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The Gypsy’s Niece
CHAPTER 7

The art classroom décor reflects Ms. Carey: quirky with a slight touch of no-shit attitude. Paint splatters and footprints cover the otherwise white floor (a class project gone wrong?), a few prints hng on the wall, and a particular poster written in huge caps reads, “ART IS RESISTANCE. WHAT WILL YOURS BE?”
What, indeed?
Wooden, four-legged stools surround stainless steel square tables, covered in easels and no. 2 pencils, ink, colored pencils, and paints are arranged in meticulous little piles. There are no seats left except for one by Short Plaid Clad in the back. I dart to it, bracing myself.
Ms. Carey’s oblique nose is in some huge, glossy book that says “POLLOCK” on the cover, her cat’s eye lenses sliding precariously over the tip of her nose, threatening to fall into her lap. Luckily, she hasn’t noticed that I’m late, or she doesn’t care either way. The overhead reads “Draw a portrait, any portrait. We’re just experimenting today.” People are talking at a medium volume, classical music plays in the background, and while it isn’t the Nirvana I usually prefer when drawing, it’s all right. Nice, even, serene, in a way. Lulling.
I just hope it doesn’t lull me to sleep. During my previous short stab at a high school career(after not going to jr. high for 2 years, so really, how was I to know what I was in for? Everyone was so NICE in elementary school), art was the only class I looked forward to, and I don’t want to miss it now, either.
Oh my GOD,” squeals Short Plaid Clad. “You’re Nadya, right? The new girl! The one who did that solo! It was great! And when you CURTSIED like that?! Oh my GOD, that was so FUNNY!!! I mean, it was just so dramatic! A CURTSY!”
What is it that makes people commit overkill on exclamations? What is it with these girls that compels them to talk like this? Like someone curtsying is the 324th most amazing thing that’s happened to them in the past 24 hours?
“That’d be me,” I reply, randomly sketching a border, wondering who I’ll draw.
“I knew it was you! I mean, who else would it be? You’re the only like, you know, at this school.”
I know what she’s implying, and it really gets under my not-Caucasian skin.
“The ‘only, like, you know’ what?” I ask, savagely drawing lines, and I imagine they’re strings, a web, trapping whoever I put in there inside.
“You know. The only, Hispanic person.” She gives me a timid, nervous glance, “Not that there’s anything WRONG with that? I LOVE Mexican people? They’re, like, the best? I love your guys burritos? They’re-”
Great, she’s an up-talker. SAVE ME!
“What’s your name?” I interrupt, outlining a silhouette of a woman with a tiny, corseted, fitted waist but a bit of a bust.
“Oh. It’s Meg,” she practically chokes out with relief, her voice high and scratchy.
“Well, Meg, why don’t we both just stick with what we know?”
My hand moves slowly, carefully, and with ease as I detail the wide skirt with vertical layers, gathering it.
“What’s THAT supposed to mean?”
Oh, dear. I’ve pissed off the princess. Whatever shall I do?
Drawing laces on the bodice, I smoothly answer, “I’m not Mexican.”
“REALLY? But you’re so dark! But not black!”
“I know. It’s amazing, right?”
Curving her elegant neck from her shoulders, I see Meg biting her lip in my peripheral vision, hesitating to say something.
“Don’t say it, don’t say it,” I chant in my head, hoping she picks up on my telepathy. Lightly, I draw a delicate chain around the lady’s neck.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” she blurts out, “what are you, then?
Now this is where it gets tricky. I can’t exactly be like, “Why, Meg, I’m a gypsy! Fancy that!” There’s a reason my aunt wanted me to be careful. People often have two reaction when they find someone is, in fact, a gypsy. One, they get all misty-eyed and go, “Oh, that’s so romantic”(gag). Two, they get all hostile and accuse you of being a thief or some other form of criminal.
I should practice answering, though. I’ll tell her the truth, but not all the truth. Maybe if I’m lucky enough, she’ll pass it around, my mystique will die down somewhat, and I won’t get gawked at and whispered about as “The Exotic New Girl” (courtesy of Meg).
“I’m Romanian,” I answer simply, shaping the lady’s lips.
“Romanian?!” she exclaims, like I just confessed to being a vampire or something.
“Wow,” she says wistfully. “That sounds, like, so adventurous and exciting!”
Yes, it was really adventurous and exiting when we were banned from England(by Henry VIII, the woman-hater, womanizer pig) and by the noble King Louis of France. It was really great when, if there were any of us left after the banning, the hung the men and sent the women and children to do labor as launderers and live a life “free of sin”. In the 1800’s, Gypsy Hunting was a popular sport in Germany. What an adrenaline rush!
Oh, and don’t forget the Holocaust! That was so adventurous and exciting, it almost KILLED us! Oh, wait. It DID! Millions of us, actually.
“Wait…Romania…Oh my God!” She snaps her fingers. “I remember from history! That was, like Transylvania! The place with the vampires!”
Eh. Go figure.
“I think,” I attempt to inform her as gently as possible, “that you’re getting that confused with the royal guy that lived there and put people’s heads on pikes around his castle. The one who inspired Dracula?”
“Ew!”
She squirms and slaps her hand on the table.
I take a peek at her drawing. It’s a stick figure girl in a plaid skirt and headband, with stick straight light blonde hair in a ponytail.
Interesting. This reminds me…
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in Art 3?”
She makes a face.
“Technically. I can see why you’d be confused? You and Harper are the only sophomores in Choir 3, because, you’re like, musical geniuses or something? Well, so’s Jen, but she doesn’t count because EVERYONE knows she cheated off Harper’s test. Oh, and that Will guy. I have to MAKE UP art class this year ‘cause I FAILED? Can you BELIEVE it? How do you fail art? Isn’t art supposed to be, like, subjective?”
