“I knew you’d come back.”

Eyes shoot upward towards Trent, entering the door. He’s cautious, yet brave; vigilant, but valiant.

“Isn’t your job to know people.” Trent responds, taking a seat on the couch, leaning back and getting comfortable.
“No, it’s my job to help people to know themselves. And understand themselves.”
“Same difference.”

Doctor Reid scribbles something on her trusted clipboard.

“What are you always writing?” Trent’s interest is peaked by the sudden stroke of her pen at his comment.
“Just notes. Things I’d like to discuss…”
“Well, what is it that you’d like to discuss?” Trent asks.
“Well, since you couldn’t tell me who you are, I’ve come up with an idea. I want you to just answer the questions, talk to me, be comfortable and after awhile, you’ll be able to formulate an answer. You’ll be able to tell me who Trent King is. Sound good?”
Trent’s eyebrows raise, interested. “How many people have answered that question when you first ask them?”
“None.”
Hmm… “And how many have been able to answer it after talking to you?”
“A lot.”

Trent found himself trusting Doctor Reid more. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe it was the thought that he’s crazy and this lady will make it official, maybe that’s what scared him. When, in fact, he’s only confused. And she’s here to make him understand the one person he should know better than anyone. Himself.

“So, get comfortable, do whatever you have to do so you’re at ease. ‘Kay?”
“I’m most comfortable naked.”
Doctor Reid laughs softly. He wasn’t kidding, though. “Not that comfortable, Trent.”

Kicking off his shoes, he lies down on the couch, cupping his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.

“So, Trent, tell me: What are your earliest memories?”

Memories…Memories. Those things he tried to block out, those things that brought him pain, those things that only held trouble, absent of anything doting. And his earliest memories? The worst of memories, the very ones he wanted to block out, the very ones that brought him pain, the very ones she wanted to know.

But he trusts her and he’s hoping, in the process of a breakdown, she’d piece him together, she’d help him, she’d be there. Insignificance is the cry of she being a stranger, and confidant is what he pleads of her. If only for these moments from his memory…

“I was an orphan. My mother and father were a young couple, a young interracial couple in a town that was less than understanding. When I was born, my mother put me up for adoption and I spent most of the beginning of my life in an orphanage.”

She creeps up to his bed, tip-toeing, barefooted, across the beaten wooden floors. Getting closer, she can see that he’s sleeping. She reaches suddenly for his head, pulling his hair.

He erupts, shouting and jumping out of his bed. She laughs, takes off running, pushing the door the open to escape him. He follows her feet, reaching out his short seven-year-old arms.

A women, about forty-ish, stands up from behind a computer to chastise them. “Trent! Jasmine! Y’all stop that!” She sits down.

They stop in their tracks, Jasmine laughing and Trent rubbing the sore spot on his head. “But, she started it--”

“Ah! Go outside and play. Don’t sleep all day.”

“There was this little girl I liked at the orphanage. Her name was Jasmine. She loved my curly hair and since haircuts were a once-a-month thing, it grew a lot. Made it easy for her to grab it or play in it. Most of the time grab it. One time, she put a piece of gum in my hair. Our den mother, Ms. Reynolds had to cut it out with some scissors. After that, none of the kids in the orphanage could have gum…”

An assortment of kids litter the backyard. All different races, shapes, sizes, and levels of annoyance. Hanging from monkey bars, seeing who can go the highest of the swings, playing tag, climbing tress, falling and scraping knees, throwing sand at each other. All the good stuff.

Jasmine and Trent walk over to one of the white tables with rainbow colored legs, sit and search for some pages in a few coloring books that are not completely colored.

“I’m sorry I pulled your hair.” Jasmine apologizes.
“You’re not sorry. You’ll just do it again.” Trent says.
“Well, I only do it because I like you.” Jasmine whispers.
“That’s not the damn way I’d show someone--”
“Ooh, you cursed, I’m telling.” Jasmine begins to stand. Trent stops her, “No, don’t tell!”
“Say you’re sorry.”
Trent complies. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” She sits. “Now we’re even.” She says, finally finding a good page in her coloring book.

She’s cute, in her seven-year-old kind of way. Dark, thick hair, brushed into pigtails, bound by mismatch barrettes. Ms. Reynolds always had a hard time combing her hair and Jasmine disliked her hair a lot, which is why she had the attraction to Trent’s soft, curly locks. She has a missing tooth, but her smile was still beautiful. Whenever she smiled, Trent would reply with a smile of his own, unable to do anything else. She has a dark skin tone and was often teased by the other orphan boys, but Trent liked it. Thought of it as chocolate and imagined she’d taste like a Hershey Bar.

“A few times a day, perspective parents would come, y’know, looking for a kid or two to adopt.”

“You guys, someone’s coming!” A little boy yelled out into the backyard, prompting the guys to rush into the house, scurrying over to the door and copping a squat on the floor. They cross their legs, folded their hands in their lap, and practiced their puppy-dog faces. Some, like Jasmine and Trent, had gotten used to not leaving with parents, and didn’t get their hopes up much.

The couple enters, and like all of the couples, they smile at the children as Ms. Reynolds ushers them into a room. Some children would sit there until the parent returned from the room, some would go away, but stay nearby, and some would go back outside and play. Trent and Jasmine were the one’s who went back outside.

They walk over to the swings, each taking one. Jasmine begins swinging before stopping as she notices Trent only sits, fiddling with his hands.

“What’s wrong, Trent?” She asks.
“Why do you think I never get picked?”
Her face soon begins to take on a look of confusion. She doesn’t know the answer. “Well, I never get picked, either. So, we have something in common.”

And that was enough to make a seven-year-old, curly-haired orphan smile and see who could go the highest on the swings.

“I didn’t realize it till later. That I was never picked because I was interracial. I wasn’t black and all the black couples wanted a black kid. I wasn’t white and all the white couples wanted a white kid. And every other family, wanted a kid that was just like them.”

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” Trent asks, as they stopped swinging.
“Sure.” Jasmine smiled.

Trent wipes some dirt from his palm. and takes her hand in his. He plants a kiss on her cheek, stimulating a coy smile from Jasmine.

“Jasmine!” Ms. Reynolds calls out.

They look up to see her motioning for them to come in. They walk, hand-in-hand towards the house.

“Jasmine, I’d like you to meet your new family. The Warners.”

Jasmine looks up, walks over to her new parents, letting go of Trent’s hand. They hug her, coo, and introduce themselves.

She was one of the only ones that didn’t make him feel inferior or less than anyone. She made him realize that he had something the other kids didn’t have. She made him see that he was special, he was different, and that it was a good thing.

Jasmine looks back at Trent. She wants to go grab at his hair for one last time, but she can’t. Her parents are exuberant and she has to go; she’s been picked.