The Next To Last Mistake

by Jahn, Amalie

  She reaches to touch her head as if she’s just now realizing her state of affairs. “Under the do-rag.”

  “The what?”

  She shakes her head and laughs her hearty, soulful laugh. “Girl, you might be the whitest white girl I know. Have you been livin’ under a rock for sixteen years?”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe it,” she says, waving me further into the house. “It’s a do-rag. I wear it when I’m not wearing my hair.”

  She leads me through a modestly furnished family room into a dim hallway, lined with childhood photos of her with a man I presume to be her father. What I don’t see is a single image of her mother.

  “I thought you said your hair’s underneath.”

  “My real hair is underneath. My other hair isn’t.”

  My head is spinning. I’m completely lost in the conversation. Real hair and other hair and do-rags. I follow her into her bedroom which looks pretty much exactly like mine. Twin bed. Tall dresser. Desk. Chair. A smattering of clothes on the floor. The only noticeable differences are our comforters (hers: green and purple stripes; mine: orange and yellow flowers) and our wall art (hers: a canvas print of some Caribbean island; mine: a Sam Hunt poster). She plops down onto her bed and invites me to do the same.

  “My hair is not like your hair.” She says this matter-of-factly. She isn’t complaining or bragging. She’s simply giving me an education.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “My hair is dry and breaks off easily, so I’ve never been able to grow it very long.”

  “But it’s long all the time. You wear it in a pretty bob.”

  “The bob isn’t my real hair. It’s a wig.”

  I gawk at her, bamboozled. Aren’t wigs for old people? And cancer patients? And Dolly Parton?

  “I have a couple different ones, and I also have extensions, but they’re expensive and take way too long to put in. And I ain’t got time for that. So, I mainly stick to my wigs.”

  I’m still looking at her, completely lost for words.

  “You don’t know what extensions are, do you?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  She gets up and opens her closet door. Its contents are predictable: two pairs of sneakers and a pair of sandals on the floor, a few blouses on hangers beside half a dozen dresses which are clearly reserved for church, three hats I assume are also for church, and a terrycloth robe. What I’m not expecting is the rod lined with sections of hair, each one neatly secured to a hanger with an elastic band. There are straight ones and curly ones and wavy ones. A few have colors woven through them, pinks and purples and blues. She selects one of the longest, lifting it carefully off its hanger, and hands it to me for inspection.

  “This is my hair. Well, not mine as in ‘I grew it out of my head,’ but mine as in ‘I bought it so I own it.’”

  I finger the hair gently, with the same care as it was presented—clearly a cherished possession. It’s soft and silky, feeling very much like my own hair.

  “What’s it made of?” I ask.

  “It’s human hair. Just like yours. Most of my extensions are from China or India. Men and women sell their hair, and in some places, they shave their heads for religious reasons and the hair is donated for extensions. Like anything else, there’s good stuff and bad stuff and you get what you pay for. You don’t want fallen hair, like the hair collected after a haircut or whatever, because then the cuticles line up in different directions. Some up, some down. I had extensions made from fallen hair one time, and it was a hot mess. Nothin’ but tangles.” She wears an indignant expression. “The one you’re holding is Remy hair which means the hair is collected into a braid before it’s cut, assuring the cuticles are all facing the same direction when the extension’s created.”

  “That’s fascinating,” I tell her. “I had no idea. So how do you…”

  She laughs at my hesitation. “Wear them?” she finishes.

  “Yeah.”

  She eyes me, somewhat skeptically, but then the uncertainty falls away and she removes her do-rag. Beneath, I get my first glimpse of her actual hair, the hair I believed I’d been seeing all along. It’s short, though not as short as Alice’s, nor so chicly styled. I’m curious about how many people have seen her this way, without a wig or the extensions. I’m certain, outside of her beauticians and immediate family, the number is probably small, which is why it feels almost sacred to gaze upon her now. How lucky I am to share this confidence with her.

