by Ibi Zoboi
“When you were born, I told your mother to stay. Why did she have to leave, eh? When it was time for her to go, I tore up her ticket. Why would I send my sister back to that country with a baby girl and no father, no family?” She turns halfway around, but she doesn’t look at me. She stares at the wall. “It’s her fault, you know. She should’ve stayed.”
“But Matant, she’s not stuck in Haiti. She’s stuck in a jail, in a place called New Jersey. How is that her fault? She wanted to come here to be with you. She knew you were sick. All that coughing, and you were complaining that the twins were out of control. She was coming to help.”
“No. She finally came to her senses, that’s what.” She slowly gets up from the bed. It’s as if every move she makes hurts her body.
“I’m not done yet,” I say, still with the comb in my hand. Only half her head is in braids.
“Yes, you are.”
“Matant Jo,” I say. “Bad Leg at the corner, he’s not just a crazy man. He is Papa Legba and he is opening doors and big, big gates. I will show you. I promise.”
She turns to me. “Child, this is Detroit. Ain’t no Papa Legba hanging out on corners. Only dealers and junkies. You don’t know shit. But don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”
My whole body sinks onto her bed, still with her comb in my hand and with the scent of cigarette smoke, alcohol, sweat, pain, and grief on the tips of my fingers.
MARJORIE & VALERIE’S STORY
When I was fifteen and my little sister was thirteen, a whole new world opened up to us. Not in the way that the world opened up to Chantal when a fancy private high school offered her a full scholarship. Not in the way that Princess put all her dresses and skirts into trash bags and started dressing like the son I never had. And not in the way that the world opened up to Primadonna when she threatened to run away with her new boyfriend if I didn’t let her go on dates with him.
Our world opened up because a long-time dictator was thrown out of Haiti. This dictator was the heavy boot on our skinny necks. Our dear parents in heaven never knew a world without Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier and his father, François Duvalier. We thought there would be freedom and democracy, and that money would start flowing into the country like a long-awaited rainstorm.
But when the dictator and his fancy wife left, everything broke. There was no order, no peace.
But as thirteen- and fifteen-year-old girls, with no mother and father to watch over us, our bodies were like poor countries—there was always a dictator trying to rule over us.
We were hired to work in the house of a well-known businessman. And he would watch us while we worked. We let him look. Eyes are only dull blades, but hands are as sharp as broken glass. Eventually, he touched me, and I was cut. That day, I screamed for my sister. She then screamed for his wife.
We had to leave his house that night. We wanted to leave the whole country.
Valerie and I joined the crowds that gathered by the shores of Cité Soleil waiting for a boat to Miami. We gave our money to the captain—a skinny fisherman with missing teeth. We folded ourselves between a woman with too many bags and a man holding a crying baby. Valerie offered to hold the baby when the waters got too rough. The woman had to throw her bags overboard when water started to fill the boat. Our precious things were soaked, and there were cries and screams. Everyone cursed and prayed and shouted as our legs became wet and cold.
We were too heavy. Not with our bags. Not with our bodies. But with our burdens.
The captain yelled for some of us to get off. But we couldn’t simply walk away—we were surrounded by water. We huddled together because the boat was sinking.
Valerie and I never let go of each other. She whispered La Siren’s name over and over again, praying for the beautiful mermaid to rise up from the depths of the ocean and save us.
So the spirit of La Siren came in the form of a big boat, with strong arms to pull us up and over the side of the metal railing.
We had not drowned in that ocean. For me, it was so that I could find love and freedom in this new home called America with my beautiful girls. And for Valerie . . . if she did not perish in that ocean, then there is more for her to do in this life. We are still here.
SEVENTEEN
“YOU WERE ABSENT. I wanted to give you back your paper,” Mr. Nolan says as he hands me a folder with my name on it.
I look down at my revised paper about Toussaint L’Ouverture. There’s now an A at the top. There are no red marks on my carefully chosen words and sentences and quotes from books on Chantal’s shelves and from the internet. I listened to Imani and “gave textual evidence.” It worked.
