Page 2

As though she’s read my mind, she flushes a little and says, “I know, I probably have too much makeup on. I know your mantra: less is so much more! But when I get nervous—god, it’s like a tick—some people bite their nails, I dab on a little bit more makeup.”
“Let me guess: you wereverynervous tonight?” Oh my god, why am I being so catty?
Instead of telling me what a bitch I am, she laughs. A full-on laugh-shout from deep in her belly. And I find that I really like her, this woman who doesn’t mind laughing at herself.
“Dude, I was so nervous, I almost chickened out of coming out here tonight. I mean…” She gestures at everyone else around us, and I see them through her eyes. How ridiculously, painfully beautiful and fashionable everyone here is. How stunningly blonde. “I don’t belong here, do I? I can’t believe I moved all the way to America thinking I might make it.”
“Hey, just because you don’t fit in yet doesn’t mean you won’t ever fit in. I wasn’t always this fabulous. You should see my middle school photos. I wore mom jeans. Like, seriously, I was a twelve-year-old who wore mom jeans and thick glasses.”
She’s laughing again, and there’s nothing I like more than making people laugh, so I keep going. “I mean, where the hell did I even get those jeans, right? They don’t make them in kid sizes. They’re called mom jeans for a reason.”
“Well, you’ve come a really long way.”
“It’s been a hell of a journey.” The unspoken question between us: Am I going to take her on that journey? Make her my mentee? Maybe this can be my good deed for the year.
“I’m Ryleebelle,” she says, holding out her hand.
I take it. She has a surprisingly strong grip. I like her. And I promise it’s not just because she follows my Youtube and Instagram accounts. In this moment, I make a decision. I’m going to help her. “No, you’re not,” I say.
She blinks. Laughs hesitantly. “Sorry?”
“What are you trying to be?”
“Huh?”
“Singer? Actor? No offense, but obviously not a model.”
“Oh. Right! Um, singer. Well, trying to be.”
“So you’re on YouTube?”
She nods eagerly. “Yeah, I’m Ryleebellesings on there.”
Ryleebellesings. Dear god. “And how many subscribers do you have?”
“About five thousand.”
“Change your name and you’ll probably get another five thousand.” Okay, I mean, I don’t know that for a fact, but I’m willing to bet money that her name is holding her back.
Her eyes widen. “But—”
“No one is going to take Ryleebelle seriously.” I tilt my head, appraising her. “I’m thinking…some sort of plant? Not a flower, ugh. A tree name. Rowan? Hmm, you don’t strike me as a Rowan. Oh, I know! Aspen.”
The moment I say it, I know we both feel it. The click. The puzzle piece slotting into place. It fits. The uncertainty melts away from her face, and she gazes at me with wonderment. She really does look quite pretty. After my makeover—or rather, my makeunder—she’s going to look stunning.
“Huh,” she breathes out. “I like it. Aspen. It sounds so…American.”
I know exactly what she means. In many Asian cultures, people like to give their kids Western names. But they don’t have a good grasp on Western culture, so then they reach for the “fancier-sounding” ones and make the spelling “unique,” and that’s when you get atrocities like “Ryleebelle.” They don’t get that, like makeup, with names, less is more. And because Aspen gets it, I know she’s going to get everything I’ll do for her. She’ll get that I am giving her the most valuable gift: the gift of fitting in.
2
ASPEN
It is not yet ninein the morning, and I’ve almost snapped at Elea three separate times.
The first was when I was trying to get a photo of the beautiful stack of sourdough pancakes to post to my Stories, and she stabbed her fork through it before I said they were okay to eat. She totally knew what she was doing too; I could tell from that glint in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Sweetheart, wait, please,” and she moaned, “But Mommy, I’m hungry. And Noemie’s blood sugar is probably getting low.” Weaponizing Noemie’s diabetes is a recent tactic that Elea’s picked up. It drives me insane because let’s face it, Elea doesn’t give a shit about Noemie’s blood sugar. She only does when it suits her.
“I’m okay,” Noemie said softly, next to Elea. I gave her a grateful wink, and she smiled at me. My sweet girl. Elea ignored me and ripped out a huge chunk of pancakes. I sucked my breath in, in a sharp hiss, barely holding myself back from snapping at her,but somehow, through some superhuman effort, I managed to bite my tongue.