Day three.
When I woke up, the first thing I did was look at Boo.
That almost-falling-off ear had slipped out again, drooping soft against the pillow, like it was waving hello. I tucked it back in and pressed it down with my finger. "Boo," I said, "be good and wait for me to come home, okay?"
I've gotten used to saying that to Boo. I did it at the orphanage too — every morning before I left, I'd tuck Boo's blanket in nice and then say wait for me. Because I was scared Boo might fall asleep waiting and wake up to find nobody there, and feel just as scared as I do.
After I got dressed, I stood in front of the mirror for a moment.
The pigtails Dad had put in yesterday had come loose. I picked up the comb and hair ties Mom had left on my desk and tried to do them myself.
The right side was okay. The left side just wouldn't cooperate. I held my arms up for a long time, until my shoulders ached, and the elastic kept slipping off my fingers.
I gave up. Hair loose around my shoulders, I went downstairs.
Dad was already in the kitchen. The air smelled like toast — and a little like something burnt. He'd probably scorched the first slice again.
When he saw me come down, his eyes stopped on my hair.
"No pigtails today?"
I shook my head, a little embarrassed.
He set down the plate he was holding and walked over. Same as the last two days, he crouched down and used his big hands to carefully part my hair into two sections.
But today was different from the last two days — he got it right on the first try.
Not lopsided anymore.
Both sides about the same height, about the same tightness. Still not as pretty as when Mom does it, but really good.
"There," he said.
I touched the hair ties on my head and couldn't help smiling.
"Thank you…" My mouth opened, but the last two words tucked themselves back in.
He stood up and patted the top of my head.
"Go eat breakfast."
He didn't wait for me to get those words out. But I think he knew what I wanted to say.
School.
I don't like school.
Not the learning part. Learning is quiet, and I'm okay with quiet things. What I don't like is recess.
At recess, everyone runs around and talks and plays games. They seem to just know how to talk to people, how to join a group, how to laugh really loud.
I don't know how.
I just sit at my desk and look out the window, or put my head down and draw.
Today at recess, the girl at the next desk came over to look at what I was drawing.
"What is that?" She tilted her head.
"A rabbit," I said.
"It's so ugly." She laughed — not mean, just careless.
I looked down and covered the paper with my hand.
"How come you never talk?" Another girl came over. "Are you mute or something?"
I shook my head.
"Then why don't you ever say anything?"
I didn't know what to say. It's not that I don't want to talk. I just don't know what to say. At the orphanage, it didn't matter whether you talked or not — nobody was listening anyway. So I slowly turned into someone who doesn't talk.
"I heard she was adopted," the first girl said, lowering her voice. Not low enough.
"Adopted? Like, she doesn't have parents?"
"Yeah, she's from the orphanage."
"That's so sad."
When they said that's so sad, they didn't sound sorry. They sounded curious. Like looking at an animal in a cage — interesting, but not something you'd want to touch.
I folded up the drawing of Boo and put it in my backpack.
I didn't cry. I didn't get angry.
I just felt that tight place in my chest squeeze a little tighter.
After school, Dad's car was parked outside the gate.
I walked out, pulled open the back door, climbed in, and set my backpack beside me.
"How was your day?" he asked.
"Mm," I said.
He glanced at me and didn't ask anything else.
We drove for a while, then stopped at my brother's school. Gu Chen came out with his backpack, pulled open the front passenger door, and got in.
"So hot," he said, and turned the air vent toward himself.
The car went quiet again.
Dad asked Gu Chen a few things here and there. Gu Chen answered in a few words. I sat in the back with my face turned toward the window, watching the street slide past in pieces.
When we got home, I changed into my slippers, went upstairs, walked into my room, and closed the door.
I picked up Boo and held him against my chest.
"Boo," I said, in the smallest voice I had, "they said I'm from the orphanage."
Boo's black eyes looked at me and didn't say anything.
"I know I'm from the orphanage. But the way they said it — it sounded like something weird. Like I'm different from them."
I pressed my face into Boo's body and breathed in the smell of cotton. That smell had followed me all the way from the orphanage. It hadn't changed at all.
"Am I different?"
Boo didn't answer.
Dinner.
Dad made curry rice tonight. Not the kind Mom makes — Mom's curry has coconut milk in it, sweet and really good. Dad's was from a box, the kind you just pour in water and heat up.
But he remembered to make extra rice, because two days ago he noticed I like to mix a lot of rice into my curry.
The pink rabbit cup was at my spot, same as the last two days.
I sat in my chair and slowly stirred my curry rice with my spoon.
Usually I finish everything. But tonight I took a few bites and didn't want any more. That tight feeling in my chest was still there, making everything taste like nothing.
I stirred for a long time. The rice in my bowl got all mixed up and messy, but there wasn't much less of it.
Dad didn't say anything. He finished his portion, stood up, and went to wash the dishes.
I thought nobody had noticed.
But my brother noticed.
He ate his last bite, set down his bowl, and glanced at me.
Not a concerned look — at least not on the surface. Just a glance. Then he stood up and carried his bowl to the kitchen.
I thought he was done.
But after a moment, he came back.
He was holding a small bowl. Inside was a scoop of ice cream.
He set it down in front of me. Thunk. Casual.
"There's some in the freezer," he said, and walked away.
Not this is for you. Not you look upset. Not what's wrong.
Just there's some in the freezer.
Like the ice cream had nothing to do with him. Like it had walked out of the freezer on its own.
I looked at it. Strawberry flavor, soft pink, already starting to melt a little at the edges.
I picked up my spoon and took a bite.
Cool. Sweet.
That tight place in my chest loosened, just a little.
After I finished the ice cream, I carried the bowl to the kitchen to wash it. My brother was in the living room watching TV — he'd turned it to the cartoon we watched yesterday.
I sat down on the other side of the living room.
A little closer than yesterday.
He didn't look at me, but he didn't change the channel.
The cartoon played two episodes. Near the end of the second one, my eyelids started to get heavy.
"Go to bed," he said.
I nodded, stood up, and walked to the stairs.
Then stopped.
"Big brother…"
So quiet. Quiet enough that I wasn't sure I'd actually said it.
He looked over at me.
"Today… thank you."
He paused. Then he looked back at the TV.
"I don't know what you're thanking me for."
I smiled a little. Just a small one, the kind where only the corner of your mouth moves.
Upstairs. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Change into pajamas. Climb into bed.
Boo was waiting by the pillow. That almost-falling-off ear had slipped out again. I tucked it back in, then pulled Boo close.
"Boo," I said, in a voice only Boo could hear, "big brother gave me ice cream."
A pause.
"Strawberry."
Boo's black eyes were round and shiny, like they were saying: That's nice.
Tonight I was lying in the middle of the bed. Not the corner, not off to one side — the middle.
Outside the window, insects were calling, soft and far away.
"Boo, she said five days. Today is day three. Two more days."
I closed my eyes.
That tight place — someone had helped loosen it a little today.
He said he didn't know what I was thanking him for.
But I knew.