“Oh . . . I have to go!”
Whitegirl’s pacin’ up and down, mumblin’ to herself. Except the room’s a mess so every few steps she has to stop and bend down to pick up a toy or book or stuffed animal. She must be some kind of maid ’cause she looks like she’s used to cleanin’ up after other folks. Her arms are full of toys and she’s tryin’ to pick up even more, but then she trips on a little dump truck and lands on her ass. I laugh out loud, but then this rubber ball hits the floor, bounces straight at me, and almost knocks the bottle of nail polish right out my hand.
I give her a look that says, “Don’t fuck with me, bitch.” She don’t apologize, but she sure looks scared! She picks herself up and goes over to the far side of the room. I smile to myself and keep blowin’ on my nails. I still got it. It’s been a while, but I still get respect.
Few minutes go by and this whitegirl starts moanin’ and pacin’ again, talkin’ ’bout how she gotta go—like I ain’t got someplace to be my own damn self. Finally I get sick of hearin’ her mess and say, “Chill, girl! You ain’t goin’ nowhere till that lady comes back and calls your name.” I raise my voice a little so whoever’s behind that two-way mirror can hear me. “Bitch took my phone!” At least I still got my purse.
“But I must go! I must! My baby needs me. . . .”
Baby? I stop blowing on my nails and take a good look at this whitegirl. I guess she’s about my age, but she’s dressed like she just stepped out of a time machine. She’s wearin’ this big baggy dress that’s got long sleeves and buttons all the way up to the top of her neck. And it’s pink—like the color of chewed-out bubble gum. She got these ugly-ass shoes on, too—clunky brown loafers that you almost can’t see ’cause her dress is so damn long. She looks like Cinderella before she met her fairy godmother. “YOU got a baby?”
Whitegirl ignores me and just keeps on fussin’. “She needs me—my baby needs me. . . .”
I watch as her long braid swings back and forth while she paces. I don’t know why, but I decide to talk to her. Nothin’ else to do in here. “Where you from, girl? Little House on the Prairie? No offense, or nothin’, but you don’t look like that kinda girl.”
“What kind of girl?”
“The kinda girl who gets busy AND gets pregnant. You look more like a nun or somethin’ in that corny dress. You know—uptight. Goody Two-Shoes.”
“I am NOT uptight! I’m upset! They took my baby!”
I take my compact out of my purse and flip it open. Ain’t nobody I’m tryin’ to impress up in here, but I still want to look my best. The cops hauled me outta the house in the middle of the night. Lucky for me I was in between customers and had my favorite little black dress on. Tarell bought it for Chynna just last month, but he says it looks better on me. Every time I wear it, I think of the look on that bitch’s face when Tarell told her to shut up and go put on somethin’ else. Chynna thinks she’s Tarell’s favorite. I wonder if he’s bailed her out yet.
“Damn, girl—relax! You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet.” I put just enough edge in my voice so she knows that’s an order and not a suggestion.
The whitegirl stands still but keeps up with her sob story. “They lied—they lied to me!”
I click the compact shut and look at Laura Ingalls. “Who lied to you?”
“The social workers—the police. They tricked me! I did everything they said, but they still took my baby away. . . .”
Next thing I know, this whitegirl starts to bawl. She catches me smilin’ and turns away so I can’t see what a mess she is. I roll my eyes, then feel kinda bad for the newbie. That’s what Chynna calls me, uppity bitch. She’s only a coupla years older than me, but Chynna treats me like I’m a child. I look at this whitegirl and think maybe she could use a little help right about now. So I pull up my legs to make space for her on the tacky, stained sofa. I move my purse onto my lap and pat the seat loud enough for her to hear. “Come on. Sit down ’fore you fall down.”
She glances at the sofa, then at me. She hesitates, then accepts the offer and sits down, still snifflin’. I dig a tissue outta my purse and hand it to her. She waits a second, then takes it and blows her nose.
“So. Is it a girl or a boy?”
She panics. “What?”
Maybe she’s slow. Maybe that’s why she’s dressed like a reject. “Your baby!”
Whitegirl smiles softly and starts to rock back and forth. “A girl,” she says in this real soft voice. “Her name’s Abigail.”
