I shave my legs and slip on the miniskirt. I paint on illicit lipstick, a flick of eyeliner. The mirror highlights the curves of my bared shoulders.
Then, I hear a soft pinging sound; it’s my phone alarm warning me. I quickly wash my face, hide the skirt, and put on my jeans again. I make it to the kitchen table just before she walks through the doorway.
“Hello, Hakim,” my mother says, setting down two grocery bags on the counter. She pulls out a bag of shiny red apples and puts them down next to me. “How was soccer practice?”