Crust

Five minutes before we dash out the door to catch the school bus to kindergarten, my daughter, Olivia, announces that she wants me to stop eating crust.

“Grandma said crust makes your hair curly,” she says.

“If only it were that simple,” I say, scavenging through the pile of shoes at the back door for her left sneaker. “I would stop eating crust this instant.” My curly, frizzy, untamed mop for a hairdo has been the bane of my existence my entire life.

“But I don’t want you to have curly hair,” Olivia says. She crosses her arms. “I want you to have straight hair. Like mine. So you need to stop eating crust.”

I stand up and look at her closely. So that’s what we’re talking about: Olivia wants me to look like her. Olivia’s hair is straight, mine is curly. Olivia’s eyes are black, mine are blue. Olivia’s skin is dark brown, mine is white. Nobody ever says to Olivia, the way they still say to me when I’m with my mother, “You two look exactly alike.”

Nobody ever will.

We have three minutes. “I wish I had hair like yours,” I tell her. “It’s black and shiny and thick. You could be a hair model.”

Olivia furrows her forehead. I’m missing the point.

I exhale deeply, one eye on the clock. “Instead of talking about ways we’re different, let’s talk about ways we’re the same.”

“OK,” she says in a small voice.

I tap my index finger on my cheek to show I’m thinking. “Mmm.” I snap my fingers. “I know! We’re both girls. We both love Daddy and Mateo. You were born in Guatemala. I lived in Guatemala.”

“We both hate being cold,” Olivia says. “Simon is our favorite on American Idol.”

“See? Now you’re talking.”

I uncover her left sneaker and kneel to slip it on her foot. “We’re both part of the same family, forever and ever.” I zip up her jacket. “We both have one minute before we miss the school bus.”
We rush out the door. “I’m not making any promises,” I say as the bus rolls into view. I bend to kiss her good-bye. “But if it will make you feel better, I’ll stop eating crust.”

The bus door opens and Olivia hops aboard. I can see she’s smiling.

By Jessica O’Dwyer