It is half past one in the afternoon and Sephidah sits on the vast infinity of her king sized bed. Enveloped by her olive green Egyptian cotton duvet she bites the nail of her candy colored pinky finger as she flips the pages of a children’s bible with her free hand, skimming over to the back before tearing out a page. She falls back against her pillow and pulls out a bag of processed weed from underneath, still fresh and pungent, reeking its trademark scent even when sealed up tightly in a zip locked bag. A small purr escapes from her lips as she opens the bag under her nose and inhales the overwhelming aroma. “Such simple pleasures,” Sephidah grins to herself, before taking a pinch and arranging it on the sheet, adding more and more until she is satisfied, and rolls herself a little joint.

Her hair is pushed away from her face, held together with a black velveteen Alice band, but raven locks still fall over her shoulders despite trying her best to look respectable for tea with the family. Without smudging her lipgloss she puts the joint to her lips and inhales deeply, eyes closed to relish the moment.

Three insistent raps on the door reminds Sephidah that she has to get ready for tea, and seeing that it is going to be awhile before she sees her extended family again, she slides off her bed and scrambles to her feet. “Coming!” she calls out and exhales smoke circles in the direction of her bewildered dreadlocked terrier before stubbing out the joint and tossing it out the window where it lands in a terracotta flower pot in her mama’s private garden. Sephidah throws open her suitcase and sends dresses flying across the sizeable room, dresses that will be picked up by the maids and neatly folded and packed back in their respective places the very moment she leaves her room. She is searching for the short champagne colored beaded BCBG dress that makes her look like a faerie, the one she bought with her papa’s credit card at a department store while her mama’s back was turned.

Sephidah finds it under a mountain of polo shirts her mama packs for her, right where she hid it in the first place so her mama wouldn’t find it while snooping around her room. She doesn’t care whether or not her mama finds the pot; it makes no difference because her family is in the business. All she will get for smoking the goods is a slap on the wrist. But she is afraid her mama will take the dress away for she insists Sephidah gives up daydreams and fairytales for something more real like boys from good family and… things normal Colombian girls would be interested in. Sephidah doesn’t know how to be a normal girl, so she wouldn’t know what to do in the first place. She wouldn’t know what to say, and how to behave around hordes of people her age, but her mama assures her that it will come naturally (Sephidah believes otherwise).

Slipping her feet into beat up slouchy chocolate colored boots, Sephidah twirls once more in front of the oversized gold leafed rosewood mirror propped up against a corner of her pale yellow room and beams at her reflection.

For such a small person, Sephidah sure has a larger than life presence that makes one question her honesty. That twinkle in her eye might not be just childish glee, her candid remarks might not be as innocent as they seem, and that smile, that open honest smile might not be as honest as you think. But she is; for the most part. Sephidah tries to be as honest as she can be but it is difficult to tell half truths and barely lies when one wants so very much to be liked for who she is and not whose daughter she is. And it scares people sometimes, knowing how somebody can be so giving with their feelings, but she is because it is not often that she can connect with many people, having been home schooled all her life on her family’s private estate on the outskirts of Bogota in Colombia.

A curious creature, Sephidah had always been her papa’s constant companion, always seated at his right on the dinner table and often present at social functions with a guileless observations at hand. She knows how to dance the waltz, plays the piano with practiced grace, and can cut a cigar in such a manner in which one draws in the full extent of its flavor, but Sephidah knows nothing about being normal.

What is normal, anyway?

She picks up a vial of Eternity, the men’s summer edition, and sprays it in the air around her, whirling about with her eyes closed as it sits on her skin, and drapes a vintage gold locket around her neck before picking up her ashen terrier and racing downstairs to the sitting room where her family and distinguished guests are awaiting to say their final goodbyes before this cherished little creature leaves for school.