I’m glad I hadn’t known that the day we moved in. I might have tried to run away. Don’t get me wrong. To say that I liked the guesthouse would be like saying The Cheetah Girlslikedsinging. It wasn’t just a step above our rental house on Silkwood. It was like nine steps above. A floor above. A penthouse above.
And that was great… in a way. But it was also a problem. Walking out of the guesthouse door into the Whitehursts’ back yard, with its newly redesigned pool, hot tub, and waterfall shelf was like living at a resort. Mama and I could use the pool, provided the Whitehursts weren’t using it or entertaining. I knew this was generous of them, but every time I put on my one piece and jumped into the deep end to splash around by myself — while Mama sat on the edge of the hot tub with her skirt hiked up and her feet soaking in the water — I could not forget the truth.
We didn’t belong there.
And while Myrtle Place was a lot safer than Four Corners — for riding my bike or even taking a walk — I missed my neighborhood friends. Summer and Sky Beauford. The Ramseys. Mrs. Alicia’s grandkids. Silkwood Street may have been a dangerous place to wander at night, but during the day, there was never a shortage of kids to play with.
Sure, two kids lived not a hundred yards from me, but now, when they weren’t at one of their many lessons or practices, they were playing with their own friends, and those occasions definitely didn’t include me.
Because, again, I didn’t belong. Ava and Cole might have known me, but that didn’t mean they thought I was worth knowing.
I could still see some of the girl I’d known in seven-year-old Ava now that she was eleven. She still shrieked with laughter and played games with her friends in the pool. I could hear this from my bedroom in the guesthouse. She was still quick to laugh, tease, and get distracted, but if I walked outside, Ava and her friends would suddenly hush in a way that made my stomach pitch and my ears burn.
So I just didn’t make eye contact with them because I was pretty sure they were trying not to make eye contact with me. After four weeks of living in the guesthouse, I’d stopped hoping to be invited to join them. Instead, I’d walk through the yard to the storage shed behind the guesthouse, get on my bike, and ride through the Saint Streets.
And that was how I met Alberta Okeke.
The first time I saw her, she was lying flat on her back in her driveway in the middle of a pair of blue, lavender, and pink butterfly wings expertly drawn in sidewalk chalk. She was just lying there as though she were a girl-sized butterfly. I hit the brakes on my bike so hard, I almost went over the handlebars.
At the skid of my tires, she turned her head to look at me. She was a light-skinned black girl with hair the color of honey. I noticed her eyes right away. They were a startling, perfect, bottle blue.
They were also smiling as though she were just a little embarrassed to be caught pretending to be a butterfly. I took this as a good sign, a sign that she might not be too snobby to play with me.
“You like to draw?” I asked, ignoring the fact that she had gone way past drawing to become one with her art.
“Yeah. Do you?” she asked, still smiling.
I smiled back. “It’s my favorite.”
She sat up. “Wanna draw giant dragonfly wings with me?”
My bike landed in the grass. “Sure.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, handing me a hunk of green chalk.
“Elise.”
“Okay, Elise,” she said, motioning me to the empty span of driveway next to her butterfly. “Lie down with your feet pointing away from my wings, and put your hands on your hips like this.” She held her hands at her hips with her elbows pointing out. I did as she instructed, and she proceeded to draw an oval around me.
“Elise what?” she asked as she traced.
“Cormier,” I answered, squinting up at her as she slowly worked. “What’s your name?”
Her eyes met mine. “Alberta Okeke.”
I blinked. Her name sounded like the noise a cockatiel would make. Or what I thought a cockatiel would make. I couldn’t say I really knew. By the look on her face, I guessed she expected me to laugh, but I didn’t. Her name was beautiful. Just like her butterfly. Just like she was.
“I’ve never heard a name like that before,” I said.
Alberta nodded and kept tracing, seeming satisfied with my response.
“My dad’s from Nigeria. My mom’s from here. He’s black. She’s white.” At this, her eyes shot to mine again. “In case you hadn’t already noticed.”
I shrugged. “My mom’s white. I don’t know about my dad,” I said. “I’ve never met him.” I watched her just as closely as she’d watched me.
She smiled and gave a little laugh. “I think it’s safe to say he’s white.”
This made me laugh, too. “Yeah, probably.”