Chapter Text
"Skai."
The sharp voice came from the other side of the bathroom door.
"I'm coming!"
"You've been in there for forty minutes."
Skai looked at herself in the gold-framed mirror.
Forty minutes?
She looked down at the curling iron in one hand and the section of thick hair in the other.
"...That's impossible."
There is no such thing as too long in the bathroom on the first day of college. Especially when the one screaming at you is the reason. It was at her mother’s request that she made her natural hair look ‘as neat as possible’ before orientation: hence, needing to straighten it every day.
Skai released the section of hair and watched it spring stubbornly back toward her forehead. She narrowed her eyes at it. Her hair was thick, dark, and determined, a mass of tight 3C coils that had never once cared about anyone's schedule.
Today, she'd managed to smooth most of it into a glossy, shoulder-length blowout, though several curls had already escaped around her temples and nape. She caught one between her fingers and sighed.
"Don't start."
The curl bounced back.
Skai stared at it through the reflection of her thick glasses.
"I mean it."
The wretched curl wins.
Skai took a good, long look at herself. She was almost perfect, right? Caramel skin, round dark brown eyes, full lips and the biggest glasses known to mankind (a bit of an exaggeration). Beauty was what mattered on the inside, but the outside is what people see–yet she couldn’t accept either version.
The girl staring back at her looked exactly like the sort of girl her mother wanted her to be.
Polished. Put together. Presentable.
Skai stared at her reflection again.
"Who are you?"
Silence. A self-deprecating chuckle escaped from her mouth at her own question.
“Ugh, who am I kidding? I’m late.”
Skai finally retreats to the dining room, slamming the bathroom door a little too hard for comfort, rattling the frame.
Her mother studies her. Eyes trail down, then up as she walks past.
"Your hair, sweetie."
Skai inhales.
"What about it?"
"There's a piece sticking up."
Skai reaches for it absentmindedly.
"Mommy."
"And your collar."
Skai smoothes it.
"Your earrings."
Skai touches them.
"They're on."
"I know. But I said studs, not hoops."
"They are studs," Skai muttered under her breath, turning back toward the hallway mirror to double-check.
They were tiny, silver hoops—barely bigger than a dime. They were practically subtle compared to the oversized bamboo doors her friends wore, but to her mother, anything that looped was a direct statement of defiance.
"I can hear you, Skai," her mother called from the kitchen, the sharp clink of a porcelain teacup against a saucer punctuating the sentence. "And don't pout. It ruins your face."
Skai pinched the tiny clasp, unhooked the hoop, and swapped it for the plain diamond-cut studs resting on her dresser. The metal felt cold against her earlobes. She caught her reflection again—the smooth, bone-straight hair framing her face, the simple stud earrings, the collared button-down pressed so flat it practically squeaked.
She looked like a model in a department store catalog. She looked completely unrecognizable.
Breakfast at the Carter house was less of a meal and more of a board meeting where the only item on the agenda was The Image. Her father, Jamal, was already at the head of the dark mahogany table, custom-ordered to match the hard-wood floors of their Upper East Side brownstone. A crisp copy of the Wall Street Journal was folded in half beside his plate of untouched poached eggs.
When Skai walked in, he didn't look up immediately, but he did shift his posture—shoulders squaring, chin lifting—the same habit he’d picked up back when he was working three jobs in Brooklyn and trying to look like he belonged in rooms where people didn't know his name.
"Morning, Daddy," Skai said, her voice dropping its defensive edge, softening instinctively.
Jamal finally looked over the top of his reading glasses. His eyes softened, just a fraction, a micro-expression only Skai knew how to read. "There’s my girl. You ready to take over NYU today?"
"It’s just orientation," she mumbled, pulling out a chair.
"Nothing is 'just' anything, Skai," her mother, Mel, cut in smoothly. She glided past with a silver coffee pot, setting it down with a click that sounded like a gavel striking wood. "Your brother didn't look at Yale as 'just' a school. He approached it like a job. And look where he is now."