“How are you adjusting to Detroit?” he asks. His brows are furrowed as if he expects me to give him some bad news. His beard and mustache are so thick that I can’t tell whether he smiles or not.
He sits there, waiting for an answer, but I don’t know where to begin.
Finally, he exhales and nods. “I know. It’s an adjustment,” he says. “If you ever want to write about what it’s like for you, being from Haiti and all, you certainly can. I will count it as extra credit. And it wouldn’t have to be a research paper.”
“How are you adjusting to Detroit?” I finally ask him. My question makes no sense because he lives here. He is not new to this city, to this country. He is only the second black man teacher I’ve had in my life—even in Haiti—so I want to know what his life is like here, if he has a wife and children and a big house. Knowing this bit of an American story will help me to dream a little bit.
He chuckles. “I’ve adjusted just fine. Had no choice. Detroit born and raised. Went to school. Messed up a couple of times. But got back up and did what I had to do. So I expect no less from you, or any of my students. I’m here to help.”
He doesn’t really give me the answer that I want, so I only smile, thank him, and gather my things. Before I leave the classroom, Mr. Nolan calls my name again.
“You’re doing very well, Fabiola. Stay focused,” he says with what I think is a smile hidden beneath all that beard.
“I will” is all I say.
I let Imani see my paper while we walk through the lobby out of the building.
“He was easy on you,” she says.
“What? No way. I worked so hard,” I reply as I zip up my coat.
“Yeah, right. When did you find the time to work on that paper? Last thing I heard was Kasim taking you to the opera house to see Alvin Ailey. That’s some real fancy shit.” She looks me up and down as if I’m dirty.
“What are you saying, Imani?” I shove her a little and try not to smile.
“What’d you put out for him to spend money on you like that?” She laughs.
I shove her harder and she almost stumbles down the school’s front steps. “I didn’t do anything with him.”
“Well, he’s sure expecting something back.” She laughs hard while holding on to the handrail. “And when you do give it up, he’s gonna be hitting all the walls!” She pushes her pelvis back and forth.
“Oh, Imani! That is nasty,” I say, trying really hard to keep from laughing.
“Is that what you want Dray to do to you?” Donna’s voice cuts through Imani’s laugh. She’s standing at the top of the concrete steps. Imani wipes the smile from her face and glances at me.
“Don’t you look at her,” Donna says, coming down a couple of steps. “Do you like him?”
I touch Donna’s shoulder. “No, she doesn’t like Dray,” I answer for Imani.
“That’s not what I heard.” She gets real close to Imani’s face. I get ready to pull Donna away if she tries anything. “You don’t want to mess with Dray, trust me. He’ll fuck your whole shit up, Imani. And don’t think I’m saying this ’cause I’m jealous. I’m just trying to look out for you.” She continues down the stairs but keeps her eyes on Imani.
“She’s not gonna do anything to you,” I say loud enough for Donna to hear. “She just thinks Dray likes you.”
“No. Donna is jealous, that’s all. Pri and Chantal don’t have a problem with you.”
“They will if Donna ever put a hand on me. I got cousins, too, you know.”
I try to hold her arm, to stop her from leaving, but Chantal is honking the car horn at the curb, and this time I have to choose blood over water.
Once we’re all in the car, I say, “Donna, Imani helped me with my paper. She’s not trying to steal your boyfriend.”
“I know” is all she says.
“Then why are you making her so scared?”
“’Cause that’s what we do, Fabulous,” Pri answers for her. “That’s just how the Three Bees roll.”
I’m quiet for a moment, then ask, “But why? Why do you have to be so mean?”
“I don’t want her to even think she has a chance with Dray,” Donna says.
“But she doesn’t,” I say.
“And I need to let her know that. Some of these girls out here will drop their panties for a nigga like Dray—thinking that he’ll buy them shit and that he really loves them.”
Pri makes a fake coughing sound. “You might want to check that mirror, D,” she says.