Abigail? I pity the kid already. My mom gave me a crappy name, too—Verline. First thing I did when I left home was change my name. I got five or six now. A girl needs a few stage names in my line of work. I look at this whitegirl and wonder if she’s got a name as ugly as her baby’s. “Who’s the daddy?”
She hangs her head and mumbles, “My only interest right now is my child.”
“In other words, you don’t know who the daddy is.”
“Of course, I do!”
“So what’s his name?”
She clamps her mouth shut like she don’t wanna say.
“Uh huh. That’s what I thought. Don’t sweat it—ain’t no big deal. A trick’s a trick, right?”
Whitegirl turns to face me then and starts to nod. “Yes—they tricked me!”
I sigh. I’ve definitely been there before. “Happens all the time. Trick says he got a rubber on, but ’less you wrapped his dick up yourself, you’re just rollin’ the dice. By the time the deal’s done, you could have AIDS, gonorrhea, or even worse—a kid up inside of you!”
She sputters and stands up. “A—rubber . . .?” she says, her mouth wide open like she’s shocked.
I look up and see her face has gone from pasty to pink. Even her ears are red! “Yeah. A rubber. You know—a condom?” I roll my eyes and sigh. “You put it on a trick’s dick so you don’t catch nothin’ nasty—and so you don’t get pregnant! That’s Sex Ed 101, girl. Where you been?”
Whitegirl picks up a one-eyed doll off the floor. She smoothes down what’s left of its blond hair and looks up at the ceiling. “Man’s seed must be spilled so the tribe may thrive and prosper. It’s a sin to defy God’s will.”
I look at the ceiling to see what she’s gawking at. Ain’t nothin’ there. “God? What the hell’s he got to do with it?”
She leans in close to me and whispers, “What a man and a woman do in bed is . . . sacred!”
I cross my legs and fold my arms across my chest. This pushes my boobs up and that makes her look away. “Oh yeah? How ’bout what they do on the floor—or up against a wall—or in the backseat of a car? Is that sacred, too?”
She twirls her fingers in the doll’s stringy hair. “Well—uh—so long as the union has been blessed by the Prophet. . . .”
“Profit? Now you’re talkin’ sense. ‘It’s all about the almighty dollar.’ That’s what Tarell says, anyhow.”
She sits back down and holds the doll in her arms like it’s a real baby. “Who’s Tarell?”
“Tarell—he’s like . . . well, it’s kinda complicated.” I wait to see how curious she really is, but this whitegirl looks like she’s been raised to mind her own business, so I just spill the beans. “Okay, so Tarell’s like my boss, but he also takes care of me. I mean, I live with him in this big ol’ house out in the burbs, and he buys me clothes, and he takes me to get my hair and nails done . . . stuff like that. And if any punk messes with me, Tarell kicks his ass.”
“So . . . Tarell’s your husband.”
I bust out laughing. “Hell no!”
“He’s your father?”
I snort like a pig when she says that. My father?
Whitegirl frowns and tries again. “Your brother?”
“Girl, you somethin’ else. I told you, I WORK for Tarell.”
“So he’s your . . . uncle?”
I stare at her. She really is slow. I glance at the two-way mirror, then hiss, “Tarell’s my pimp!”
The whitegirl glances at the mirror a
s well, and nods. She inches closer and whispers, “What’s a pimp?”
I stare at her until I realize she’s for real. “Girl, where you from?”
She shifts back over to her side of the couch and starts fussing with the doll. “Upstate,” she says in her mousy voice.
“Hunh. You go to school ‘upstate’?”
She shakes her head. “I was homeschooled by my mama.”
I just suck my teeth at that. “Seems like your mama forgot to teach you a thing or two ’bout men.”
That turns her cheeks pink—don’t nobody like it when you talk about their mama. “My mother taught me how to be a faithful wife.”
“Wife? You’re MARRIED?”
Suddenly the whitegirl panics and tries to clamp her hand over my mouth. “Sssshhhh! I wasn’t supposed to say that.”
I fling her hand away and check to make sure my lip gloss ain’t all messed up. “How old are you?”
She looks over her shoulder like this is top secret information. “Sixteen.”
