Page 63 of Not on the Same Page

I raise an eyebrow and set my phone face down on my thigh to give him my attention. “What are moon eyes?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about. Mom used to tease him about his moon eyes for her all the time.

Dad shoots me a skeptical look as if he knows I’m indulging him, but he answers anyway. “Moon eyes are that dopey look people have when they’re looking at something they’re…” He narrows his eyes at me. “Infatuated with, I guess.”

He probably wanted to say, in love with, but I’m grateful he didn’t.

“People? Or men in particular?” I give him a knowing smirk.

Leaning back in his chair and breathing in the warm, early evening air, he looks up at the sky with exactly what I’d describe as “moon eyes,” almost as if he can see her up there looking back at him.

“She would have said men in particular. But I knew better. She had a way of looking at me that said almost the same thing.”

She did. I remember distinctly the way she’d look at him, as if he hung the moon. Maybe that’s what she meant by “moon eyes.” If soulmates exist, my parents were them. They fell fiercely in love very young and lived a whole different life before I came along. Sometimes, I’d feel like an intruder if I walked into a room the two of them were in. But it was an incredible thing to witness. A once-in-a-lifetime love so big it could conquer almost anything.

I flip through my memory, wondering if Trina has ever had moon eyes for me. She’s so expressive, with her small smiles and her sassy smirks, or the way her lips part gently and her eyelids flutter when she thinks I’m going to kiss her.

“You’re doing it again,” Dad says quietly, knowingly. “So, who is she?”

My phone buzzes in my hand, but I don’t turn it over. I take a moment, trying to decide whether or not I should deny it completely, but I think I’ve passed the point of denial. I’ve been falling for Trina for a lot longer than I want to admit, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

“She’s…” God, how do I explain her? I work with words for a living, and I don’t think there are words that would do her justice. “She’s a coworker. Sort of. An agent I work with.”

Dad nods. “Work-life balance a little hard?”

“It’s tricky to navigate,” I admit.

“Hmm.” He pushes himself to standing and claps me on the shoulder. “If you have feelings for her, sometimes you just have to trust that the rest of it will work out. But don’t waste time on your way there. Time is precious. And speaking of time”—he stretches and cracks his back—“it’s time to eat.” He winks at me. “See? I can be punny just like you, hotshot.”

I chuckle, but there’s an edge to it because he’s right. Time is precious. I’m just not sure what my next move should be. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be over in a minute.”

Flipping my phone over to read her message, my heart beats a little faster. Now that I’ve admitted out loud that I have feelings for Trina, it’s going to be a lot harder to pretend that I don’t. And I think she still needs that from me.

Trina: You’re in luck, then, because Imani is going to need some people to hang out with. Will you help me?

I send back a simple message, but I hope it conveys that I’d do that for her and much more.

Me: Of course.

23

TRINA

“Hi, Mama.” I hate how shaky my voice sounds as I talk into the receiver. Aunt Donna answered the call like she always does, and instead of letting me take it on the cordless phone upstairs, she insisted on making me come down to the kitchen. I always ask if I can go upstairs when Mom calls, and the answer is always no. Now, Aunt Donna is standing at the sink, chopping vegetables. But we’ve already eaten dinner, so I know she’s there to eavesdrop.

“Hi, hun. How are you? How’s school?”

Mom’s voice sounds far away, and there are other muffled sounds in the background. She’s not alone either.

“School is good,” I say. “I got an A on my book report today.” I cringe as soon as I say it. I haven’t talked to her in months. There’s no way she cares about a grade on a book report. She doesn’t even know I had a book report due.

“Of course you did. You’re my smart little girl.”

“I’m fifteen, Mama. I’m not little anymore.” I laugh it off, but it sounds forced even to me.

“Fifteen? No… Don’t be silly. You’re twelve,” she insists, but it’s not in the way that I’ve heard some parents of the kids at school joke about how fast time passes. She says it like she truly believes I’m only twelve. Like it’s only been three years since they took me away, not six. Like she’s still on her first prison sentence, not her second.

Tears prick at the outsides of my eyes. I sniffle, and Aunt Donna’s mouth tightens into a straight, white line. She pauses her chopping to shoot me a warning look. It’s pretty normal for her to be annoyed when I cry, but she hates it when I cry on the phone with my mom. She treats it as some kind of personal affront, as if my mom will find out how unhappy I am. As if it’s a crime to want better than a place that has never felt like home.

I wish Aunt Donna would go somewhere else. Just for a minute.