She mocks me. She put three gummi jacks and a piece of chalk in her mouth then came over, mouth gaping, to show me. We'd already had this conversation--"get those out of your mouth"--she nods--I'd already, I'd thought, put them out of reach--and spits them out on the floor with buckets of obliging slobber. And while I think about cleaning it up she steals a sponge brush from her brother's work table and puts one end in her mouth, licking it slowly like a popsicle, looking in my direction to make sure I'm looking, and when I start in her direction, she takes off running with the brush handle sticking out of her head, round and round the couch, both of us--how is this possible?--before Trystan catches her and she delivers a few mean slaps to his head and grabs a fistful of his hair. Top of his lungs, he screams "Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow" and grabs her by the knees while she hangs on, yanking and slapping, until I peel them apart, he from she, one pissed as hell but the other impassive and pleased with her triumph over us. "No no no. No hitting, no pulling hair, no putting things in your mouth, you understand?" She nods. "Nina," she says pointing at me. "Yes, that's me." "Nina." "Yes." "Nina." "Yes." "Nina." Yes." "Nina." "Yes." "Nina." "Nina." "Nina." "Nina." "Nina." "Yes."
We lock the bathroom doors to keep her out of the toilets. I haven't learned how to pick the locks yet. We have this in common.
