The Nemophila Girl

Life was preposterous. Lucia Fano, age six, knew that much for a fact.

The Kingdom of Ordine was said to be the largest and most prosperous nation on this continent, and the royal capital was said to be the most charming and splendid of all its areas. However, capital-native Lucia was born with deep green hair and eyes of oversaturated blue; her skin was pallid, her stature slight, and her looks modest and unremarkable. Dahlia, a friend who lived near Lucia’s grandmother, was a girl with red hair and bright green eyes. When she smiled, it was as though her namesake flower had blossomed. A slightly older playmate of theirs, Irma, had glossy hair the color of black tea and eyes to match, if slightly redder in hue. Her dexterity was exhibited in the braids she did herself, and she was very pretty. The girls around Lucia, every single one of them, were bolder, prettier, and cuter than herself.

Lucia knew she was unassuming. But despite that, she wanted to be cuter and prettier, and so every day, she brushed her hair neat, washed her face thoroughly, and put on her freshly laundered blue dress. Yet earlier today, some boys playing in the neighborhood had said, “You sure are like a dayflower, Lucia.”

Dayflower: a weed, small, blue, and forgettable, one that grew out of the cracks in an alleyway—how mean! But Lucia had failed to voice how much the comparison had irked her, instead running away with tears in her eyes. She was frustrated at herself for not having been able to say anything in response; she hated that about herself. She would’ve rather been blessed with height, gleaming blonde hair, and rare purple eyes. She would’ve rather been a beauty whom others compared to a rose or a lily. If only that were the case, then she would be able to wear the cute clothes that she wanted to. She would look good in the lemon yellow dress with white lacing her maternal grandmother suggested. She would look good with a long, glossy blue ribbon and a pair of red shoes with flowers all over. But she knew she would never be a girl who looked good in cutesy fashion like that.

“How preposterous.” That was a word Lucia had heard her father mutter under his breath yesterday. She had asked him what it meant, and he’d replied that it was “when things don’t make sense and you won’t stand for it.” To describe her as a dayflower was to say that the cute clothes she loved wouldn’t fit her. If that wasn’t preposterous, then she didn’t know what was. It wasn’t as though the boys had been picking on her, yet her vision was gett