The Kayla Chronicles

by Sherri Winston

  “Kayla!” she barked. All-American, once again. I blinked.

  “So you’ll do it, right, Kayla? You’ll do it, no more hesitation?” She moved in for the kill. “Do it and you’ll have the best inside high school journalism story of the year. JoJo told you she figured out her calling to be a professor when she turned fifteen. Now it’s your turn. Your calling is investigative reporting. And it’s calling you right now.”

  I couldn’t talk, so I just nodded. Rosalie reached out and pulled me into a huge hug. She was shorter than me, and in the mirror I felt like our insides had become as mismatched as our outsides.

  So it was official:

  My boy-breasts were about to become political prisoners in a high-stakes game of Popularity Death Match.

  Breasts so small shouldn’t be so much trouble.

  TO: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  FROM: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  How did you know about the letter?

  TO: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  FROM: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  My cousin, Giselle, she’s in that program, too.

  TO: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  FROM: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  Well, as if I don’t have enough to deal with, journalism department’s letter is reminding us to pay attention to local headlines and news and “stay aware” before our big orientation session later in the month.

  TO: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  FROM: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  “Self-development is a higher duty than self-sacrifice.” Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

  TO: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  FROM: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  Oh, no, not the quotes again. My whole body hurts from doing dance routine over and over; still not sure about this. Don’t think I’m ready for this.

  TO: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  FROM: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  U can do this, K. You’ve been dancing forever. U R an amazing gymnast. U R good enough to be on that dance team.

  TO: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  FROM: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  “I want a busy life, a just mind, and a timely death.”—Zora Neale Hurston. I’m all for the cause, but right now, U R killing me.

  TO: ladygodiva@bellnet.net

  FROM: dragonslayer@webtv.net

  “Where there is no struggle, there is no strength.”—Oprah Winfrey. U will vindicate others, like my cousin, Giselle, cut unfairly because of their measurements instead of their talents. G’night. See you day after tomorrow. Meet at your house before tryouts.

  FAMILY PORTRAIT

  How does the family outcast fit in the picture?

  For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?

  —Jane Austen

  Our backyard barbecue was a dramatic scene straight out of a Jane Austen novel turned on its head. What started out as the perfect opportunity to mock the relatives and observe bizarre male-female rituals among adult humans soon turned into a twisted, psycho-cultural soap opera that left me questioning my utter disregard for the institution of marriage and missing my grandmother more than I had since her funeral.

  The events were as follows:

  Mom caught up with me. I’d managed to sidestep her since the other day, but she finally got me. Wanted to tell me she was thinking about a part-time job with Metro-Zoo in Miami, doing a photo chronicle of the animals.

  “But I wanted to talk to you about it first. Maybe you and I . . .”

  She looked like she was going to suggest we needed to spend “quality time” together. I couldn’t handle “quality time.” Really.

  “Please, you should do it,” I’d said. Then I ran, almost getting away, but instead ran right into Amira and two of our cousins who were in the den watching music videos.

  “Kayla, wanna watch videos with us?” one of the girls asked.

  “She doesn’t watch television,” Amira chimed before I could answer. It was true. I tried not to watch much broadcast television. The commercials. The ads are designed to make people, especially women, feel inferior.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Why won’t she watch TV? Is she Amish?” asked the other cousin. I could never remember their names.

  Amira shook her head. “Nope. Just boring.”

  Later, while I sat in a lotus position channeling my yoga calm, Daddy Dearest stunned, stunned, STUNNED us all.

  Okay, here’s some info that won’t shock you, I’m sure:

  My father and I, we just don’t see eye-to-eye. Since retiring from the army, he’s been running his own construction firm. Very alpha male. When I tell him he’s “totally male,” he thinks it’s a compliment.

  It is sooo not.

  I call him either “Father” or “the Great Oppressor.” Amira calls him “Daddy-daddy.” Like she’s stuttering . . . or worse, in awe. The entire time he, my mom, and Amira were traveling, they’d come back here for extended periods of time. I don’t know why, but I just never felt comfortable around him. He’s nice enough, as males go, but after living with JoJo and it being just us, having a man around was sorta like entertaining a visitor from another planet. I just didn’t get him. And he didn’t get me.

  Earlier that night we’d snarled at each other because he’d “ordered” me to help serve side dishes to the guests. The male guests. I told him they’d all starve before I fed their male egos or their bellies. The Great Oppressor was not happy with that answer.

  So what? If the Great Oppressor didn’t want me to turn into a strong woman capable of independent thought, then, hey, he shouldn’t have left me in the care of a feminist literary professor. That’s all I’m saying.

  CNN UPDATE: Grandma JoJo and the Great Oppressor did not get along! JoJo said when my mom gave up her career to pursue “bridedom” it was the saddest day of her life.

  Seeds for ugly soap opera sorrow had been sown. The Great Oppressor got his revenge when he made his toast.

  He called my mother “his rock” and Amira “his princess.” Tipping his iced tea glass in my direction, he said, “Here’s to my oldest daughter, Captain Smarty Pants. She proudly carries one of my family’s strongest features—the family butt.” Everyone laughed.