“Oh, yeah. Really,” I say, thinking of the stick-figure.
“I know, right?”
Finally, I’ve finished with the sketch. The end product is a woman in a gown, lacy lines of her corset stretching out behind her to the drawn-frame of the paper, web-like, ensnaring. Her hands are clasped, her eyes downcast and widened, like she knows her fate and it both terrifies and saddens her. Her hair is encased in a bun, a single loose tendril hanging down the front of her face. I hope the locket adds to the melancholy, nostalgic feeling I’m trying to portray.
I grab a white and blue colored pencil and start shading in the dress.
“Want some gum?” Meg asks, smacking some herself, handing me a square Bazooka.
“No thanks,” I reply, starting to get annoyed, trying to concentrate on filling her lips with a specific combination of pink and red, leaving a tiny bit un-colored so it appears to shine.
“Are you suuuuure? Guys LOVE it when you blow bubbles? It reminds them of big boobs?”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Ooooh, really? Who?”
Why not?
“Raphael. And I’ve already got quite a bit of a reminder, thanks.”
It’s silent now, except for the music and everyone else’s conversations.
“God. You don’t have to BRAG about it,” she snaps acidly.
“I was jok-”
“I can’t believe I actually thought you were nice,” she sniffs, offended.
After making the finishing touches with my coloring, I put away the pencils and observe that she’s waiting for me, expectant with her arms crossed over her only B-cup package.
Please. What does she expect me to do? Grovel?
“C’mon. We both know you never ‘actually though I was nice’ in the first place.”
“What are you TALKING about, Nadya?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I heard what you were saying to your friends, and I heard what was in between the lines.”
“That I complimented you? That I called you PRETTY? Well, excuse me!
“Stop it,” I bite out, so tired of this little game. “That’s not what you meant, and you know it, and I know it, so cut the crap! ‘Pretty in an exotic way’? You wanted a novelty, a pet for your group. Someone to groom and show off to guys, someone to attract you by association.”
She scowls at me.
“Just who do you think you are, miss-”
“I know who YOU saw I was. I got the jealousy in your voice when you saw how Will looked at my like a friend, and how Raphael looked at me like I was someone special, a beauty, a cool girl he really wanted to be with, when you’ve only had guys look at you like a potential one-night stand or arm-candy.”
I let out a breath, getting the intoxicating, emancipating, adrenaline feeling I always get from running, singing, telling people off, and kissing Raphael.
A bajillion eyes stare at me. I guess Meg and I didn’t realize how loud we were being when we were trapped in our tense, heated, hate-filled little bubble.
Thank God I finally popped it and clicked back to reality.
The reality is that my little fantasy about Meg decreasing my conspicuous factor has been screwed to infinity.
So much for people not scrutinizing me.
I gently tear my picture off the easel, write, “Trapped In A World That’s Not Made For Her” on the top frame, scrawl my name and the date in the bottom left-hand corner and plop it down on the table next to a shell-shocked Ms. Carey. Her book is closed and she says, “Nadya-”
I pretend I don’t hear her and high-tail out of there, to the sanctuary girls in distress fall back on everywhere. Harper used it only about an hour before.
If there is a group of girls smoking in there, I swear I am going to have a mental breakdown. I need some space, and I need to be alone. After a bit of searching, I find it.
It’s empty.
I splash my face with cold water. Then remember that I’m wearing mascara. “Oh, that’s just fantastic,” I mutter, grab a paper towel to wipe away the smudges with the PUSH button regulation slimy, pink liquid soap.
I finishing drying my eyes, and look at the girl in the mirror.
What AM I?
I don’t fall into any of the categories.
I’m not ugly(though I do have a budding zit on my chin), plain, cute, pretty, attractive, or totally gorgeous. My features are good, I guess, but that doesn’t tell me anything.
Hair: Slightly past my shoulders, brown with a red tint in the summer, and mainly black in autumn/winter. Soft, thick, way, and in layers.
Skin: Caramel of the gooey stuff put on sundaes in autumn/winter, when I get in the sun it’s the darker shade of hard caramel candy. I have a birthmark shaped like a chokan* on my shoulder. Usually clear, unless I get lazy with the washing and skip a day.
Eyes: A deep, warm earth-brown that always reminds me of spicy hot chocolate when I look at myself in the mirror. Have been told the are “soul-searching”. Feathery lashes, but just a medium length. My eyebrows are coal-black, not too thick not too thin.
Nose: My nose is… a nose. There is nothing remarkable about it. End of story
Lips: Naturally redder than most girls, maybe because I bite them a lot?
Raphael says they’re like marshmallows, and when I touch them they’re kind soft and squishy, I guess, but I guess I’ll never know because it’s physically impossible gor me to kiss myself…
Chin: Sorta pointed, but not extremely.
Neck: Long. “Queenly,” Bibio says, but what the hell. She’s Bibio.
Stature: Double-D and then thin with no sign of hips. Long arms and long fingers. Bubble-butt. Muscular regular length legs from running and big feet that are toughened since I walk around bare-foot lot. 5’6”.
I step back from the mirror, frustrated. I can never get an honest opinion form anyone, and I certainly can’t figure out how I look myself. This mirror’s no help at all. I don’t know why I thought it’d be different from the one in my room…
My favorite people in the world are also the most unsatisfactory mirrors in the world.

