Layla
Layla never had to go grocery shopping that many times in her whole life. With not one but two athletes in the apartment—which was already lacking much in kitchen supplies—she made a couple of trips, and so did Jess.
She had a couple of things she need for a new recipe—she got an insane craving for sugar when it was her time of the month, so she needed the supplies.
“Mommy, will you help me?” a little girl’s voice said. The girl looked about six years old and she was jumping up and down.
She had this annoying thing, where she felt frozen whenever she saw a mother and daughter in public. The mother sighed fondly. She had been watching the girl organize everything in their cart and when the mom tried to help, the girl insisted that she did not need any help.
“Just this once, mommy.” The girl giggled because she couldn’t reach up. Her mother helped.
She felt nauseous. She was taken back to memories she didn’t want to remember; she tried to bottle it down, to put it way back in her head and to close the drawer, but it was too late.
⸻
Fourteen-year-old Layla.
Even though she refused to admit this out loud, Layla was sick. She did not have room for sickness. She couldn’t miss a day of school because her mama wouldn’t be pleased if she was behind. She also needed to help her sister with her homework and she needed to prepare her lunch box.
Layla was dizzy, nauseous, and her throat was sore. She made some lemon and honey because she remembered her grandmother saying it was good for a sore throat.
Layla was taking too long to prepare things, her moves were too slow. She looked at the time and found that she could spare a few minutes to rest her head. A few minutes were all she needed. Her body was heating, and she was sweating. She grabbed the blanket; it gave the illusion of arms around her.
A few minutes later, she heard her mama’s footsteps; she woke up sometimes in the middle of the night and Layla could recognize the sound of her footsteps, mainly because it raised the alarms in her brain.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I was making Samira’s lunchbox.”
“You mean you were just resting on the couch,” she corrected, looking annoyed.
“I was feeling a little nauseous, so I just wanted to sit down for a minute, okay?”
“Watch your tone,” she snapped.
Her hand was close to Layla’s head; she wanted to ask her to check her forehead.
Layla saw parents check their children’s temperature in movies like that all the time. She wanted to ask, but Sharon was already turning her back on her.
“Mama?” She stiffened. Layla didn’t call her often. “Mama, will you help me? Just this once? I’m not feeling well,” she said, lips trembling. She didn’t know what she was asking for. When she stood, the blanket fell, and she stared at it, unable to pick it up.
“Please, mommy.” Please mama, just for a few minutes.
“You smell bad, Layla. You smell like sweat. Make your sister’s food and go take a shower.”
⸻
When Layla returned to the apartment, she took out her art supplies and got to work. She ached for a distraction.
The sound of the door opening was like a granted wish. Jess found her on the floor. She looked up and then down again; he was very hard to ignore, no matter how she pretended otherwise.
She didn’t really know how to interact with him. She had seen him play a couple of times, and those times he played a little roughly. Mateo told her sometimes people said nasty things to him, so it made him mad. She was a little wary of him at first, but it dissolved right away.
Whenever she was in the same room as him, he made gentle eye contact and spoke in a soft-spoken manner with extreme politeness and a small smile on his face.
Layla to the audience: Looking back at it now, I really should have known he’d be my weakness one day.
He observed and observed and observed.
Layla didn’t like feeling like she was on display but, she could admit, she did not try to hide from him.
For some reason, she went back to learning sign language. She had already learned a good amount while Celia and Matty were learning it a couple of months ago, due to her spending a lot of time with them. She found herself watching the guys sign all the time to make sure she got them right.
Jess helped her with her brushes, and he drank coffee with her. When he said they should ask each other questions, she didn’t put up much of a fight.
Later that night, when she couldn’t sleep, she heard the door next to hers opening, then closing. She heard it every night and every time she opened the door to peek; she found him.
The hallway that led to the rooms was spacious, and she had a direct view to the kitchen. She always found Jess there; she took notice of the sweat on his chest, the way he breathed heavily, but she wasn’t brave enough to ask what troubled him.
“Do you want some lavender tea? It’s good for the nerves,” she told him, trying to take advantage of her question. It was he who proposed they asked each other questions in the first place.
Jess stared at her for a while before nodding, then he watched every step while she made the tea for both of them.
“Enjoy watching me yesterday?” he wrote down.
“I was n—”
“And the day before that, and the day before that,” he continued, smiling. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“I can say the same thing about you,” she told him.
“Yes, you can,” he wrote, nodding with a very matter-of-fact expression on his face.
Layla felt a small flutter in her stomach at the response. She didn’t like it at all.
