Chapter 2 - The Girl Who Learned to Disappear
Josie was born with birthmarks — deep, vivid patches spread across her arms, one shoulder, both legs. When she was little, she used to say she looked painted, and she liked it. Then she started school, and the other kids taught her a different word for it.
By fourth grade she was wearing long sleeves through the summer. By middle school she'd stopped going to pool parties, stopped trying on clothes in stores, and learned how to drift to the back of any group the second a phone came up.
I tried to help without treating her like she was made of glass. Some days I got it right. A lot of days I didn't.
The night before we left for Gulf Shores, I walked past my bedroom with an armful of towels and stopped cold.
Josie was standing in front of my mirror in a yellow two-piece with an open robe over it.
She caught my expression before I could fix it.
"You hate it."
"No, baby. I don't."
"You made a face."
"I promise I didn't." I set the towels on the bed. "Josie, you look beautiful."
She crossed her arms over her stomach. "I hate that the first thing I thought was whether somebody's going to say something."
"Somebody might," I said. "You don't owe any of them proof."
"I'm not doing it for them." She turned back to the mirror and lifted her chin. "I'm doing it for me."
That was my daughter in one sentence. Quiet until it counted. Then immovable.
I came and stood next to her. "That color's incredible on you."
"Eli said I look like a highlighter."
"Your brother thinks matching socks count as a suit."
She laughed. Then her eyes went to the hallway, and the laugh faded.
"I just hope Aunt Carla keeps her mouth shut."
I folded a towel against my chest. "She's not turning this into something ugly. Not this time."
"You always say that. Right before she says something ugly."
May you like
That one landed harder than she meant it to.
"Then I'll do better," I said.
