The silver chains dangling small charms and the plain hoop earrings didn’t inspire me. My twelve beige eyeshadows, neutral powders, and blushes didn’t help any, either. The posters on the wall were mostly black-and-white photography, except for the print of Rene Magritte’s The Blank Signature. My dad took me to the National Gallery when I was twelve, a special father-daughter date, and I fell in love with surrealism. He bought me the print and had it framed; it’d hung there ever since. I turned my eyes to my desk, which held my laptop and an empty tea mug, bearing the emblem of my dad’s alma mater, Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service. The tag from a peppermint tea bag hung down the side, fluttering from the ceiling fan whirring above me. Thinking about my dad left a sinking sadness in the hollow of my throat, and I looked away.
My closet doors had been flung open that morning as I attempted to find the perfect outfit for staying inside and not soaking up the sunshine after school like the rest of my classmates. I glanced over my T-shirts and shorts, peppered with the occasional sundress or skirt, which hung neatly on their sturdy white plastic hangers, little soldiers ready to battle high school. No wire hangers allowed in Belén’s house, thank you very much. And yet, still nothing jumped out.
I craned my neck to check out my nightstand, situated on the left side of my twin bed. My lamp was shaped like the Eiffel tower, and a stack of paperbacks sat next to it. And then, glinting in the afternoon light streaming through the window, were my keys. Correction: key. My sad and lonely house key, missing her car key sister, was attached to the only keychain I owned.
It wasn’t really remarkable. If you were looking at keychains in a store, it wouldn’t be the first one you picked up. Just a slim rectangle of silver metal with a plain silver ring punched through a hole at the end. It had the lyric “You’ll never walk alone” stamped on it in flowery script, flanked by the outline of an angel wing on each side. My dad says that was the song played at my mother’s funeral; I don’t remember much about it, other than lots of crying. When I was seven, she’d wrapped her car around a tree after having one too many drinks at a charity event, losing the life she’d left us for three years prior.
Dad gave me the keychain, complete with brand-new gold house key, when I was eleven, and he and Belén had deemed me responsible enough to let myself into the house after school. I knew I was moving up in the food chain only because no one was free to pick me up from school once Tilly started pointe classes, but I was happy for the extra independence just the same. My dad looked so pleased with himself when he presented it to me, saying he hoped it would remind me that even when I was home by myself, someone was always watching over me. That little strip of metal quickly became my worry stone, my rabbit’s foot, my Xanax.
When I was sad or frustrated or feeling overwhelmed, I held it, rubbed my thumb over it, looked at it, and I was able to pull myself together, at least for a hot minute. The keychain didn’t remind me of my mom so much—I mean, I barely remembered her—but the inscribed lyric made me hopeful. It made me feel that, despite all the doors that had closed on me along the way, a window could open at any time. I was still waiting for that window to show up. More than anything else, the keychain actually reminded me of my dad—my covert champion when no one else was. Would he still be that for me when he came home? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t really want to imagine what it might be like if he wasn’t.
I shoved those thoughts away and began contemplating the angel wings as a starting place for a logo. I pulled out my sketchbook—the one from that horrible day at Mason’s, ironically—and messed around with different combinations of my name. The notebook kept reminding me of that fateful afternoon, though, which made me sad, until the lightbulb of inspiration went off.
At Mason’s, when I’d handed the girl behind the counter my debit card to pay for the notebook and pencils, she’d looked at it, laughed, and said “TLC.”
“Huh?” For a second, I’d thought she was going to break in song. Maybe bust out a little “No Scrubs” or “Waterfalls.”
“Because T is your first initial, and Elsea is your last name. TLC. Get it?” I smiled politely and told her, yes, I got it.
For a company name, though, it might be memorable, and it didn’t annoy me, so I doodled it between the wings. TLC Design. I studied my rough sketch and smiled, decided. That would work. Maybe there was a small, serendipitous silver lining to having been at the store that day after all. Perhaps I could make a thimbleful of lemonade with my gigantic pile of lemons.
I had an urge to pick up my phone and call my best friend to tell her I’d had a moment of brilliance, but that unfortunately wasn’t an option at the moment. I smiled anyway, hoping that I’d get to giggle about this with Ash. And hoping it would happen soon.
I spent the rest of my evening online, gleefully putting my design and my new TLC Design email address on all kinds of swag, like business cards and pens. I drew the line at rubber bracelets, but bookmarked the link for later, just in case. I was about to enter my payment information for the stuff when I felt someone’s presence behind me. I quickly tried to think of a lie that didn’t sound like I’d just pulled it out of thin air. A school project was always safe. The warmth of whoever it was drew closer to my face, and I turned slowly. Instead of my cyborg stepmonster or ice queen stepsis, it was my new grandmother. Interesting. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, and decided to wait and see if she made the first move.
“Why do you need pens with the name of a singing group on them?” She cocked her head to the side, still checking out the screen on my laptop.
I snorted. “You know who TLC is?”
“I know a lot about music, Tatum. I don’t live under a rock, you know.”
I instantly looked down, chastised. “I didn’t mean to imply . . . Sorry. I mean, well, most people your, um, age, aren’t familiar with popular music from the last couple of decades. My dad, for example, still thinks Poison is cool because their lead singer has been on, like, twelve reality TV shows. Which in my world means they’ve hit rock bottom. But that’s just me.”
Blanche patiently waited for me to finish rambling. I shut my mouth, self-conscious, and let her speak. “The pens, Tatum?”
“Oh, right.” I debated whether or not I should tell her the truth. She was Belén’s mother, after all, but something about her made me think I could trust her. The hip-hop knowledge also didn’t hurt. “I’m starting a freelance business, actually.”
She smiled slyly. “How enterprising of you.”
“My fine isn’t going to pay itself.”
“Fine?” She raised a dark, shapely eyebrow.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. She was a sneaky one. “I’m sure you know about that already.”
She sat down on my unmade bed. “Yes, we’ve established that. And we also established that I’d prefer to hear about it from you.”
I looked at the screen again, and then back to Blanche. Her face still held the kindness that had been there when she first arrived, and as I was feeling hopeful, and impulsive, I jumped. “Do you want the short version, or the long version?”