The girl is here. Lily. Bill’s little one, the anxious child we see when we’re on the road. Wavy hair like the curled, peeled skin of tangerines. Speckled face. Eyes shadowy as a sky getting ready to storm. A sad smell of fear and loneliness. Her heart thrashes extra hard, and I can hear it from here.
She steps gingerly out into the grass from the back of the car, and the scent is extra strong. This girl Lily does not trust, and her nervousness hangs on her like a ripped dress.
“Say hello to Queenie Grace,” Trullia says. “You’ll probably have to go to her because she’s not moving.”
“No, thanks,” says the girl. “I’m . . . kind of scared of elephants, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” says Trullia. “And there really is no reason for it. No reason at all. Queenie Grace would never hurt you.”
Mike flicks his lighter, holds a cigarette to the flame, puts it in his mouth. He blows smoke. I can smell it. I do not enjoy the smell of cigarette smoke. It smells gray, but not gray like me. Gray like danger. This man Mike is a threat.
The girl does not look at me. She does not speak to me. Lily has hunched shoulders and tired eyes. She carries a thick padded black jacket, and heavy fur boots are on her feet. Jeans, tight to her legs. She is thin, too thin, legs like sticks. I will paint her one day, and all I will need are lines. Slashes and lines, dark, angry, melancholy.
Violet bursts through the door. She spreads her arms wide, as if to fly. This is the happiest face she has worn in a while.
“Lily-Bird!” she calls.
The girl is not a bird. She does not have wings; she cannot fly. The sky is not her home, and neither is the winter camp. She does not belong here. She is longing for her home, for her family.
I smell peanuts, salty, salty peanuts. My mouth waters, I swing my trunk. I sway, I shift my weight, I weave. I heave out a sound, and the girl glances back over her shoulder.
Our eyes meet, finally, just one glimpse, but then it is time for the people to go inside.