Me: How do I look? Be honest.
Bibio: You’re a very attractive girl, Nadya. You have no reason to be insecure. Now stop whining and unload the dishwasher.
Me: But-
Bibio: No buts. Unload the dishwasher.
Me: But I-
Bibio: No buts!
Me: (sulkily) Fine.

Me: How do I look? Be honest.
Constanta: You’re really pretty! Stop asking me that question, please. The answer’s not gonna change overnight.
Me: But…but…I don’t FEEL pretty!
Constanta: Who does? Except supermodels, maybe.

Me: How do I look? Be honest.
Raphael: You’re beautiful. You’re absolutely beautiful. Actually, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.
Me: Oh, come ON! I said be honest. If I was the most beautiful girl in the world, I’d be Aphrodite or something. I guess what I’m-
Raphael: Aphrodite’s got nothing on you. And I am being honest: that’s how you look to me. I feel lucky every day that I’m with you. No, in fact, I feel blessed.
Me: . . .

My least favorite people don’t help, either. Jerkface of the Train though I looked like an “immigrant”, an it. Meg said I looked “pretty in an exotic way”, but I don’t know if she said that because she was looking for something nice to say to chime in with her friends or if she actually meant it.
Who am I kidding?
Whenever I ask, “How do I look?” or “What AM I? Pretty, plain, ugly, or none of the above”, I’m really asking something else that I’m more afraid to: “How am I?” and “Who am I?” Maybe that’s why I keep on asking; because I never get the answer I’m looking for. Well, no wonder! I’m asking the wrong questions.
Is this how it is for every girl? I check my watch. Class ends in thirty ticks of the thinnest hand, so I leave the girls’ bathroom to retrieve my deserted backpack.

