Rogue Wave, Isabel Jolie [ink ebook reader .TXT] 📗

Jasmine stood tall, shoulders back. I had no idea how much she understood of our spoken words, but something told me she could read any situation, and as her gaze flitted back and forth between Tate and me, she might sense more than I wanted.

“I love the socks,” I offered.

Jasmine licked her lips then spoke. “You.” She swallowed then licked her lips again. “Do. You. Know. Alice.” She spoke with perfect pronunciation and her head bobbed slightly with each uttered word.

“I do.” I smiled the same smile I used when a child at the center exhibited shyness. Remembering how frustrated I got when I’d visited a friend in Mexico City and her family spoke at lightning speed in Spanish, I pointedly slowed my words. “Alice is a good friend. I love her.” I placed my hand over my heart with the word love, and she beamed, flashing white upper teeth that were mostly straight, other than one incisor that tilted at an angle.

“Here, you two sit down.” Tate had already set out three places at the kitchen table. I followed the two of them, waiting for a cue for which seat to take.

Jasmine stood two feet from the table. Her poise struck me as both remarkable, and a sign she wasn’t yet comfortable in her new home.

“Which seat do you normally—?” Confusion flashed, and I started over. “You. Sit.”

Tate brought a platter of crackers, cheese, and grapes over to the table.

“Jasmine sits here. I sit here. You can sit here.” He placed himself between us at the rectangular table, with himself sitting at the head.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask Jasmine, but I didn’t want to put her on the spot. I’d been in a similar position, where I was learning a language, and knew how frustrating it could feel, trying to decipher every word and feeling like a conversation was nothing more than a verbal test of skill.

Something told me Tate felt similarly, as he spoke more slowly when talking to her, and took care not to put her in the spotlight. But he spoke more fluidly than I did, and she seemed to understand him.

I thought back on some initial phrases you learned when studying a language and put some of those to use. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

I already knew the answer and smiled at her enthusiasm. She could pass for eighteen. If I’d met her on campus, I would have assumed she was a freshman, or maybe even a sophomore.

“Do you like it here?” I meant in America, but the moment I said it, I knew Tate interpreted the question differently.

“Yes.”

Tate spoke up. “She’s doing great. She meets with her tutor Monday through Friday. And Alice has taken her under her wing. She spends time with Alice every weekend and some evenings.” With his head turned to me, and in a rapid side comment, he added, “I half expect her to come home chanting.”

I traced my fingers over the charm Alice gave me. Jasmine’s gaze followed my movement, and she smiled.

“Alice. Is. From. Africa. Like. Me.”

I remembered what Alice once told me, and I repeated it. “Alice has roots in three countries. Cuba. The United States. And Somalia.” Jasmine beamed. “You are both from Somalia. What a small world, huh?”

Confusion flashed, and I knew I’d spoken too quickly. I tried to think of an easier way to convey the small world concept and gave up.

“Nice,” I said and then realized I’d said it like I was talking to a deaf child.

For dinner, Tate had roasted a vegetable mix and tossed a fresh salad. Within minutes, we finished the meal, offering tight smiles to each other. I got up to serve the pie.

I watched as Jasmine tentatively dipped the prongs of her fork into the pink filling. She placed the tiniest amount on her tongue and tapped it against the top of her mouth. She seemed to like it somewhat and ate about half of her slice. Something told me she was far too polite, or too grateful, to turn down any food, even if she found it horrible.

After dinner, Jasmine and I got up to clear the dishes, and Tate shooed us out. “Go upstairs and check out her bedroom. Maybe you’ll get some ideas for furniture or decorations?”

She led the way up to her freshly painted room. The crisp white we painted the whole place in had worked to brighten the space and create a calming guest room. But now that a young girl would live in the room, the plain white struck me as far too barren for a teenager’s room.

Books were placed on the bookshelves in perfect alignment, tallest to shortest. On one shelf, notebooks filled the shelf in tidy stacks. Clothes folded in neat piles on the floor lined one wall. I knew without checking her closet would hold an orderly line of shoes and hanging clothes.

“I can bring over my laptop, and we can go over some ideas for bedspreads, or art for the walls, maybe some posters or frame some photos. Get you a dresser for your clothes.”

Her eyes crinkled around the corners. I’d talked too fast. I also suspected my word choice might be beyond her current English level. It would be easier to show her pictures.

“Nice room. We can make it pretty,” I said.

She looked around the room, then at me. “The. Room. Is. Beauty. Full.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I. Study. You. Be. With.” She hesitated, then added, “Father.”

She stood, poised, while discreetly massaging the right side of her jaw. She cast a wishful glance to the bookshelf.

I got it. Sure, most other thirteen-year-olds would climb on the bed and grab an electronic device of choice and act like I’d already left the room. Jasmine wasn’t like that…yet. But she’d get there.

“Would you like to come to the research center one day this week? I’ll show you shells? Fish? Turtles?” She smiled and nodded, but I didn’t feel confident she knew what I’d said. It didn’t