Yeah, three states away and refusing to answer his phone on weekends, Skai thought, but she swallowed the words down with a gulp of ice water.
"Junior is doing great," Skai offered quietly.
"Junior understands what’s at stake," Mel corrected, taking her seat. She didn't have a plate, just a porcelain cup of black tea. She looked at Skai with an intensity that felt less like a mother watching her daughter and more like a critic dissecting a draft that wasn't quite finished. "We didn't scrape our way out of the mud so you two could be average, Skai. You have a gift. But talent without discipline is just a mess. NYU is a wonderful school, but you don't have the luxury of treating it casually."
A mess. That’s what her hair was to them. That’s what her sketchbook full of chaotic, midnight charcoal drawings was to them. Apparently attending one of the best universities in the country still wasn't enough.
Jamal cleared his throat, reaching across the table to pat Skai’s hand. His palms were still rough at the edges—calluses from years of hard manual labor that no amount of expensive hand cream could ever fully erase. "Your mother just wants to make sure you get the respect you deserve. People out there... they look for excuses to discount you. Don't give them one."
It was supposed to be comforting. It usually was, coming from him. But today, with the weight of the new semester pressing down on her chest, it just felt like a heavier pair of handcuffs.
"I know," Skai whispered. "I won't."
She reached into her bag, her fingers brushing the worn leather edge of her sketchbook. On page forty-two, hidden under three layers of gesso and acrylic paint, was a detailed graphite rendering of a wolf spider she’d found in the basement three weeks ago. She’d spent an hour shivering in terror while drawing every tiny, hair-like sensory bristle on its legs before violently crushing it with a copy of Vogue.
She hated them. Hated the way they moved—unpredictable, silent, occupying spaces they weren't invited into without a single care for who was watching. Unfortunately, she was very good at drawing them. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket—a sharp, mechanical chirp from her bedazzled Motorola. Skai flipped it open under the edge of the table.
{VIVIENNE [8:12 AM]: if U let ur mom talk U into wearing ‘sensible’ flats today, I am revoking ur best friend privileges. Waiting outside in the Audi. HURRY!}
A tiny, real smile finally tugged at the corner of Skai's lips. She flipped the phone shut with a satisfying snap.
"I have to go," Skai said, standing up so fast her chair scraped against the floor. Mel winced at the noise, but she was already slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Vivienne’s outside."
"Drive carefully!" Jamal called out, finally putting his paper down completely. "And call us when your first class ends!"
"I will! Love you!"
As the red door clicked shut behind her, the cool September air hit Skai's face, smelling of fresh rain, exhaust fumes, and roasted street nuts. She took a deep, greedy breath—the first real breath she’d taken all morning.
Down at the curb, parked illegally in front of the fire hydrant, sat a sleek, deep cherry-red convertible. Leaning against the hood, wearing oversized Chanel sunglasses, a pleated plaid skirt, and knee-high leather boots that practically screamed I have never followed a rule in my life, was Vivienne.
"Look at you," Vivienne mused, applying her lipstick in the rearview mirror as Skai trotted down the brownstone steps. "The pristine, artistic fame-bound princess. Your mom really made you flat-iron the ‘fro again, huh?"
"Don't start," Skai scoffed, rolling her eyes as she tossed her bag into the backseat. "I had a twenty-minute negotiation over hoop earrings."
"Tragic," Vivienne said, pushing her raven hair back as she hopped into the driver's seat. "Absolute human rights violation. Let's go pretend we care about higher education."
Skai slid into the passenger seat, resting her elbow on the door. As the engine roared to life and they pulled out into the chaotic stream of Manhattan traffic, Skai caught her reflection in the side mirror again.
The hair was neat and slicked back. The collar was straight. The studs were small. Only her glasses were authentically her.
She looked entirely predictable. Safe. Contained.
She had no idea that in less than forty-eight hours, every neatly arranged piece of her life was going to shatter into a million jagged pieces—and that the thing she hated most in the world was going to be the only thing keeping her alive.