas with my body. I don’t want him looking at it—it’s personal, and he doesn’t get to be a part of what’s personal to me.
But I don’t move. I sit in my chair, frozen, with one hand still hovering over the painting and the other gripping the edge of the table.
There’s cotton in my throat again. I swallow. “Did you want something?”
Uncle Max leans back like he doesn’t understand why I’m so short with him. Of course he would pretend like nothing ever happened.
I mean, he denied it. And he may have fooled Mom and maybe even Dad—we’ve never talked about it, so I don’t really know—but he will never make me think I imagined it. I remember. I don’t want to, but I remember.
“You know, you should try to be nicer to your mom.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans back. His skin always looks like he rubs oil into it, but today it looks especially greasy. I wonder if I’m just noticing all the things about him that irritate me more than usual.
“I am nice to my mom,” I say tersely.
He lets out a weak hum. “She says you’ve been giving her a hard time lately.”
Of course she’d say that. The only way she gets out of being the bad guy for letting Uncle Max stay is if she makes me the bad guy instead.