Chevelle's Story

chapter 7

"Chevelle, sweetie!" Mrs. Mitchell jumped up from her seat and spread her arms as she grinned widely at Chevelle. "Merry Christmas! I've missed you, pumpkin."

As Mrs. Mitchell bounced over to Chevelle, Chevelle found herself experiencing a vivid déjà vu. She found herself transported back into a different version of her body—a younger version that lived in a simpler time. A time before Jared; before anybody had dated anybody's sister. She found herself thinking about the first Christmas she could remember with her family, back in Haiti. How their house had been filled with laughter. How her father had carried her up on his shoulders so she could string the Christmas ornaments along the ceiling. Back then, Farah was still little, still learning how to talk. She used to just run around the house laughing—a tiny, energetic ball of joy. And Josephe, always having been a momma's boy, used to spend Christmas Eve in the kitchen with Manman, helping her cook, but always seeming to do more eating than cooking.

Chevelle then found herself thinking about today. About how Farah still took up as much space as she always had. How her laughter still filled a room—how she never shied away from being her fullest self. Chevelle looked to the kitchen and saw Josephe and Manman setting the food into their serving dishes and thought about how little had changed for them. How they were still as close as they'd been her whole life. Chevelle wondered when it was that she had become a stranger in her own home. How she could have drifted so far away from everyone that, now, as she reentered the house, it felt like Shereen Mitchell was the one doing the welcoming and Chevelle was the outsider.

Chevelle forced a smile onto her lips as Mrs. Mitchell came in for a hug. "I missed you too, Shereen," she said, unsure if it was a lie or not. "Merry Christmas."

"How have you been, sweetheart? I'm loving the hair, by the way!" Mrs. Mitchell ran a hand over Chevelle's head, petting her like she was some kind of dog. And before it could even register to Chevelle, Shereen had already turned to her husband. "Mike, have you seen Chevelle's hair?"

Mr. Mitchell nodded. "It looks great," he said to Chevelle, a smile on his thin lips. "It's good to see you again. I trust you've been well?"

And Chevelle just nodded, because what the fuck else was she supposed to do? They knew she'd just gone through a terrible breakup—with their son, no less—so of course she wasn't okay. And if Mr. Mitchell was oblivious enough to ask, then there was no point in even trying to explain it to him.

"Chevelle, where are the shallots?" Farah asked, approaching Chevelle and Shereen with crossed arms and narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. "I thought I asked you to buy some."

Chevelle rolled her eyes, biting back the urge to snap at her sister. "They didn't have any," she said.

Farah frowned, and then she made a show of looking from Chevelle's face down to her very empty hands. "What about the wine you went to buy?" she asked. "They didn't have any of that at the 'store' either?"

Chevelle had to clench her jaw to keep from saying something foul on this cold Christmas afternoon. It was clear to her that Farah was just trying to pick a fight, even though she couldn't figure out exactly why. She hadn't done anything to Farah today except for closing a door while she was talking, but even that didn't make all this necessary. It felt like Farah was trying to embarrass Chevelle in front of everyone—particularly their new guests—and Chevelle was not about to let her.

It was part of being a youngest child; Farah was used to always getting her way, ever since they were little. And whenever she didn't, she would act out. As she got older, Farah became more creative with the ways she would act out—more elusive—but it was still the same idea. She was trying to get Chevelle in trouble, and Chevelle recognized the game immediately.