  “So basically,” she begins, lifting a section of hair on the back of her head, “they sew it in underneath my own hair and then blend it together so it’s seamless. If it’s done well you can’t tell where my hair starts and the extension begins. Like I said before, though, it’s expensive to have done because it takes hours. Like six or eight hours. So mostly I only get them put in for special occasions. Weddings. Birthdays. The first time I had a solo in my church’s choir.”

  My own hair gets virtually none of my attention. I wash it. Condition it if I have time. And most days I throw it into a ponytail because it’s what I’ve always done. The barn was never a place for a loose, flowing head of hair. Unlike me, however, Leonetta clearly spends an incredible amount of time and consideration on her hair.

  “What about the wigs?” I ask, my eyes wide with fascination.

  She returns the extension to the closet and drops to the floor, onto her hands and knees. She digs around under her bed and comes up with three boxes. After returning to my side, she opens the first box. There are two mesh organza bags with wigs inside.

  “That’s your hair!” I exclaim, immediately recognizing the one on top as the bob she’s been wearing since I’ve known her.

  “Not anymore,” she says. “I was gonna change it up for the party tonight. My aunt Bev gave me one for Christmas that I haven’t worn yet. Thought tonight would be as good as any for its debut.”

  I’m thrilled by the prospect of seeing her transformed and encourage her to put on the new wig right away.

  “It’s not that simple,” she says, sliding it out of the bag. “This will have to be combed through, straight-ironed, and set. I’ll work on it while you get yourself ready.”

  It seems my ‘getting ready’ and her ‘getting ready’ are two completely different tasks. While I try to decide between which skinny jeans and lip gloss to wear, she frets over a barely noticeable bend in a section of the wig and whether the shirt she wants to wear is missing a button.

  “I can sew it for you,” I offer, discovering the shirt is indeed one button short at the bust line. “If you have a needle and thread.”

  We work together, side-by-side, she on her hair and I on the button. She’s humming an unfamiliar tune, deep and soulful and full of longing, and as I listen to her, I’m struck by the novelty of our togetherness. Of me, in a room with another girl, getting ready for a party as if it’s the most typical thing in the world. It probably is for most everyone else. But not for me. Not for Tess Goodwin—best friend to Zander, chess player, and farm hand. For me, this is the most peculiar thing I could have ever imaged for myself.

  And I’m surprisingly okay with it.

  “Whatcha think of the step team’s performance today?” she asks as she begins the laborious process of putting on the wig.

  “I thought they were amazing,” I tell her honestly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You obviously haven’t spent much time livin’ in the South.”

  “It’s really popular here?”

  She’s lining the part on her head with the part in the wig, and I’m impressed by how perfectly they match. I can’t tell where she ends and the wig begins.

  “It’s more popular in historically black colleges than anywhere else. Places like Fayetteville State, Shaw, and Elizabeth City. In the early 1900s, sororities and fraternities would sing and dance as a way of initiating new members into Greek life. Stepping grew outta that.”

  “Do they perform very often for the scho
ol?”

  She nods. “During football season, the winter concert, spring talent show, and sometimes graduation. They compete, too, all over the country.”

  “No wonder I’m having trouble finding people to join my chess club when they have step team as an option.” I look up from my sewing. “I mean, look at Brad Wilson. He’s on the step team, and I could totally see him playing chess if I would’ve gotten to him first.”

  “Really. And would that be because he’s white?” she asks.

  I flinch involuntarily, wondering if she’s keeping a tally of all my thoughtless comments. “Because he’s a total geek,” I explain.

  “Oh, I see,” she says, still adjusting her wig in the mirror. “You might be interested to learn two other members of the step team, James Washington and Cliff Lewis, are both in the running for senior class valedictorian. And they’re both black. So why aren’t you able to imagine them as part of your chess team? They aren’t geeky enough for you I suppose? Or is it just because they’re black?”