  Oh, yuck, yuck. Quick! Somebody get BET on the phone. Looks like Comicview is missing a star.

  Mom gave him a quick shot in the arm that he pretended hurt. My spine remained supple. Inner calm was mine. I would not be rattled.

  At least, that was what I thought.

  But the Great Oppressor wasn’t finished.

  He disappeared inside for a second. Croaking frogs in the distance sang a chorus that didn’t quite harmonize with the jazz playing from Father’s iPod.

  He returned to the yard carrying a tray. He walked around the pool and told his brother, my Uncle Ray, to cut off the music. Something was happening.

  I drew in a deep breath and inhaled the salty, tangy scent of ripened mangoes and the lush scent of purple bougainvillea climbing lazily over the back fence.

  The Great Oppressor dropped to one knee in front of my mother.

  He said:

  “I was waiting for Mama to get here, but since she called and said she wouldn’t make it ’til tomorrow, I’ll go ahead.” His mother. My other grandmother. She was no Grandma JoJo, that’s for sure.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Alicia, you have filled our home with love. You have filled our lives with joy. You have taken my ordinary life and made it extraordinary.

  “When we got engaged the first time, I was so poor that I couldn’t even buy you a ring. . . .”

  Then my mother held up her hand, once again showing the tacky candy machine ring my father had given her almost twenty years ago.

  And like always, just the sight of that ring made me cringe. When an otherwise sane and ambitious woman can be lured from a promising career with ten-cent jewelry, well, I gotta think there’s a flaw in the system, right? That’s what JoJo used to say a
ll the time.

  Just to torture the Great Oppressor, I sometimes told him that I planned to have lovers but no husband, and when I got pregnant, I would shoo the man away and raise my illegitimate babies in a cabin in the woods. Maybe start an organic farm and sell apples at a nearby flea market.

  The Great Oppressor pulled away a raspberry-colored napkin to reveal a small black velvet box. A pear-shaped teardrop instantly twinkled on my mother’s cheek.

  He raised his head, then looked up and took her hand and thrust the ring forward.

  Watching him look all humble like that, so vulnerable, I can’t explain it. My throat felt tight.

  “I . . . ,” he stammered. He cleared his throat. Nervous laughter and the tense, sweet pull of anticipation tugged us all.

  He started over. “Baby, will you marry me . . . again?”

  Everyone applauded. All except Aunt Linda—and me. Aunt Linda, my mother’s sister, looked like she might hurl herself into the pool out of sheer disgust. She looked so angry.

  Immediately I wondered if I looked that way, too.

  Great Oppressor, uh, Father, gently put the ring on Mom’s finger. It was ju-mongous! Huge!

  And real.

  At any moment I expected fireworks to explode behind their heads in the inky evening sky to elevate the hokey factor yet another notch.

  It was hard not to smile because they both looked so happy. So crazy-in-love happy.

  Would JoJo have been proud of Mom tonight? Maybe accept my father a little more? Father couldn’t help that he was a man and therefore expected women to hand him the universe and keep it clean and filled with folded laundry and hot food.

  But my warm-and-fuzzies were destroyed by a single, insensitive Kodak moment. Uncle Ray was popping off pictures left and right. He said, “Man, let me get a shot of you with your beautiful family.”

  My father swept my mother up and pulled Amira into him with his other arm. Mom held up her hand and wriggled her new five-pound diamond at Uncle Ray’s camera. Father said, “I really am the luckiest man in the world.”

  Mom kissed one cheek. Amira kissed the other.

  Teeth flashed. Cameras flashed. Frogs croaked. And I realized:

  They made a beautiful family together. The three of them, cocoa brown skin, wide, expressive eyes, huge smiles.

  Together, they were the perfect family picture.

  Without me.

  And no one even realized that I wasn’t in the picture.

  I should’ve raised all kinds of commotion. I should have made them include me.

  I should have . . .

  But I didn’t.

  WHEN CHARIOTS COLLIDE:

  As subtle as Marie Antoinette at a cake tasting, Grandma No. 2 butts in; Kayla bugs out!

  CRASH!

  It was a quarter past six in the morning, and our house felt like it had been shaken.

  Metal sounds. Scraping wood. Did I mention that it was just past SIX IN THE MORNING?

  Then, nothing.

  No screams.

  No cries.

  Now, this will tell you what a beyond freakish family we are.

  Our house just shook like an earthquake that took a wrong turn and woke up under Florida.

  And you know the first words out of my father’s mouth?

  “Mama! Is that you?”

  No shouts or shrieks of panic. Just the simple, matter-of-fact statement. Once again, my grandmother, so refined and old-fashioned, had used her tank-sized, environmental hazard of a vehicle to take a chunk out of our garage.

  Classic!

  I buried my face in the pillow but knew any thoughts of sleep were now just dreams.

  Grandma Belle was supposed to be here yesterday. She missed the whole barbecue. Typical. So for the second time, Grandma’s large, gas-guzzling, oil-chugging automobile was wedged into the side of our garage. Our front drive curved and the garage sat at an angle.

  For Grandma Belle, it was a bad, bad angle.

