Day four.
When I woke up this morning, I noticed I was holding Boo differently.
The first three days, I'd held him against my chest with his face toward mine, like I was protecting him. But this morning he was facing outward, his face turned toward the room, his almost-falling-off ear drooping over my arm, swaying a little.
Like he'd started to feel safe here too.
I tucked his ear back in and rolled over.
A strip of light came through the gap in the curtains and fell across the ceiling, moving slowly. I watched it for a while, then heard footsteps in the hallway.
It was Dad.
I already knew his footsteps — steady, not fast, not slow, the same space between each one, like a metronome. Different from big brother's. Big brother's footsteps were sometimes quick, sometimes slow, and sometimes they'd stop without warning.
The footsteps passed my door without stopping.
But about ten seconds later, they came back.
The door was pushed open a crack, gently.
"Xia. Time to get up."
His voice was low, like he was afraid of waking me, or maybe afraid he wasn't being gentle enough.
I sat up and nodded.
He stood in the doorway and looked at me for a moment, then said, "Dad's doing your hair today."
I walked over and sat down at the vanity. He came in and picked up the brush.
He got it right on the first try.
Not crooked, not uneven — really right. Both sides the same height, the same tightness, the hair tie wrapped exactly three times, no more, no less.
I watched his face in the mirror. His expression was the same as always — flat, unreadable. But as he looked at my reflection, the corner of his mouth moved.
Just a little.
I thought it was a smile.
There was something new on the breakfast table.
A small lunchbox, pink, with a cat printed on the lid.
It was sitting in front of my spot, lid closed, a pair of short chopsticks laid beside it.
"For school," Dad said, turning a page of his newspaper.
I lifted the lid.
Inside were rice balls, triangular, wrapped in seaweed. A few cherry tomatoes sat beside them, along with two pieces of tamagoyaki — square, yellow, the edges just slightly browned.
Not very pretty. The rice balls were a little lopsided, and the tamagoyaki pieces were cut in different sizes.
But everything was arranged very neatly, very carefully, like someone had spent a long time getting it just right.
"Did you make this?" Big brother poked his head out from the kitchen, holding a carton of milk. He glanced at the lunchbox, his expression a little hard to read.
Dad didn't answer. He turned another page.
Big brother came over and looked at the lopsided rice balls, then at Dad's face pretending to read the newspaper. The corner of his mouth moved too.
"Not bad," he said, and poured milk into my pink bunny cup.
On the way to school, I held the lunchbox against my chest.
It had a little weight to it, warm, like a small hand warmer. Even through the fabric of my backpack, I could feel the heat.
Today was my fourth day at this school.
I already knew a few things: my seat was in the third row by the window, the bathroom was at the end of the hall and to the left, the teacher talked fast but repeated the important parts, and after the bell rang you had to wait for the teacher to say "dismissed" before you could stand up.
And one more thing.
The girl sitting diagonally behind me was named Kayla.
Her hair was curly, always clipped back near her ear with a butterfly barrette. Her pencil case was clear, filled with pens in every color. When she wrote, she stuck her tongue out just a little.
Yesterday, when those two girls had crowded around asking me questions, Kayla had been standing behind them.
She'd opened her mouth, then closed it. She'd tugged on one of the girls' sleeves, but the girl ignored her. Then she'd looked down at her own shoes.
Later, when we were packing up to go home, she walked past my desk.
Fast, like a breeze.
But after she passed, there was a piece of candy sitting on the corner of my desk.
Strawberry flavor. A smiling strawberry face on the pink wrapper.
She hadn't looked at me. Hadn't said anything.
I brought the candy home and put it next to Boo.
During the first recess, I didn't leave my seat. I never left my seat at recess, except to use the bathroom. The other kids ran outside to play, but I didn't. I'd sit and look out the window, or look at the pictures in my textbook.
Then a shadow appeared beside my desk.
Kayla.
She stood there with both hands behind her back, swaying slightly, like she was trying to decide something.
I looked at her. She looked at me.
About five seconds of silence.
Then she brought her hands out from behind her back — another piece of candy in her palm. Grape flavor this time, purple wrapper.
She set it on my desk, very gently.
Then she spoke. Her voice was smaller than I expected, small enough that I almost missed it.
"Yesterday… the things they were asking you. I didn't think that was okay."
I looked at her and didn't say anything.
Her face was a little red.
"I… I wanted to say something. But I… I couldn't." She looked down, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. "I'm sorry."
She was apologizing to me.
Because she hadn't spoken up for me, and she felt bad about it.
I thought for a moment, then shook my head.
"It's okay," I said.
She looked up. Her eyes got a little brighter.
"Really?"
I nodded. Then I did something I hadn't planned on doing —
I pushed the grape candy back toward her a little.
"Let's share," I said.
Kayla blinked. Then she smiled, the kind of smile that made her eyes curve, and her butterfly barrette swayed.
She sat down in the empty seat beside me.
She unwrapped the grape candy and broke it in half — it was small, so it crumbled a little, purple bits scattering on the desk. She held out the bigger half to me.
"You take the big piece," she said.
I took it and put it in my mouth.
Grape flavor. Sweet, with just a little bit of sour.
It was the first time I'd ever shared food with someone at school.
At lunch, I took out my lunchbox.