Ms. Carey’s still sitting in her spot. I sneak in, grab my backpack, and slide to the door-
“Nadya. I need to talk to you.”
Damn.
There’s no way I can pretend to not hear her now.
I turn to face her, and attempt bargaining, “Can we talk later? I mean, I really need to get to class, Ms. C, and I’ll be late-”
“Don’t ‘Ms. C’ me.”
Double damn.
“And I’ll give you a late pass if this really does drag on. I don’t have a class for another half hour, so we could stay here a while…”
I remember Raphael’s quip about enough time going by that he convinced himself he was Jesus. Did she mean that as a joke?
I check her face. There’s a glint in her eye and a smile playing on her lips, so probably both. I think that might be worse.
“You’re a brave, exceptional girl, Nadya, and if you don’t know it yet, you’re an idiot.”
“Um…thanks?”
“You also have an extraordinary raw talent in both music and art- not easily acquired skills.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ve deduced this all in the mere hour and a half I have spent in your intriguing company.”
She pauses to lift her spectacles, and squints through one. My gaze darts nervously everywhere, and I notice that the room’s in disarray.
Placing her glasses back on her face, she blinks twice, then commences to discussion.
“Do you know why you’re a brave, exceptional girl?”
Trick question?
“Well, I could guess, but I really don’t care for guessing games much.”
She emit’s a short bark of laughter than strangely manages to come off as cheerful.
“Neither do I. The principal plays them with me all the time, ‘Well, why do YOU think we cut the budget on art and gave more to sports, Lucille? I’ll tell you WHY- because the obesity epidemic is a growing problem!’”
“Lucille” shakes her head sadly. “The ignorance epidemic is also a growing problem…”
My watch ticks. Trees fall. Dust sifts through the air.
“I’m sorry. What was I saying?”
“The reason for my exceptional bravery is…”
“Oh, right. That. You’ll have to forgive me, dear. I haven’t had enough coffee this morning. Yes. The reason is that most people know the meaning behind what people say, but avoid it, and hardly bring it up, unless absolutely necessary. I can tell you bring it up all the time. That takes guts, girl.”
I get a flashback of my aunt.
“What can I say, chavi*? You’ve got guts, she declare often, usually with a ruffle of my hair…
But now HE’S there. “My daughter*,” he declares, picking up my 4-year-old self, swinging me ecstatically around the room. “Is the gutsiest gal there ever was.” HE puts me down. “Don’t you agree, Lala?” A younger Bibio stands next to HER. SHE is sinking into a huge armchair, looking up at the cracks in the ceiling. Rosa is also there, looking at HER sadly.
Bibio’s shiny mahogany hair is down to her waist.
“Most definitely, my brother,” she agrees.
HE strokes my cheek. I smile. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, Nadya.”
We sing the Romany song usually reserved for when he tucks me into bed. Bibio claps and goes to the piano
“Davilian*, davilian*!!” I sing joyously, putting my hands in his. We start to dance.
“Devlesa araklam tume*!” he sings back, looking over at my mother. She is still just sitting there. Now she picks at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“Can you do the one my grandmother taught me?” Rosa asks softly.
“Certainly,” replies Bibio, and plays the first few notes. HE and I also sing this one, and Rosa joins us.
“Said the youthful earl to the Gypsy girl,
As the moon was casting its silver shine:
Brown little lady, Egyptian lady,
Let me kiss those sweet lips of thine.”
Rosa sighs and looks out our dirty window at the cinder-blocky apartment building across from us.

I snap back to the present.
“…and furthermore, I want to put your edgily honest drawing in the school art magazine. I was going to take a picture of it.”
“Oh, well, that’s cool,” I say, only vaguely knowing what I just agreed to.
“Great. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Well, I’ll write you a note before your 2nd period teacher has my hide. What do you have next?”
I refer to my already crumpled schedule. “P.E.”
She writes my note, and I leave for the gym, dazed and reeling from the sharpness of my epiphany.

Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
CHAPTER 7

The art classroom décor reflects Ms. Carey: quirky with a slight touch of no-shit attitude. Paint splatters and footprints cover the otherwise white floor (a class project gone wrong?), a few prints hng on the wall, and a particular poster written in huge caps reads, “ART IS RESISTANCE. WHAT WILL YOURS BE?”
What, indeed?
Wooden, four-legged stools surround stainless steel square tables, covered in easels and no. 2 pencils, ink, colored pencils, and paints are arranged in meticulous little piles. There are no seats left except for one by Short Plaid Clad in the back. I dart to it, bracing myself.
Ms. Carey’s oblique nose is in some huge, glossy book that says “POLLOCK” on the cover, her cat’s eye lenses sliding precariously over the tip of her nose, threatening to fall into her lap. Luckily, she hasn’t noticed that I’m late, or she doesn’t care either way. The overhead reads “Draw a portrait, any portrait. We’re just experimenting today.” People are talking at a medium volume, classical music plays in the background, and while it isn’t the Nirvana I usually prefer when drawing, it’s all right. Nice, even, serene, in a way. Lulling.
I just hope it doesn’t lull me to sleep. During my previous short stab at a high school career(after not going to jr. high for 2 years, so really, how was I to know what I was in for? Everyone was so NICE in elementary school), art was the only class I looked forward to, and I don’t want to miss it now, either.
Oh my GOD,” squeals Short Plaid Clad. “You’re Nadya, right? The new girl! The one who did that solo! It was great! And when you CURTSIED like that?! Oh my GOD, that was so FUNNY!!! I mean, it was just so dramatic! A CURTSY!”
What is it that makes people commit overkill on exclamations? What is it with these girls that compels them to talk like this? Like someone curtsying is the 324th most amazing thing that’s happened to them in the past 24 hours?
“That’d be me,” I reply, randomly sketching a border, wondering who I’ll draw.
“I knew it was you! I mean, who else would it be? You’re the only like, you know, at this school.”
I know what she’s implying, and it really gets under my not-Caucasian skin.
“The ‘only, like, you know’ what?” I ask, savagely drawing lines, and I imagine they’re strings, a web, trapping whoever I put in there inside.
“You know. The only, Hispanic person.” She gives me a timid, nervous glance, “Not that there’s anything WRONG with that? I LOVE Mexican people? They’re, like, the best? I love your guys burritos? They’re-”
Great, she’s an up-talker. SAVE ME!
“What’s your name?” I interrupt, outlining a silhouette of a woman with a tiny, corseted, fitted waist but a bit of a bust.
“Oh. It’s Meg,” she practically chokes out with relief, her voice high and scratchy.
“Well, Meg, why don’t we both just stick with what we know?”
My hand moves slowly, carefully, and with ease as I detail the wide skirt with vertical layers, gathering it.
“What’s THAT supposed to mean?”
Oh, dear. I’ve pissed off the princess. Whatever shall I do?
Drawing laces on the bodice, I smoothly answer, “I’m not Mexican.”
“REALLY? But you’re so dark! But not black!”
“I know. It’s amazing, right?”
Curving her elegant neck from her shoulders, I see Meg biting her lip in my peripheral vision, hesitating to say something.
“Don’t say it, don’t say it,” I chant in my head, hoping she picks up on my telepathy. Lightly, I draw a delicate chain around the lady’s neck.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” she blurts out, “what are you, then?
Now this is where it gets tricky. I can’t exactly be like, “Why, Meg, I’m a gypsy! Fancy that!” There’s a reason my aunt wanted me to be careful. People often have two reaction when they find someone is, in fact, a gypsy. One, they get all misty-eyed and go, “Oh, that’s so romantic”(gag). Two, they get all hostile and accuse you of being a thief or some other form of criminal.
I should practice answering, though. I’ll tell her the truth, but not all the truth. Maybe if I’m lucky enough, she’ll pass it around, my mystique will die down somewhat, and I won’t get gawked at and whispered about as “The Exotic New Girl” (courtesy of Meg).
“I’m Romanian,” I answer simply, shaping the lady’s lips.
“Romanian?!” she exclaims, like I just confessed to being a vampire or something.
“Wow,” she says wistfully. “That sounds, like, so adventurous and exciting!”
Yes, it was really adventurous and exiting when we were banned from England(by Henry VIII, the woman-hater, womanizer pig) and by the noble King Louis of France. It was really great when, if there were any of us left after the banning, the hung the men and sent the women and children to do labor as launderers and live a life “free of sin”. In the 1800’s, Gypsy Hunting was a popular sport in Germany. What an adrenaline rush!
Oh, and don’t forget the Holocaust! That was so adventurous and exciting, it almost KILLED us! Oh, wait. It DID! Millions of us, actually.
“Wait…Romania…Oh my God!” She snaps her fingers. “I remember from history! That was, like Transylvania! The place with the vampires!”
Eh. Go figure.
“I think,” I attempt to inform her as gently as possible, “that you’re getting that confused with the royal guy that lived there and put people’s heads on pikes around his castle. The one who inspired Dracula?”
“Ew!”
She squirms and slaps her hand on the table.
I take a peek at her drawing. It’s a stick figure girl in a plaid skirt and headband, with stick straight light blonde hair in a ponytail.
Interesting. This reminds me…
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in Art 3?”
She makes a face.
“Technically. I can see why you’d be confused? You and Harper are the only sophomores in Choir 3, because, you’re like, musical geniuses or something? Well, so’s Jen, but she doesn’t count because EVERYONE knows she cheated off Harper’s test. Oh, and that Will guy. I have to MAKE UP art class this year ‘cause I FAILED? Can you BELIEVE it? How do you fail art? Isn’t art supposed to be, like, subjective?”