Same age as me. “And how long you been married?”
She sits up tall now like she’s proud to be somebody’s wife. “Our union was blessed three years ago.”Whitegirl pulls a chain out of her collar and shows me a thin gold band. No diamond—just a plain ring. No wonder she keeps it hidden inside her dress. I would too if my husband bought me some tacky old ring like that! “Damn,” I say, shaking my head.
She beams at me, then realizes I ain’t exactly impressed. “Where I’m from,” she says, “it’s customary for a girl to wed once God has touched her . . . inside. You know, once she gets her . . . ‘monthly friend.’”
Nothin’ much surprises me, but this shit’s freakin’ me out. “Lemme get this straight. You’re tellin’ me that ‘upstate,’ girls get married as soon as they get their period?”
She goes back to her “it’s a secret” voice. “But only if the Prophet has selected a suitable husband for them.”
“‘The prophet’? What, like Moses and the Ten Commandments?”
She nods excitedly. “The Prophet is the holiest of men and the leader of our tribe.”
“And he tells you who to marry? That’s fucked up. If I gotta get hitched, I’m a pick my own damn husband!”
Now it’s her turn to look shocked. “Women aren’t meant to question the will of God!”
I’m starting to feel like I’m in church or talkin’ to a missionary or somethin’. “What you keep bringin’ up God for? You just said your holy ‘prophet’ was the one callin’ the shots.”
“Yes, but only the Prophet knows God’s will for us, His children.”
I just shake my head. This whitegirl definitely has some screws loose. “So who’d ‘the prophet’ pick for you to marry?”
Her face turns pink again and she looks away. “A good man. An honorable man.”
“Honorable, huh? So where’s he at?” I smile a little as she bites her lip and keeps her eyes away from mine. I remember when I first moved in with Tarell and Chynna figured it was her job to school me on life. “Lemme break some things down for you, Homespun. Men . . . are dogs. They eat all kinds of crap, sleep half the day, piss on every pole, and shit all over the place. They’re dirty, dumb, and covered with fleas. But worst of all, they’ll try and fuck anythin’ that moves—it don’t have to look good, just smell a little funky and there they go, howlin’ and humpin’ and pantin’. Men are dogs. And dogs . . . are disgusting.”
Her eyes get so wide they take up half of her face. “Back home, we have dogs—we keep them as pets. They’re loyal, loving creatures!”
“That’s ’cause you TRAINED ’em to be that way. Your dogs may not shit in the house, but deep down they’re no different than all the other stray mutts. A dog may wear a collar ’round his neck—or a ring on his finger—but at the end of the day, girl, ALL dogs are WILD.” I pause to let my words sink in. “Shit. Your man’s probably sniffin’ ’round some other bitch right now. . . .”
That strikes a nerve. Whitegirl jumps up like she’s ready to fight for her man. The doll she was holding on her lap drops to the floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Really? I think I been around the block a few more times ’n you. . . .”
“That may be. But the Bible says the righteous man shall be rewarded with many wives. It’s not a sin! It’s not!”
“Many wives? What the hell you talkin’ ’bout?”
She starts pacin’ again, her fingers clawin’ at her neck like she’s tryin’ to get at the ring hidden under her ugly dress. Finally she thinks of a comeback. I know it’s gonna be weak. “If all men are dogs, what about Tarell?”
“What about him?” I say calmly. I never lose my cool.
“You said he takes good care of you. Is he a dog?”
I just shrug. “Like I said, Homespun. I WORK for Tarell. It’s in his interest to take care of me and keep me lookin’ good. He’s got to protect his investment.”
She don’t know what to say to that. She shifts from foot to foot and asks, “What exactly do you DO for Tarell?”
I cut my eyes at her and try to figure out whether or not she can handle the truth. Sometimes folks play dumb just to get all up in your business. “He’s my pimp. I’m his ’ho.”
“‘Hoe’?”
“Yeah, ’ho—’ho!” She scrunches her eyebrows together like she’s trying real hard to understand. Stupid people get on my nerves. “WHORE. Get it? Tarell’s my pimp, and I’m his whore. One of ’em, anyway.”
