Picture Perfect

Perela balances her computer on her lap, but the vibrations of the car make her dizzy and unsettled. Although the worst of her morning sickness is gone, it’s quick to rear its head again. She latches her eyes onto the mountains and sky, mounds of green and shades of blue in the distance.

Ma notices her distraction, interprets it as an invitation, and says, “It’s not the bangs. It’s the white of your shirt. You shouldn’t wear white.”

“I like white,” Perela says, her words clipped.

“White doesn’t like you,” Ma says, strong and certain. “It washes you out.”