“Oh, yeah. Really,” I say, thinking of the stick-figure.
“I know, right?”
Finally, I’ve finished with the sketch. The end product is a woman in a gown, lacy lines of her corset stretching out behind her to the drawn-frame of the paper, web-like, ensnaring. Her hands are clasped, her eyes downcast and widened, like she knows her fate and it both terrifies and saddens her. Her hair is encased in a bun, a single loose tendril hanging down the front of her face. I hope the locket adds to the melancholy, nostalgic feeling I’m trying to portray.
I grab a white and blue colored pencil and start shading in the dress.
“Want some gum?” Meg asks, smacking some herself, handing me a square Bazooka.
“No thanks,” I reply, starting to get annoyed, trying to concentrate on filling her lips with a specific combination of pink and red, leaving a tiny bit un-colored so it appears to shine.
“Are you suuuuure? Guys LOVE it when you blow bubbles? It reminds them of big boobs?”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Ooooh, really? Who?”
Why not?
“Raphael. And I’ve already got quite a bit of a reminder, thanks.”
It’s silent now, except for the music and everyone else’s conversations.
“God. You don’t have to BRAG about it,” she snaps acidly.
“I was jok-”
“I can’t believe I actually thought you were nice,” she sniffs, offended.
After making the finishing touches with my coloring, I put away the pencils and observe that she’s waiting for me, expectant with her arms crossed over her only B-cup package.
Please. What does she expect me to do? Grovel?
“C’mon. We both know you never ‘actually though I was nice’ in the first place.”
“What are you TALKING about, Nadya?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I heard what you were saying to your friends, and I heard what was in between the lines.”
“That I complimented you? That I called you PRETTY? Well, excuse me!
“Stop it,” I bite out, so tired of this little game. “That’s not what you meant, and you know it, and I know it, so cut the crap! ‘Pretty in an exotic way’? You wanted a novelty, a pet for your group. Someone to groom and show off to guys, someone to attract you by association.”
She scowls at me.
“Just who do you think you are, miss-”
“I know who YOU saw I was. I got the jealousy in your voice when you saw how Will looked at my like a friend, and how Raphael looked at me like I was someone special, a beauty, a cool girl he really wanted to be with, when you’ve only had guys look at you like a potential one-night stand or arm-candy.”
I let out a breath, getting the intoxicating, emancipating, adrenaline feeling I always get from running, singing, telling people off, and kissing Raphael.
A bajillion eyes stare at me. I guess Meg and I didn’t realize how loud we were being when we were trapped in our tense, heated, hate-filled little bubble.
Thank God I finally popped it and clicked back to reality.
The reality is that my little fantasy about Meg decreasing my conspicuous factor has been screwed to infinity.
So much for people not scrutinizing me.
I gently tear my picture off the easel, write, “Trapped In A World That’s Not Made For Her” on the top frame, scrawl my name and the date in the bottom left-hand corner and plop it down on the table next to a shell-shocked Ms. Carey. Her book is closed and she says, “Nadya-”
I pretend I don’t hear her and high-tail out of there, to the sanctuary girls in distress fall back on everywhere. Harper used it only about an hour before.
If there is a group of girls smoking in there, I swear I am going to have a mental breakdown. I need some space, and I need to be alone. After a bit of searching, I find it.
It’s empty.
I splash my face with cold water. Then remember that I’m wearing mascara. “Oh, that’s just fantastic,” I mutter, grab a paper towel to wipe away the smudges with the PUSH button regulation slimy, pink liquid soap.
I finishing drying my eyes, and look at the girl in the mirror.
What AM I?
I don’t fall into any of the categories.
I’m not ugly(though I do have a budding zit on my chin), plain, cute, pretty, attractive, or totally gorgeous. My features are good, I guess, but that doesn’t tell me anything.
Hair: Slightly past my shoulders, brown with a red tint in the summer, and mainly black in autumn/winter. Soft, thick, way, and in layers.
Skin: Caramel of the gooey stuff put on sundaes in autumn/winter, when I get in the sun it’s the darker shade of hard caramel candy. I have a birthmark shaped like a chokan* on my shoulder. Usually clear, unless I get lazy with the washing and skip a day.
Eyes: A deep, warm earth-brown that always reminds me of spicy hot chocolate when I look at myself in the mirror. Have been told the are “soul-searching”. Feathery lashes, but just a medium length. My eyebrows are coal-black, not too thick not too thin.
Nose: My nose is… a nose. There is nothing remarkable about it. End of story
Lips: Naturally redder than most girls, maybe because I bite them a lot?
Raphael says they’re like marshmallows, and when I touch them they’re kind soft and squishy, I guess, but I guess I’ll never know because it’s physically impossible gor me to kiss myself…
Chin: Sorta pointed, but not extremely.
Neck: Long. “Queenly,” Bibio says, but what the hell. She’s Bibio.
Stature: Double-D and then thin with no sign of hips. Long arms and long fingers. Bubble-butt. Muscular regular length legs from running and big feet that are toughened since I walk around bare-foot lot. 5’6”.
I step back from the mirror, frustrated. I can never get an honest opinion form anyone, and I certainly can’t figure out how I look myself. This mirror’s no help at all. I don’t know why I thought it’d be different from the one in my room…
My favorite people in the world are also the most unsatisfactory mirrors in the world.