  Immediately, I panic. Backpedaling through my thought process, wondering how my innocuous, off-handed comment could have possibly come out so poorly. I’ve never been so embarrassed or ashamed. I stammer, trying to come up with something to explicate myself when I notice Leonetta’s expression reflecting back at me in the mirror. There’s no mistaking the disappointment in the downturned corners of her lips.

  “You gotta watch that kinda talk, Tess,” she says. “Microaggressions are hurtful, not just to me personally but to our whole society. And, I feel what you’re saying. Brad’s a total brainiac. From here on out, though, it’s probably a good idea not to assume only white folks can be nerds.”

  I secure one final knot behind the button on her shirt and toss it onto her bed. I keep my chin tucked, too embarrassed to hold her gaze. “You’re right, Netta. You gotta know I wasn’t intentionally being disrespectful, and I certainly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Anyone can play chess, not just geeky white kids. I have no idea why I even said that.”

  I’m mindlessly poking the pad of my finger with the sewing needle, drawing blood before she responds after a long moment. “You said it because you have your own biases you carry around with you. We all do. We can’t help it. We’re human. But that doesn’t give us a free pass. You gotta check your privilege, keep an open mind, and consider other people’s feelings before you open your mouth. If you do that, you’ll be okay.”

  I don’t know that I deserve it, but I’m humbled and thankful for her clemency. That we’re having this conversation at all is a testament to Mrs. Fields who certainly knew what she was doing putting us together. I couldn’t ask for a better friend than Leonetta and make a mental note to stop into the office Monday morning and thank our intermediary.

  “He’s a total anomaly out there with the rest of the step team, though, isn’t he?” Leonetta continues.

  “No more of an anomaly than you and I are,” I say, finally glancing up.

  She’s still facing away from me, looking into the mirror, making final adjustments to her hair. Our eyes lock as she shifts her gaze to where I’m sitting behind her. “We’re the best sort of anomaly,” she says, turning around so I can take in the fullness of her transformation.

  It’s nothing short of miraculous.

  “Netta, you look beautiful,” I gush. “I love it.”

  She turns back to the mirror, studying herself. “I do look fine, don’t I?”

  “Like the reigning queen of gorgeous.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” she asks, snatching her shirt off the bed. “You and I have a party to attend.”

  chapter 16

  Hindsight

  Friday, February 15

  Leonetta and I circle the block three times before resigning ourselves to a parking spot almost a quarter mile away from Calvin Watkins’ house. We pass Summer’s car along the way, confirming she and Alice are already inside.

  As we walk together down the sidewalk—the music of the party increasing in volume with every step—I’m reminded of all the parties I attended back in Iowa. All the backyard birthday parties with bobbing for apples and pin the tail on the donkey. All the middle school bowling parties when going to Sidetracks was all the rage. All the bonfires where couples paired off beneath the stars with stolen Budweisers from their parents’ refrigerators. Zander accompanied me to all of them. He was my anti-wingman, the reason I never partnered off with anyone else. Even when he had a girlfriend, he never ventured far from my side, a buffer for Lacey’s rude remarks, a shield from would-be suitors.

  Am I expecting Leonetta to fill his role tonight as my new security blanket?

  “Wonder if Alice has accosted Calvin yet?” she asks, breaking me from my thoughts as we climb the steps to the front door.

  “I guess we’re about to find out,” I say. For a moment, I hesitate at the door, wondering whether it’s appropriate to knock or just walk in. But Leonetta doesn’t falter, nudging past me to swing it wide open, revealing the chaos within. Two guys stumble past us out into the night, and we hurry inside.

  Music is blaring and people are everywhere, packed into every corner of the house and spilling into the backyard. I catch a glimpse of three members of the basketball team, Lashanda from lit circle, and a couple kids from history class. But instead of venturing off to say hello, I stay close to Leonetta, my constant navigator, as she maneuvers us past the couples making out, past the girls dancing on the dining room table, and past the keg and beer pong into the kitchen where we stumble across Alice and Summer. They’re leaning against the wall beside the refrigerator, talking with two guys, neither of whom I recognize from school. But then again, school is a very big place.

