My 11-year-old cousin doesn’t laugh much anymore and I don’t know what to do
She stayed over at my place last weekend, like she does once every couple months when her parents have a work thing out of town. I remembered her favorite, ordered mango sago from that little Hong Kong place 10 minutes away, the one she used to drag me to when I’d pick her up from elementary school. She’d bounce in the backseat, talking a mile a minute about how the extra pearls are the best part, how they give you more if you ask nicely. This time, she just said “thanks” when I set it on the coffee table in front of her, and picked at it with her spoon for 45 minutes, never took more than a bite every once in a while. Most of the time she was just staring at her phone, thumb scrolling so fast it’s almost a blur.
I leaned over a little to see what she was looking at, nothing weird, just curious, and she flipped the screen face down so fast she almost knocked the whole cup over. We both froze for a second, that awkward silence where you don’t know what to say. I mumbled something about needing more soda and walked to the kitchen, and when I came back she’d turned the volume up on whatever video she was watching so I couldn’t see it anyway. That’s how it is now, all these little walls that weren’t there three years ago.
Three years ago she was 8, and she’d climb all over me when I came over for family dinner, drag me out to the backyard to hunt for ladybugs with an old mason jar she’d decorated with unicorn stickers. She made me tie those lopsided friendship bracelets that were so tight they cut off my circulation, and I couldn’t take them off for a week because she’d cry if I did. She sang every song from Encanto off-key in the car, even the deep, rumbly parts Bruno sings, and didn’t care who stared at us at red lights. Last time we drove somewhere together, she didn’t say a word the whole ride, just had her headphones in, staring out the window.
I found her old sketchbook in the back of my guest room closet last month, left over from a stay last summer. It’s full of drawings: mermaids with sparkly tails, our old childhood cat that died when she was 7, a messy drawing of me with pigtails and a donut in my hand, labeled “Best Cousin Ever” in neon pink marker. All colored in with those glitter gel pens she used to hoard, the ones that smell like strawberries. I brought it up last weekend, asked her if she still draws. She shrugged and said “that’s kid stuff. Cringe.” Just like that.
I tried bringing it up to her parents at a family barbecue last month. I didn’t say it in a weird way, just that I noticed she’s pretty quiet these days, seemed really down. They got defensive right away, said she’s 11, that’s just pre-teen hormones. All kids are like this now, they said. She gets straight A’s, she goes to soccer practice every Tuesday and Thursday, she has friends that text her. What more do you want? You don’t have kids, you wouldn’t get it. I didn’t push it. I ate my burger and nodded, and changed the subject to how hot it was that day. But it stuck with me, y’know? I was 11 once, I was moody too, I slammed doors and fought with my mom about wearing eyeliner to school. But even when I was at my brattiest, I still had things I was obsessed over. I collected old silly bandz, I wrote bad poetry in my notebook, I talked for hours about my crush on that guy from High School Musical. I didn’t just… sit.
Last week she texted me at 2:07 a.m. Just a random meme, a blurry cat with text that says “I wish I could just stop existing”. I texted back right away, “You okay? Want to talk?” And she left it on read. Still hasn’t replied. I don’t know if she sent it by accident, or if she just wanted me to know, but didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t press her, just left it there. I figure if she wants to talk she will, but that doesn’t stop it from sitting heavy in my chest.
The other day we went to get ice cream downtown, and a group of girls from her middle school walked past the window. She ducked down behind the menu board so fast she dropped her cone. Vanilla ice cream went all over her white sneakers, and when I asked why she did that, she wiped it off and shrugged and said they just annoy her. Later she mumbled that they make fun of her because she has the old iPhone SE, not the 15 like everyone else. They call her cheap. I couldn’t believe it. You’re 11, I said. Why does anyone care what phone you have? She just rolled her eyes and wouldn’t talk about it anymore.
I don’t even know what to do. I tried bringing her a pack of those strawberry glitter gel pens last weekend, the same kind she used to love. She said thanks and stuffed them in her backpack, never took them out. I asked her if she wanted to go to the zoo this weekend, like we used to do every spring, and she said she’d rather just stay here and watch videos. That’s fine, I said. No pressure. But it sits with me, this weird, heavy worry that I can’t shake.
Her parents say it’s just a phase. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m just being sentimental, romanticizing the loud, messy little kid she was because that was easier to love than this quiet, closed off 11 year old she’s becoming. Maybe all kids grow up like this now, with all the stuff on their phones that I can’t even keep up with. I don’t have an answer. I don’t have a nice little lesson to wrap this up with. I just know I miss her laugh, the loud snorty one she used to get when she thought something was really funny, the one that would make everyone else in the room laugh too. And I worry. That’s all, I guess. I just keep texting her silly cat memes back, keep ordering her mango sago with extra pearls, keep the guest room bed made for her whenever she wants to come. I don’t know what else to do.
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