Almost Crimson by Dasha Kelly Page A

Her mother closed her eyes. CeCe examined the room. In the center of the space, a coffee table had magazines and a bowl filled with large wooden balls and spirals. A small bookshelf, painted orange, offered playing cards, an incomplete set of encyclopedia books, and a basket of toddler’s toys. Eight black-and-white photographs of trees and forest glens dotted the room, each image held in place with cream-and-orange matting. CeCe recognized these pictures were the only items in Dr. Harper’s waiting room that had not come from a thrift store.
    A chime sounded on the other side of the closed door, followed by rustling, movement, and a murmur of voices coming closer to the door. CeCe looked to her mother. Her eyes were still closed, but CeCe saw her mother force a nervous swallow. The office door pushed open, releasing a heavy woman with long red hair, her face ashen and blotched from crying. CeCe looked down as she passed.
    â€œYou must be Carla,” croaked a man’s voice. CeCe looked up again to see a short round man standing in the doorway. He was bald on top with a ring of white hair around his head and a full beard. CeCe half expected her mother’s new psychologist to appear in a white lab coat and, perhaps, a bow tie. Instead, he wore jeans, Docksides and a button-down striped oxford. He reminded CeCe of a science teacher.
    â€œAnd you must be Crimson—wait—CeCe, is it?”
    CeCe nodded as Dr. Harper came closer to shake her hand and then her mother’s. Dr. Harper gestured for her mother to follow him and moved aside for her passing.
    â€œI promise to take excellent care of her,” he said to CeCe before pulling his office door closed.
    CeCe poked through the magazines, but there were only news, camping, and home decor. She took out her library book to read. After a few minutes, CeCe realized there wasn’t a clock anywhere. She knew she wasn’t allowed to interrupt Dr. Harper, but didn’t want to be late for her piano lesson. Begrudgingly, CeCe gathered her book and her tote bag and left the office for Claire McKissick’s School of Music.
    CeCe pushed open the door at the opposite end of the hallway and found a similar setup as Dr. Harper’s office, with a second door separating the “waiting” from the “working.” CeCe took a seat in the plastic molded chairs. Instead of pastoral photography, these walls were covered in autographed photos of an elegant woman posing with an assortment of people. Famous musicians, CeCe presumed. Claire McKissick, she was certain.
    She could hear muted instructions behind the closed door and someone mashing the keys. CeCe pulled out her book again, blocking out the wailing piano noise. Tuning out the world was one of CeCe’s favorite perks of reading. A half hour had passed before she knew it and the door flew open. A large black woman came charging out, in mid-bellow.
    â€œ . . . And the next time we come here and you don’t know those keys, that’s yo’ ass. You hear me? I’m not payin’ all this money for you to come here and piss around with this woman’s time! How many times . . . ”
    She was like a passing storm, not even noticing CeCe sitting there. The target of her rant came coasting behind. She was a thin, dark-complexioned girl with tight bangs and a ponytail on top of her head. The girl mm-hmmed and uh-huhed as she trailed the barking woman, but made a mocking cross-eyed face as she passed by CeCe. CeCe clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from squealing. Finally. She was not alone in the world of misfit mothers.
    Every week, the girl and her mother left Claire McKissick’s School of Music this way. CeCe would constrict the giggle squirming in her chest as soon as the rehearsal room door flew open and the mother’s voice would invade the waiting area. CeCe kept her head in her book, waiting for the precise half-second when the girl would unzip her blank