“Shut up, Pri! I can handle Dray. Your friend Imani, she’ll get burned real bad if she’s not careful. I’m just looking out for her.”
“So why don’t you just tell her that instead of being so nasty to her?” I say.
“Damn it, Fabiola!” Chantal finally speaks. “’Cause they will mess with you. That’s why. The same way they messed with me back then. If these girls think you’re scared and that you’re not gonna fight back, they will mess with you. And you don’t want none of that. Trust me. And because we do what we do, they won’t bother you, so you can just worry about your schoolwork and your essay. Okay?”
I nod. I understand. They are the Three Bees. They not only have to protect their bodies, but they have to protect their name and their story. And if they are my cousins, my family, I have to help protect them, too. But I have to do the same for my friends, too, like Imani.
We drive until we reach a big house with a bunch of girls standing outside. Donna is the first to open her door.
“She’s not gonna want to,” Chantal says.
Donna stares me down through the window. “Let’s go, Fab. You’re getting your nails done, your hair did . . .”
“What?” I say, looking toward the house. That’s when I see the sign that reads UNIQUE HAIR ESSENTIALS.
“Come on. Dray’s picking us up at ten,” Donna says. “It’s his birthday.”
My insides sink to the bottom of the deepest, darkest place here. “But I don’t want to do anything to my hair.”
Donna sighs. “Kasim really likes you. Dray said he ain’t never seen him act like that for no girl. So, you coming out with us tonight. You, Kasim, me, and Dray. But you are definitely not rolling with us looking like that. Let’s go.”
She starts walking to the house without looking back to see if I am following her. I’m still in the backseat.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Especially if Dray is paying for everything,” Chantal says.
“What?” I say.
“Dray is paying for you to look good while you roll with him, his boy, and his girl. That’s how he do. He tried to pull that shit with me and Pri. I gave him back his money. So you don’t have to go in with Donna. Kasim will still like you.”
Pri shakes her head. “I’m not down for none of this shit, Fab. Sometimes I don’t even want you to be with Kasim ’cause he’s Dray’s boy.”
“If you and Chantal don’t like Dray, then why is he still in your lives?” I ask.
“’Cause of Donna. She doesn’t just like him. She loves him. So it’s on you. This’ll really be for Donna,” Pri says.
“For Donna? Then I’ll go.” I scoot out of the car taking my bag with me.
I’m tired of hearing about Dray, talking about Dray, and seeing Dray. I have a chance to hand him over to that detective, and this opportunity is sunshine after a thunderstorm. Stevens said that the club was a good start, but she needed more information that will put Dray and his drugs at that party in Grosse Pointe. I have to be like Papa Legba now—a trickster. So I will wear the costume, say the right things, and play the game to get what I need.
The girls outside the house don’t even look my way. Some come over to Donna and kiss her on both cheeks. A lady comes out of the house with long flaming-red hair and wearing enough makeup for a whole beauty contest. She is so tall that the top of her head brushes against a nearby tree branch. My eyes are glued to her tight purple dress that sparkles in the late-afternoon sun under her light-brown fur coat. She looks like jewelry, or something that belongs in a store window. She must be a mannequin.
“Hey, Miss Sandra!” Donna calls out, and goes over to hug the mannequin.
“Hey, baby girl!” the lady shouts back in a deep, booming voice, catching me off guard.
I have never seen something so beautiful and strange. I stare at Miss Sandra from the top of her head to her feet. She has on the same black high-heel boots as Donna. They go over her knees and reach up to her thighs.
“You look like you just seen a haint!” Miss Sandra says, with her voice like the bottom of the ocean. “Come on! You need a fairy godmother to work some magic on you, honey.”
Inside the Unique Hair Essentials house, there are more fancy ladies. Some with hair as long as their legs, others with eyelashes as long as their fingers. A short lady comes over to Donna and gives her a big hug. Then she pushes my cousin, taking me in.
“Let me see what kinda science project you done dragged up in here,” she says. Her voice is not as deep, but her slim arms are all hard, tight muscle.
