"I do," Gloria said, inclining her chin toward Adeline — or perhaps toward those puddings, baked into the likeness of clever little flowers. "I believe friendship is defined by those moments, not when we are at our very best, but when we are forced to be our worst, and tasked with putting the best of ourselves in the hands of others. I trust you with that—" already, she did not add, for the implication rung itself free like a bell, "—and hope you'll not find yourself too exhausted by the task."
And that was that. Boiled down to simplicities. To do any more, to harp upon the process to come, would be to diminish Adeline's capacity to have chosen on her own. Now, with teacup held in the cage of her fingers, she drank, and found herself warmed by the proximity of them—
There. It was the girl's retractive motion that briefly drew Gloria's attention — the lowering of a self-conscious hand, coiled with all the tension of a secret slid back beneath a tablecloth. A glimpse was all she needed. Brief memories smarted in her own knuckles. From punching walls. Because she wanted to. Because she deserved to. Because when the brain had too many words bogging it down, sometimes blood did all the talking. Bruises, too. The coolness of her dark face betrayed itself: her lips pursed, tightened, even smiled.
Then she drank again, getting full on tea.
"Your father's seen me at quite my worst. In fits of pettiness and anger, mostly. At others, and sometimes, at myself. Tantrums that didn't befit my age, but that nonetheless I expressed because I did not often know what to do with that fury and that confusion. Mostly," she reasoned, "when I felt like something unjust had happened to others or to me, but sometimes—" a grin, then, revealing bleak teeth, "—when my studies got the best of me. Books flew. Especially with mathematics. In fact, in the South Corridor, there's a divot in the plaster. Have you seen it? I tried to blame it on my copy of Six Algorithms, but books don't often leap from hands to do that kind of violence on their own.
"So our lessons shifted from numbers to early mornings with great heaps of plaster. And talks," she reasoned, "so — so I could better understand what was happening in my head and body when I became so furious. So it leads me, Anumakhet, to questions. Four, to be exact."
Circuitous, this route, but necessary. Gloria placed her tea back upon the saucer, and shifts herself ever-so-slightly, so that her lone hand could find Adeline's beneath the edge of the table. Her own palm was Sun-warm, nearly hot to the touch, and slick with sweat.
A needle-callused thumb touched on each unseen knuckle. Once, twice, three times. I see.
"Was there good reason for it?
"Did you throw the first punch?"
"Did you win? And finally—"
A clearing of her throat. Then a squeeze. For trust. Because even if there'd not even yet been a thrown fist, there was never a poor time for an easy lesson to begin.
The first: growth did not occur in comfort.
"Does your father know?"