  “It’s about frickin’ time!” Summer cries, noticing us across the room. There’s a Solo cup in her hand and from the ridiculously high octave of her voice, I can safely assume it’s not filled with pop. She’s nuzzled against someone who looks nothing like her boyfriend, Private First-Class Travis. This guy is tall and lean but clearly not military given the generous beard he’s sporting. Seeing her with someone else doesn’t surprise me, though, especially after hearing about Travis’s most recent indiscretions. What surprises me instead is finding Alice deep in conversation with a bespectacled coed.

  I nudge Leonetta with my elbow, and she leans down.

  “That’s not Calvin, is it?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s Marcus Robinson. He graduated last year.”

  I point to my face. “He’s wearing glasses,” I say.

  To this, Leonetta only shrugs.

  “Come say hello,” Summer calls across the kitchen, waving us over.

  Introductions are made. Alice is with Marcus and Summer is with Kevin Ferrell, another recent Hopkins graduate. I didn’t think it was possible for Alice to look better in her dress than she did in the Sizzle dressing room, but she looks even more like a runway model now that she’s made-up and properly coiffed. Both Summer and Alice compliment Leonetta on her hair, and although she shrugs them off, I can tell she’s secretly pleased by their approval.

  “Kevin and Marcus are old friends of Calvin’s,” Alice explains, adjusting the hem of her dress which keeps riding up.

  This vital bit of information brings the confusion of the situation into focus. The girls aren’t actually interested in Marcus and Kevin, they’re simply using them as a means of getting closer to Calvin, their only option since Leonetta and I arrived so late.

  I immediately morph into wingman mode.

  “Is Calvin around?” I say nonchalantly to Kevin. “I’d like to say hi since it’s his party and all.”

  Alice widens her eyes, but I can’t tell if she’s impressed by my ingenuity or horrified by my boldness. Or if maybe it’s something else altogether.

  Kevin cranes his neck, straining to see out the kitchen window into the backyard. “He’s outside,” he says. “I guess I can introduce you if you want.” His voice is incredulous as if what I’ve proposed
, being introduced to the host, is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Here in Fayetteville, it probably is.

  I try to play it cool as if it’s no big deal either way, but the damage is done. A look passes between Kevin and Marcus—can you believe this girl?—but a second later we’re all traipsing through the back door into the brisk, night air.

  They lead us to where a few guys are leaning against the deck rail. Some are smoking, all of them have beers, and the tallest is well over six and a half feet tall. His features are defined: strong brow, prominent cheekbones, full lips. He’s definitely Calvin.

  “S’up, bro,” Kevin says to him, bumping fists and shoulders before pointing to me. “This is Tess. She’s from Iowa. She wanted to come say hi.”

  I’m concentrating on making my face look casual, like being at a college basketball player’s party is something I do all the time. I can tell, though, by the smile on Calvin’s face I’m failing miserably. He extends his hand.

  “Well, hello there, Tess from Iowa,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth and incredibly sexy. I don’t wonder why Alice is obsessed with him.

  “Hey,” I squeak as his hand engulfs mine.

  “Been here long?”

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  He chuckles, giving me a wry smile. “I meant have you been here in Fayetteville long?”

  I shake my head, feeling like an idiot. “Oh. Only since the first week in January.”

  “Must be some change, Iowa to Fayetteville.”

  I nod, unable to summon the power of speech much less a cohesive thought. Suddenly, I remember Alice. I remember I’m supposed to be breaking the ice for her, talking her up so he’ll want to get to know her better. I’m supposed to be playing the matchmaker.

  I turn to make the introductions. “These are my friends, Summer and Leonetta and Alice. They’re not from Iowa.”

  He nods at them, laughing affably at the stupidity of what I’ve said. Then he says to Alice, “I remember seeing you around Hopkins my senior year. You still there?”