The knock on my bedroom door doesn’t budge me because I don’t hear it. It’s not until Rose, our sorority house mom, pokes her head gingerly in through the cracked door that I sit up and take notice.
“Rose?” I pull the buds out. “Sorry. Were you knocking?”
Her light blue eyes peek at me through her glasses, and she evaluates my face before she answers. Her expression softens as she takes in the tear-streaks that I tried so hard to wipe away first.
“Dinner’s ready.” Her gentle voice coaxes me, full of understanding. “Come eat.”
I sit up right away, planting the bright expression on my face, the norm for everyone in my life. Even if I’m not really happy, it’s just safer if everyone thinks I am.
But Rose knows me better than that. Not only is she the house mom of our enormous, prestigious sorority house, she’s the only person in my life who makes sure I’m taken care of.
No, scratch that. My parents take care of me. My dad works all the time at his established real estate development firm to make sure our family has the best of everything. My mom sits on the boards of about a hundred charities in Charlotte. Because of her hard work, I’ve always had the best connections possible, a golden road paved for my college and professional career.
So, yeah, they take care of me. And I had a better head start in life than so many other people my age. I’m aware of that.
I’m thankful.
But they don’t know me. They’re so busy making sure we have the best that they forgot about getting to know their daughter.
But Rose? She gets it. She sees everything, even the things I wish she didn’t see.
She pushes her short blonde hair back behind her ears as she steps into my enormous champagne-colored bedroom. I’ve decorated it with black accents, enough to make me happy without raising my sorority sisters’ eyebrows.
Black chandelier, black and white art on the walls. Black, four-poster, canopy bed, complete with a delicate lace hanging. Everything else?
Tasteful, elegant, and plain.
Rose smiles. “I made your favorite. Chicken-fried chicken and white gravy, okra, and mashed potatoes.”
I scoot to the edge of my bed, moving fast. “You don’t have to spoil me like that, Rose. The other girls already call me your favorite.”
She smiles. “Our little secret.”
Rose knows how much I love her Southern cooking. My family’s Moroccan heritage means that my parents completely reject this type of food, but I can’t get enough of it.
She heads for the door, and I clear my throat. She turns.
“Thanks, Rose.” She smiles, and I shoot her one right back.
It’s a genuine smile. One that I keep in the reserves. Smiling at people makes them think that they can take advantage of you. Or that you’re willing to give them more than you are.
I make a habit of keeping my smiles to myself.
I follow Rose down the winding spiral staircase, my eyes skimming over the pictures in frames, spanning years of the Kappa Theta Theta sorority’s existence. Thick tapestries hang on the walls. My gaze stutters and then pauses on my reflection in an antique gilded frame. My eyes skitter over my thick, black hair slung over one shoulder and my creamy, sienna-colored skin. My chocolate-brown eyes are set deep amidst thick, black lashes, and my high cheekbones stand out against otherwise harsh, prominent features.
I love my heritage. I love that my culture makes me special, makes my appearance so much different than that of the sorority sisters at my large, prestigious university. I love that it gives me a place in this world where otherwise I might have none.
It gets tricky, for sure, being a Moroccan-American twenty-something with African-born parents. They’ve embraced American culture to a certain point, but not to the extent that I have. Sometimes I’m caught between two worlds.
Trapped in them, really.
The aroma of spicy, country-fried chicken assaults my nose as I enter the kitchen, and my mouth instantly waters. I drift to a seat at the island, and Rose frowns. She points to the long, rectangular dining table where all the girls who are home in the evening sit down for dinner. Now, eight junior and senior girls who don’t have other plans tonight are busy setting the table and chatting.
Rolling my eyes, I sigh. “I don’t mind just eating my dinner over here.”
Rose gives me her sternest look. For a woman who lost the love of her life when she was in her twenties, never remarried, and never had children of her own, she’s very good at mothering a houseful of college-aged girls.
“We eat at the table, young lady. Together. How many times do I have to tell you?” She points a finger at me. “And if you roll those big brown eyes at me again, they’re gonna get stuck that way.”
Smothering my smile and pretending it doesn’t cause something warm and gooey to form deep in my chest when she cares, I plop down at the table beside my little sister in the sorority. The only sophomore living in the house with us, she grins over at me before reaching across the table to crab one of Rose’s cornbread muffins. It’s one of the reasons I chose her…she was one of the only pledges during her season who didn’t care too much about what she ate and how it would make her ass look in her jeans the next day. I admired her for her free-spiritedness.
Then I pop right back up again, to help Rose bring steaming platters of chicken and potatoes to the table. Just as I’m piling gravy on top of my meat, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull the black-glitter encased cell out of my
