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Cleo considered her life to be like the hieroglyphics her clone mother was buried in: monotone, overcomplicated, and incomprehensible to those around her. She preferred to keep her emotions hidden from her peers, putting on a show of anger and passion to keep herself unreadable. She even wrote her journal entries in hieroglyphics. But just like the ancient egyptian writings, she had her very own rosetta stone to break her down ‒ and she was calling.
“Frida FlowerBouquet Crown wants to FaceTime.”
Her phone’s text-to-speech declaration startled Cleo, sending a streak of ink across the page and messing up her perfect glyphwriting. Her annoyance quickly faded as she looked at the profile picture of Frida that was now filling up her phone screen. It was a photo of her from one of their recent dates, with a crown of myrtle and heliotrope in her hair. The crown would eventually wilt away, but Frida had remarked that what it symbolized ‒ their love and devotion ‒ would never wilt. Cleo smiled at the memory, closed her journal, and clicked “Accept.”
A paint-covered Frida filled the screen, beaming at the sight of Cleo, making her smile in return. “Hey Cle-Cle! How’s the most beautiful girl in the world doing?” She smirked as she said it, unibrow tilting upwards in it’s usual adorable way. “I don’t know, Frida, how are you doing?” she responded without missing a beat. Frida began sputtering like an engine, face almost as pink as her shirt. “Oh- I- I’m good. Great, actually.”
Cleo couldn’t help but let out a giggle. This girl… “I love it when you get flustered. It’s so cute.” Frida laughed nervously at that, looking shyly to the side. “Well if you like it so much I can… do it more… often?” Embarrassed, she shook herself out of her sapphic state as she remembered what she called about. “Right- um. You were kind of quiet at school today and I was wondering if something was up?”
She bit her bottom lip and glanced to the side, war waging over her tongue. Something was up, but she didn’t know if she had it in her to talk about it. Frida seemed to sense her apprehension and gave a sympathetic look into the camera. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, but if something is bothering you I want to be able to help.” She closed her eyes, brows furrowing in internal conflict, before speaking. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help.” Her girlfriend immediately cut in. “I’m sure there’s something-”
“Frida.”
“Right. Ok. Overstepping my boundaries. I’m sorry.” She sat back her desk chair, painted canvas pushed aside. She looked earnestly at Cleo, studying her. But she stayed silent and let her think. After a minute, she caved.
“It’s my mother. And, I guess, my new sibling.” Frida’s eyes widened, brow shooting up. “Mom has been seeing this one guy for a while, and I know because I hear them almost every night.” Cleo sucked in a breath, trying to swallow the bitter taste in her mouth. Not the time. “And I guess the condom must’ve broke, or, knowing my mother, there was never a condom to begin with. So I’ll be having a new baby sibling.” Frida leaned forward, head resting on her hands. She looked at her girlfriend sympathetically. “Heavy.”
“I told her to consider an abortion, cause I don’t know if she has it in her to take care of a baby. The responsiblity will end up falling on me. But she said she ‘couldn’t do that to the child’.” She scoffed; her mother had no problem with hurting her living child, but no, the cellular blob needs to be protected. Frida seemed to read her mind. “Ironic.” They shared a knowing look, and Cleo smiled a bit at the reassurance. Frida understood her like no one else could.
“That’s the whole sob story. Only I’m suspecting that her boyfriend might become my stepfather soon… but I’d rather not dwell on that.” The other girl thought for a moment, and then turned towards the painting on her easel. It was gloomier than her usual work, a few colorful strokes contrasted against a dark background. “Cleo, I think your life is like this painting. Right now it’s pretty dark, and nothing seems to be going well. You may have a few bright spots in your life, but they seem to be dwarfed by the oppressive gloom around them.” Cleo nodded solemnly. “But the beautiful thing is that the painting is unfinished. Sure, the background may be dark, but it will be the groundwork for something beautiful.” Frida paused to look at her coyly. “I suppose the metaphor is falling apart here, as you are already quite beautiful.” A giggle escaped Cleo as she rolled her eyes, smiling. “What I mean is, I’ve got a bunch of bright, beautiful colors here on my palette, ready to be painted. Something great will come of all this. I promise.”
She felt tears forming at the corners of her eyes, the bottled-up emotions starting to overflow. A soft smile tugged at her lips.
“Thank you Frida. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you.”
“I love you too, Cleo.”