“Does Tarell have many . . . hoes?”
“Five of us are regulars. The others come and go.”
“And men—pay you to . . . to . . .”
“Suck ’n fuck.” I say it straight, with no shame, and watch her prissy face burn up again. “That’s right. I get paid to do what you do for free. ’Cept my customers don’t pay me, they pay Tarell. I get to keep my tips, though.”
“But . . . if you do all the—work—why does Tarell get all the money?”
That’s a question it don’t pay to ask. It’s like they say, “Pimps up, ’hos down.” I dig in my purse for a tube of mascara and take my time thinkin’ up an explanation. “Overhead, Homespun. That’s the cost of doin’ business on your back. Tarell breaks me off a little change now and then, but it’s not like I need a whole lotta dough. I mean, I don’t pay rent or nothin’. I get three meals a day, and there’s always a little dust on hand if I need to clear my head.” I put the mascara away and check the mirror for clumps. “Shit. ’Fore I met Tarell, I was sleepin’ on the street.”
“The street?! But . . . why? What about your family?”
“What about ’em?”
“Did they know where you were?”
“My mama’s the one put me out! Said I was ‘too fast.’ Hunh. Couldn’t move fast enough to keep away from her grab-ass boyfriend. Nigga thought he could get two for the price of one. . . .”
“Your own mother turned you out of the house?”
I feel my cheeks get hot but know she can’t see what I’m feeling inside. Black don’t crack, and it also don’t advertise. “I guess shit like that don’t happen ‘upstate,’ huh?”
“Well . . . it did happen once. Polly Jenner, she wouldn’t submit to her initiation, so the Prophet made her leave.”
“Initiation? What’s that?”
“Once a girl has been touched by God, the Prophet takes her to the holy bed inside the temple and he—he—”
“Oh, I get it. Tarell did the same thing to me. He breaks you in, nice and easy, so you ain’t too scared or too tight. So, this Polly girl—she wouldn’t give it up, huh? And ’cause of that, she had to leave home?”
“Polly was driven out of the tribe. She left us with nothing more than the clothes on her back. That was five years ago, and no one has seen her since.” Whitegirl stops and holds her hand over her heart. “She was my best friend.”
I wanna say, Yeah, right. If she was your best friend, she woulda taken you with
her instead of leavin’ you behind. Instead I give her the once over and say, “Maybe your friend’s at the mall buyin’ herself some new clothes. All a y’all dress like that?”
She smoothes out her ugly dress but tries to act all righteous. “Yes. Vanity is a sin! Women ought not to tempt men with their beauty. . . .”
“I’m tellin’ you, Homespun—dogs don’t care how you look.”
“Then why do you wear so much makeup?”
I wet my middle finger and slick my eyebrows. Be time for another waxin’ ’fore too long. “I do this for ME—’cause it makes ME feel good. Shit. I’m fine as hell! Don’t need no trick to tell me that.” I take a good hard look at this whitegirl. I stare so long and so hard that she blushes and turns away. “You could look cute, too, if you fixed yourself up.”
“Really?” She touches her drab hair and plain face, then turns to look in the two-way glass.
“Sure. You just need to ditch that dress, maybe cut your hair and add some highlights—and definitely get your eyebrows done.”
She looks at me then in my slinky black dress, and I know she wishes she could look fine like me. I pretend not to notice, though. She comes over real casual like but I just keep on admiring the view in my compact mirror. I’m so busy tryin’ not to notice her that I don’t see her reachin’ for the gold in my ear. I pull back and slap her hand away. “What the hell?”
She pulls back and holds her hand close to her chest so it don’t reach out and touch me again. “Sorry,” she says softly.
I don’t know why, but I’m startin’ to feel sorry for this girl. “Lemme guess—‘the prophet’ don’t allow no jewelry neither.” She shakes her head, clearly disappointed. I suck my teeth and proudly finger the gold in my ears. “You got outhouses up there? I saw on TV once how some folks don’t have cars or electricity or toilets or nothin.’”
Her chin goes up when I say that, and she gets all huffy with me. “Our compound has every modern amenity. We have indoor plumbing, cars, microwaves. . . .”
“You got any computers up there?”
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