I smile on the inside because I’ve seen this before in Haiti. This place is like a whole peristyle devoted to the children of Ezili. Posters of beautiful women with hair in all sorts of styles cover the walls. There’s a whole table just for plastic heads and their many, many wigs; hair dryers; bins filled with hair rollers of all colors and sizes; shelves lined with nail polish that look like an arc-en-ciel, a rainbow; a dress rack full of bright, sparkling clothes.
“Hello, Ms. Science Project!” the lady says, holding out a hand to me. It’s soft, soft, as if she’s never scrubbed a pot. “I’m Ms. Unique, and this is my laboratory.”
“My name is Fabiola,” I say, still looking around at the other women, who are all much more than just women.
“Oh, Fabulous! I like her already.” She turns to Donna. “Your family sure knows how to pick those names, Primadonna.”
Unique walks away, twitching her small, muscular butt. Donna is already seated on a salon chair, and in front of her is a huge mirror with bright lights all around it and a table covered with all kinds of hair tools, makeup, perfume, and even glass bowls filled with candy. This is a makeshift altar for Ezili with all the things she loves in the world. My whole body tingles when I realize what’s happening.
Again, Papa Legba has opened another door. How could I have missed this? Of course, I need Ezili’s help, too. And she’d been right under my nose, working through Donna with all her talk about hair, jewelry, clothes, and beauty.
This is what Dray likes. This is why he’s with her. This is how I will get to him, too.
“Oooh, honey. What happened?” Unique says, and I quickly get up to see why she’s examining Donna’s face so closely.
Before Donna covers the left side of her face again with her fake hair, I see the swollen scratch marks. I hadn’t noticed how her wigs have been much thicker recently, how she’s let the hair fall to her face so that only her eyes, nose, and lips show.
“Oh, no, no, no! Come on, Donna. Let’s see it.” Unique tries to pull Donna’s hand away. “Miss Sandra, come see this baby girl’s f
ace.”
“Shit! Again, Donna?” Miss Sandra calls out. Two other women gather around Donna and I try to see her through the mirror, but they all block me.
“I will cut him for you, just say the word, D,” Unique says.
“Yes!” I call out. “Yes! That’s what Ezili-Danto would do.”
They all turn to me and say, “Who?”
I squeeze my way past them to get to Donna. Her wig is off and the scars are as clear as day. My heart sinks when I see how Dray has hurt my dear cousin. “Ezili-Danto, the lwa of vengeance for women. She has the scars on her face, too. And she carries a knife. She will cut a man or woman if she feels betrayed.”
“I hear that,” someone says.
“Yeah, well, I ain’t stabbing my man with no dagger,” Donna says.
The women talk over her and all I can think is Don’t worry, Donna. I will do it for you.
When it’s my turn on the chair, I let Unique add lots of fake hair to my head. It falls down to my elbows and it tickles the back of my neck. She tweezes my eyebrows and adds fake eyelashes, too. Already, I feel transformed.
I will wear the costume. I will say the right things. I will play the game. I will get Dray.
EIGHTEEN
AFTER UNIQUE DROPS us off, Donna rushes out of the car and bursts into the house, yelling, “I won, bitches!”
She opens the door wide to make way for my grand entrance. But Pri and Chantal are not in the living room—it’s Matant Jo and the four men who were here weeks ago. One of them is counting a pile of cash on the coffee table. Deep in concentration, he doesn’t even look up.
“Oh, nice,” Matant Jo says in her deep voice. “Donna’s trying to make you her Barbie doll?”
Pri and Chantal hear the shouting and come down—one shaking her head, the other with her mouth open.
Donna pulls me up the stairs and into her bedroom, where it’s a frenzy of finding the right outfit for my very new hair and my very new face. Again, I put on a dress, pose for pictures, change into jeans, pose for more pictures. And finally, I’m settled in a pair of tight black pants and an even tighter denim shirt that makes my breasts look much bigger than they really are.