Me: How do I look? Be honest.
Bibio: You’re a very attractive girl, Nadya. You have no reason to be insecure. Now stop whining and unload the dishwasher.
Me: But-
Bibio: No buts. Unload the dishwasher.
Me: But I-
Bibio: No buts!
Me: (sulkily) Fine.

Me: How do I look? Be honest.
Constanta: You’re really pretty! Stop asking me that question, please. The answer’s not gonna change overnight.
Me: But…but…I don’t FEEL pretty!
Constanta: Who does? Except supermodels, maybe.

Me: How do I look? Be honest.
Raphael: You’re beautiful. You’re absolutely beautiful. Actually, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.
Me: Oh, come ON! I said be honest. If I was the most beautiful girl in the world, I’d be Aphrodite or something. I guess what I’m-
Raphael: Aphrodite’s got nothing on you. And I am being honest: that’s how you look to me. I feel lucky every day that I’m with you. No, in fact, I feel blessed.
Me: . . .

My least favorite people don’t help, either. Jerkface of the Train though I looked like an “immigrant”, an it. Meg said I looked “pretty in an exotic way”, but I don’t know if she said that because she was looking for something nice to say to chime in with her friends or if she actually meant it.
Who am I kidding?
Whenever I ask, “How do I look?” or “What AM I? Pretty, plain, ugly, or none of the above”, I’m really asking something else that I’m more afraid to: “How am I?” and “Who am I?” Maybe that’s why I keep on asking; because I never get the answer I’m looking for. Well, no wonder! I’m asking the wrong questions.
Is this how it is for every girl? I check my watch. Class ends in thirty ticks of the thinnest hand, so I leave the girls’ bathroom to retrieve my deserted backpack.

