Page 33 of Tilly in Technicolor
“An absolute slaughtering,” Amina says with a grin, draping an arm around Tilly. “And how was your afternoon?”
The next few hours pass in a blur of gorgeous architecture and crowded public transit. Mona leads us to various attractions around the city, and we stop to take countless pictures—Tilly holding a bouquet of flowers at an open-air market, stroking her nail across a petal. Her arms raised to the sky, the iconic spires of Duomo di Milano in the background. Tilly’s hands wrapped around a large cone overflowing with raspberry gelato. Another where she reaches toward the gorgeous domed ceiling of the Galleria Vittorio like she can touch the cerulean glass.
Her smile is so big the entire time we shoot, I can’t help smiling, too.
Tilly even buys herself a half-dozen cannoncini, shoving the cigar-shaped pastries between her fingers and yelling that she’s Edward Cannoli-hands. Mona tells her to knock it off, but the sight of her gesturing the pastries at me like cream-filled claws makes me laugh so hard I snap a few photos.
It’s late by the time we start heading back to the hotel, and I scroll through the shots as we walk. One in particular snags my attention, and I almost stop in my tracks as I look at it. The echo of her laugh is imprinted in the picture, her head thrown back and hands full of pastries. Like so many photos of Tilly, it’s a bit blurry and the alignment is a nightmare, but, for some reason, it feels like a new favorite.
For the Pantone 100c, a buttery yellow, and 7571, a warm golden brown, captured in the cannoncini, of course.
The meeting was awful, but, overall, I think today might have been a good day. For the business, obviously.
“Oh my God, I have to pee so badly I might die,” Tilly says, as the four of us climb the stairs to our rooms. She sprints up the last flight. “So, dibs, or whatever,” she adds over her shoulder, throwing the door open and dashing inside.
I follow a few steps behind, Mona and Amina walking into their room next door. I slide my camera bag off my shoulder and plop onto my bed, almost sitting on Tilly’s laptop in the process. She left it open and propped on my pillows, and the image of her lying on my mattress while I was gone creates an odd, fizzy sensation in my chest.
All the jostling has revved the screen to life, and a web page full of text pops up. I recognize the icon in the corner as Babble, some sort of blogging site Cubby was really into a few years back. My eyes start scanning across the lines.
My family had a cat when I was little. Her name was Smoosh and she was perfect. I loved her so much it used to feel like I would burst with it and, even to this day, I believe Smoosh loved me that much, too. Smoosh would follow me from room to room, her striped tail twitching in excitement every time I’d coo her name.
Someone told me that once you learn how to read, the process is so automatic and involuntary, you can’t help reading words put in front of you. I blame that, and not at all a bone-deep fascination with understanding her better, for why I keep reading what Tilly’s written.
When I was happy, she’d perch on her back legs and reach her paws toward me. When I was sad, she’d curl up on my chest, purring and licking the tears off my cheeks. It was like we shared a little heart (and the few brain cells between us).
But I also think what was interesting was how she and I would react to the world. When Smoosh got scared, she’d hide. I’d find her in the oddest corners, wedged between bookshelves, tail curled tight and head pressed against the wall like if she closed her eyes and made herself as small as possible, things wouldn’t scare her anymore.
I like to do that when I’m overwhelmed.
Sometimes, it feels like the world has so much power to hurt me, I need to—
“What are you doing?”
Tilly’s voice slashes like a knife across my senses as I’m pulled out of her words.
“Nothing!” I lie, jumping to stand.
Tilly stomps toward me, snatching up her laptop and slamming it against her chest. “You had no right to read that!” she says, jabbing her finger against my sternum. “How dare you invade my privacy?”
“Yourprivacy?” I splutter. “You literally left your open laptop on my bed with a public website blown up on the screen. How was I supposed to know it was top-secret information?” I say, pointing right back at her
“I—You—I… Stay away from my things!”
“Oh my God, why are you yelling?” Mona says, appearing in the doorway. She plants her hands on her hips, the strap of her high heels dangling from her pinky.
“I’m not yelling!” Tilly yells.
Mona arches an eyebrow at her.
“I’mnot—I—He… ugh!” Tilly throws her hands in the air and turns away from everyone. She charges to her suitcase, riffling through it with the force of a hurricane before grabbing a handful of clothes and storming into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
The immediate silence has an energy to it, one that makes my skin crawl at the force of it. I glance at Mona. She’s staring at the bathroom door, eyebrows furrowed and lip clamped between her teeth.
“You don’t have to be so hard on her, darling,” Amina whispers, coming to stand behind Mona in the doorway.
Mona opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but closes it, shaking her head and turning, ducking around Amina and moving farther into their room. Amina purses her lips but quickly schools her features, giving me a soft smile before following Mona’s lead.
A few moments later, Tilly wrenches the door open, flicking off the lights and heading straight to her bed. She’s put her pajamas on and doesn’t spare me a glance as she yanks back the covers. Her mouth is a tight line and her eyes are creased at the corners as she lies down. The last thing I see of her is what looks like a tiny, glistening teardrop on her cheek. She scrubs her palm across her face, pulls the duvet over her head, and goes incredibly still.