  By the time I dragged through the kitchen and onto the redbrick semi-circular drive, Father Dearest was pulling her from the rubble.

  “Mama!” he groaned. Captain Dean, my big, bad, G.I. Joe father, at least six feet, four inches. All muscle.

  But let dear Grandma Belle show up, and Captain Commando was more like Private Pillsbury Dough Dad.

  “Mama,” he said, almost in a whine. “Are you all right?”

  She glided from the heap of metal. The front-end of her car, which struck the cobblestone façade of our garage, drooped, making the side of the car appear to smirk. Grandma Belle managed to look fragile, disoriented, prim, and totally in control all at the same time.

  “Oh, I declare, I just don’t know what is to be done about that silly old garage,” she said. “William, are you sure it isn’t in the wrong place? Maybe you should have your fellow Army Corps of engineers help you move it just a tad over that way.” She pointed and waggled her delicate fingers. Then she rearranged her hat and said, “I don’t know why you had to build your house in the trees, anyway. Not proper, dear.”

  My arms wrapped around me. I walked out toward the street and looked at the house. It was kind of shadowy. “Maybe you need better light out here,” I said.

  “Maybe I don’t,” he growled. Oh, in case I forget to mention it later, me giving any kind of advice or suggesting anything to the Great Oppressor sends him spiraling. Says I think I’m a genius.

  No, not me. Just Broward County, the state of Florida, and a 4.5 GPA. I fought back a laugh. Besides, I couldn’t let him know I disagreed with his mother. I loved that he’d had our house built like a grand tree house. It felt like we were isolated in the woods despite being minutes from the highway.

  “Grammy Belle,” Amira said, rubbing her eyes.

  “My goodness, my dear, you get more and more beautiful each time I see you!” She held Amira out at arm’s length and surveyed her body. “You’re filling out just fine.”

  Demolition Diva—that was my name for “Grammy Belle”— looked at me and blinked twice. I cleared my throat and said, “Good morning, Grandmother.”

  “Oh, come here, child. You are always so very formal with your dear, old grand-ma-ma.”

  Right on cue, she held me in front of her the same way she’d done with Amira.

  “Oh, Kayla, Kayla, Kayla. My dear, you’re getting to be a young woman. Soon we’ll be marrying you off.” Ewww!

  Before I had time to shiver, she added with a cluck, “But the hair. Oh, my! It is a bush, dear. A wild, wild bush!”

  It had always galled me and JoJo, too, I think, that even though I spent so much time with JoJo, I looked nothing like her. I looked like Demolition Diva’s side of the family. JoJo once said, “Baby, your connection to those people is unmistakable!”

  Undeniably, we shared the family butt. My soft brown complexion, button-like nose, and wide smile could have been plucked right off the Diva’s face.

  Inside I started the coffee. Mother got eggs from the fridge. Amira disappeared down the hall. And Father sputtered, “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” and “Can I get you something?” and “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Why don’t you lie down for a while and rest?”

  She shooed him away. “William, I am leaving for a seven-day cruise on Saturday. I’ll have plenty of time to rest. I am fine, my love.”

  Then she turned in my direction and I froze.

  “My church sister, Irene, has a grandson about your age. I’ve told her we should get you two together,” she said. She paused, cocked her head to one side, then added, “But first we’re going to have to do something with your hair. Tsk, tsk, tsk, oh, Kayla. Let us not forget, even though you’ve spent most of your life in Florida”—she said “Florida” like it was some sort of disease—-“you were, after all, born in Georgia. You are a woman of the South.”

  Gulp!

  My father grew up outside of Atlanta, and Grammy Belle liked to think she was the hottest thing in the city since Sherman burned it down in the Civil War. She
went on, “And you’re not still wearing those rummage sale clothes, are you?”

  “I wear resale clothes, Grandmother, because I refuse to get caught up in fashion trends. You know, my friend Rosalie’s mom says the entire retail industry is designed to get women to compete with one another based on a totally unrealistic and, may I add, unhealthy beauty ideal.”

  Hmph!

  I flinched, hoping hypocrite lightning didn’t zigzag out of the sky and burn me to a crisp. Truth was now that I was getting ready to go to Royal Palm, I’d been thinking, maybe being a little bit in style wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  Demolition Diva was undeterred. She said, “Oh, that Dr. X person is just a rabble-rouser. I’ll bet she doesn’t even shave under her arms.” The way she pulled her shoulders back and shuddered, you just knew that in her universe, unshaven female armpits were punishable by death.

  “Kayla,” Grand-ma-ma said, staring at my head, “dear, you’re going to have to do something with that bush.” Since I stopped getting a relaxer a few years ago, my afro had been kinky and curly and, well, let’s face it, unruly.

  I had envisioned that with my afro, I’d come across like some retro, butt-kicking version of the seventies icon Pam Grier.

  Instead of Foxy Brown, I was more like Frizzy Brown.

  Amira had spent most of her young life traipsing around the jungles of Africa with our parents. She had lived in huts and slept beneath mosquito nets. Yet, somehow, she came back here the crown princess of Europe with her relaxer-straight hair.