Ms. Carey’s still sitting in her spot. I sneak in, grab my backpack, and slide to the door-
“Nadya. I need to talk to you.”
Damn.
There’s no way I can pretend to not hear her now.
I turn to face her, and attempt bargaining, “Can we talk later? I mean, I really need to get to class, Ms. C, and I’ll be late-”
“Don’t ‘Ms. C’ me.”
Double damn.
“And I’ll give you a late pass if this really does drag on. I don’t have a class for another half hour, so we could stay here a while…”
I remember Raphael’s quip about enough time going by that he convinced himself he was Jesus. Did she mean that as a joke?
I check her face. There’s a glint in her eye and a smile playing on her lips, so probably both. I think that might be worse.
“You’re a brave, exceptional girl, Nadya, and if you don’t know it yet, you’re an idiot.”
“Um…thanks?”
“You also have an extraordinary raw talent in both music and art- not easily acquired skills.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ve deduced this all in the mere hour and a half I have spent in your intriguing company.”
She pauses to lift her spectacles, and squints through one. My gaze darts nervously everywhere, and I notice that the room’s in disarray.
Placing her glasses back on her face, she blinks twice, then commences to discussion.
“Do you know why you’re a brave, exceptional girl?”
Trick question?
“Well, I could guess, but I really don’t care for guessing games much.”
She emit’s a short bark of laughter than strangely manages to come off as cheerful.
“Neither do I. The principal plays them with me all the time, ‘Well, why do YOU think we cut the budget on art and gave more to sports, Lucille? I’ll tell you WHY- because the obesity epidemic is a growing problem!’”
“Lucille” shakes her head sadly. “The ignorance epidemic is also a growing problem…”
My watch ticks. Trees fall. Dust sifts through the air.
“I’m sorry. What was I saying?”
“The reason for my exceptional bravery is…”
“Oh, right. That. You’ll have to forgive me, dear. I haven’t had enough coffee this morning. Yes. The reason is that most people know the meaning behind what people say, but avoid it, and hardly bring it up, unless absolutely necessary. I can tell you bring it up all the time. That takes guts, girl.”
I get a flashback of my aunt.
“What can I say, chavi*? You’ve got guts, she declare often, usually with a ruffle of my hair…
But now HE’S there. “My daughter*,” he declares, picking up my 4-year-old self, swinging me ecstatically around the room. “Is the gutsiest gal there ever was.” HE puts me down. “Don’t you agree, Lala?” A younger Bibio stands next to HER. SHE is sinking into a huge armchair, looking up at the cracks in the ceiling. Rosa is also there, looking at HER sadly.
Bibio’s shiny mahogany hair is down to her waist.
“Most definitely, my brother,” she agrees.
HE strokes my cheek. I smile. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, Nadya.”
We sing the Romany song usually reserved for when he tucks me into bed. Bibio claps and goes to the piano
“Davilian*, davilian*!!” I sing joyously, putting my hands in his. We start to dance.
“Devlesa araklam tume*!” he sings back, looking over at my mother. She is still just sitting there. Now she picks at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“Can you do the one my grandmother taught me?” Rosa asks softly.
“Certainly,” replies Bibio, and plays the first few notes. HE and I also sing this one, and Rosa joins us.
“Said the youthful earl to the Gypsy girl,
As the moon was casting its silver shine:
Brown little lady, Egyptian lady,
Let me kiss those sweet lips of thine.”
Rosa sighs and looks out our dirty window at the cinder-blocky apartment building across from us.

I snap back to the present.
“…and furthermore, I want to put your edgily honest drawing in the school art magazine. I was going to take a picture of it.”
“Oh, well, that’s cool,” I say, only vaguely knowing what I just agreed to.
“Great. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Well, I’ll write you a note before your 2nd period teacher has my hide. What do you have next?”
I refer to my already crumpled schedule. “P.E.”
She writes my note, and I leave for the gym, dazed and reeling from the sharpness of my epiphany.