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Lara had mentioned it as a joke some time ago, that Megan had shot up and now her arm hurt when it was over her shoulders for too long, but being day and night in the same place made it too easy and too hard to notice those kinds of changes—Daniela really hadn’t taken the time to think about it. There wasn’t a real reason for her to have stopped and thought that Megan had, in fact, suddenly grown a couple of inches.
But now? Daniela watches her standing in the corner of the room, sleep still clinging to her lashes, traces of dried saliva at the corner of her mouth, chapped and pale lips as she prepares some toast with jam. Her oversized hoodie is disheveled, and her sweatpants hang low on her waist, and her movements are slow and clumsy—even more than usual, which makes Daniela let out a small laugh that she tries to hide behind her palm. But of course she doesn’t succeed, and when Megan looks at her confused, frowning, making her look like some kind of big-eyed fox.
Megan’s ears turn red just a few seconds after her face, a tender pink on her skin. “Stop laughing at me,” she complains, stretching the last word, and lowers her gaze to continue spreading jam. Daniela covers her face with one hand, takes a deep breath, and rests her feet on the coffee table. She silently thanks that Sophia is still sleeping, or else she’d have her complaining in her ear about how unhygienic it is to do so.
Their house in LA is spacious, even for six girls. Manon likes to take off her shoes at the entrance and slide in her socks all the way to the kitchen, insisting that Lara or Sophia should cook something because it’s not healthy to keep ordering fast food, and something like think of the children, pointing at Yoonchae. Sophia uses the space to sing theatrically, moving exuberantly from the kitchen island to the couches, and Lara usually laughs and records her.
Daniela likes to use the space to dance, taking one of the girls by the hand and spinning them around until someone trips and they fall onto the couch, or bump into the counter or the refrigerator. Megan is generally the number one victim of her energy bursts when Manon disappears onto the balcony talking on the phone. Megan is usually the other spark in the room, following Daniela with her laughs just as loud or even louder, and recently, Megan has become—
Daniela had never had anything like this. Another presence in the room all the time, comparing shoe sizes to borrow them, or pants—walking to the other room where Sophia is always lounging, writing in her diary, to ask with a pointing and accusing finger who has taken her favorite hoodie. Again.
It’s strange, she thinks. Watching Megan take a bite of her toast, eyes closed, dark bags under her lashes. Knowing these things about a person, sharing so much with someone. Megan’s toast is golden on one side and burnt on the other. She doesn’t have to look closely to know.
“You’ve grown,” she says, after a moment to get her attention. Megan blinks, tilting her head to the side, silently asking. “Lara was right, you’re taller.”
Megan struggles to hide her smile but ends up losing it in the end, her teeth exposed for Daniela to bask in their warmth. Megan swallows, and as she speaks, the remaining crumbs escape her mouth, but it’s silly in an adorable way, not gross like when it’s about boys.
“I literally told you. I’m 5’7 now,” she takes another bite, this time with her mouth full, “I’m still a growing kid.”
Daniela rolls her eyes and continues to watch her. Her long hair, layered and now ginger, compared to the jet black it was when Daniela first met her. Megan turns too much in her sleep—which is why the girls don’t like sharing a bed with her—and her hair is always a mess when she wakes up. Megan likes to scent her bed with a perfume different from the one she wears—something sweeter and floral—and Daniela enjoys hiding her face in her neck while they have breakfast, or in the van, on their way to their schedule—she likes to inhale so deeply that Megan’s scent takes on shapes and colors beneath her eyelids and becomes etched in every corner of her body like something she’ll never forget.
A permanence, she thinks. Unmovable, for all the years to come.
Megan eventually walks over to her after finishing her toast and drinking a glass of water. She sits beside her, their bodies fitting perfectly—one leg over Daniela’s, the other beneath her knees, one arm over her torso.
“What’re you thinking about?” she asks, her voice sweet and hoarse from sleep. It’s early, and they have nothing on the agenda today. The others are still sleeping in their rooms. Daniela hadn’t expected to find Megan rummaging through the fridge for something to eat when she got up that morning.
There are many ways to answer her question. I miss my family, it’s a frequent conversation among them all, although Daniela stopped living with them long before ending up at Dream’s Academy. Sharing with the girls, the highs and lows, has made her appreciate her mother’s warm hugs much more, miss the noise of the television blaring, and the slight lilt of her accent at the end of words. She could say it’s this new choreography she found; they could learn it and record a video together.
Daniela knows she’s perhaps too impulsive—act first, think later kind of person. She turns to look at Megan, her eyes half-closed, sleep crust in the corner of her eye.
With Megan, she has discovered how good it feels to slow down. To take a deep breath and then let go.
“About everything,” she finally replies, nestling Megan’s head on her shoulder.
She huffs, hiding a little better, and says, “Well, don’t do it. It’s like 8 in the morning.”
It is, she realizes. The sun is warm on her skin, still cozy and not overwhelming, like in the afternoons—the windows are closed, and silence fills the house. Megan curls up beside her, clinging to the warmth of her body, her lips brushing against the skin of her neck in the smallest caress. It makes her shiver in the sweetest way.
“Dani,” Megan says, almost like a whisper, to which Daniela responds with a little sound. “Dani,” she repeats, pulling her head from its hiding place, looking at her until Daniela gathers the courage to look back.
“What?” she asks, running a hand along the back of her head, playing with her hair. Megan preens under her hands like a cat bathing in the sun.
“You’re falling behind, Dani. You’re going to be the shortest in the group,” she declares, as if it’s the most important thing in the world, “Yoonchae is going to grow, and you’ll be the smallest.”
Her eyes involuntarily close, and she has to blink several times to stay awake, to look at Daniela with the same intensity that Daniela does.
“That’s pure bullshit,” she complains, “Manon is, like, shorter than me.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Like you know.”
“Hey!”
Daniela laughs, taking Megan by the cheeks and pulling her in to plant a kiss on her forehead. When she lets her go, Megan’s blush reaches beyond what the collar of her hoodie allows her to see.
“Come here,” she says, settling back into the same position as before, with Megan hiding her face in her neck. She wraps an arm behind her head to pull her closer to her body, letting her weight sink into the couch, finally relaxing completely. “You’re falling asleep.”
“‘m not,” Megan replies, but a yawn escapes her.
“Whatever,” Daniela says, already closing her eyes and burying her nose in the mess that is Megan’s hair.
It smells so nice, so sweet. It’s honey and flowers.