Kayla sat beside me. She had a lunchbox too, made by her mom — curry rice and fried chicken, arranged beautifully, with a little flag stuck in the middle.
She looked at my lunchbox, at the lopsided rice balls and the unevenly cut tamagoyaki.
"Your lunch is so cute!" she said.
I didn't think it was very cute. It was crooked. Not as pretty as hers.
"It's…" I thought for a moment. "Someone at home made it."
I still couldn't say "Dad" very naturally.
"They must really love you," Kayla said, dropping a piece of fried chicken onto the lid of my lunchbox. "Making a lunch from scratch is impressive — my mom always says it's such a pain."
I looked at the lopsided rice balls.
I thought about how Dad must have gotten up early this morning. He usually left for work at eight, but when I woke up at seven, the lunchbox was already done. The rice balls were misshapen, which meant he'd tried more than once. The edges of the tamagoyaki were a little browned, which meant he'd stood at the stove not sure how long to cook it.
He hadn't said anything. Just put the lunchbox in front of my spot and read his newspaper.
Like making a lunch was the most ordinary thing in the world.
But I knew it wasn't ordinary.
I took a bite of a rice ball.
The rice was packed a little too tight, the seaweed had gone a little soft, and there was tuna inside — salty.
Not the best.
But I finished every bit of it.
Every single bite.
After school, Kayla walked with me to the front gate.
She talked the whole way — about her cat, about her favorite cartoon, about how she thought the math teacher's hair looked like a bird's nest. Her hands moved as she talked, her butterfly barrette swaying nonstop.
I didn't say much, but I listened.
Every word.
When we reached the gate, I saw big brother.
He was leaning against the wall beside the entrance, hands in his pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder. His school got out earlier than mine, but he was standing there like he'd been waiting a while.
When he saw me, he straightened up.
"Let's go," he said.
Kayla tugged my sleeve and whispered, "Who's that?"
"He's…" I thought for a second. "My brother. From home."
I still wasn't used to saying "big brother." When the words came out, they felt heavy, like if I said them out loud, I'd really become a little sister.
Kayla looked at Gu Chen, then looked at me, eyes bright.
"That's so cool, you have a big brother!"
Big brother glanced at Kayla, said nothing, and turned to walk away.
I waved at Kayla. She waved back, barrette swaying one more time.
"See you tomorrow!" she said.
See you tomorrow.
It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. At the orphanage, nobody said see you tomorrow at the end of the day, because tomorrow everyone would still be in the same place. There was no need.
But those three words felt like they meant: I remember you. I want to be with you again tomorrow.
I followed big brother home. He walked in front, I walked behind, about three steps between us — same as the days before.
But today he walked slower.
Slow enough that I didn't have to jog to keep up.
After a while, he spoke.
"That girl — she's in your class?"
"Yeah."
"What's her name?"
"Kayla."
"Hm."
A few more steps.
"She talks a lot," he said.
I didn't answer.
But the corner of my mouth moved.
That evening, Dad was watching the news in the living room. I sat on the sofa beside him, my legs too short to reach the floor, feet dangling and swaying slowly.
Big brother was at the dining table doing homework, same as yesterday.
But today was different — I wasn't doing mine on the sofa.
I walked over to the dining table and sat down in the same spot I'd sat in yesterday.
Big brother looked up.
"Something you don't understand again?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Then why are you sitting over here?"
I thought about it. I didn't know how to answer.
Then I said something that even I thought sounded a little strange.
"It's… warmer here."
The living room had the heat on. It wasn't cold. The sofa wasn't cold either. But with him at the table, the warmth was a different kind.
He looked at me for a second, then looked back down at his homework.
"Suit yourself," he said.
But he slid his things over to his side of the table, making more room for me.
I took out my workbook and started writing.
I knew all of today's math. But I wrote slowly.
Because once I finished, I wouldn't have a reason to stay here anymore.
Before bed, I washed out the empty lunchbox.
Dad reached out to take it. I shook my head, stepped up onto the little stool, and set it on the kitchen counter to dry myself.
He stood beside me and watched for a moment without saying anything.
Then he said, "What do you want tomorrow?"
I thought for a long time.
"…Anything is fine."
He nodded, like he'd already known I'd say that.
"Fried rice then," he decided on his own.
I went back to my room and folded the grape candy wrapper into a small square, then placed it next to Boo, beside yesterday's strawberry candy wrapper.
"Boo," I whispered, "I have a friend now. Her name is Kayla. Her hair is curly and when she smiles her eyes go all curved."
Boo's eyes were round and black and didn't change. But I felt like he was happy for me.
"And," I pulled the blanket up to my chin, "she said see you tomorrow."
See you tomorrow.
I counted again.
One more day. Mom would be back in one more day.
But tonight, I didn't spend the whole time thinking about her the way I had the nights before.
Because today there were so many other things to think about.
Lopsided rice balls. Purple candy. Kayla's butterfly barrette. Big brother waiting at the school gate. It's warmer here. Fried rice tomorrow.
I closed my eyes.
Tonight, I lay in the middle of the bed.
Not the corner, not off to one side — the middle.
Boo was beside me, his almost-falling-off ear drooping over the edge of the pillow. I didn't tuck it back in.
Let it stay crooked.
It would still be there when I woke up tomorrow.