Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl

by Carolita Blythe

  “Some water, please,” she says, her puckered lips all white and peeling. I run to the kitchen and take a glass from the china cabinet, but I have to be careful of all the broken glass and stuff on the floor. The water from the faucet gushes brown when I first turn it on, so I let it run a little while before filling up the glass. When I get back to the bedroom, I have to take the pillows off the floor to help prop her up a little. She makes these slurping noises as she drinks, and she holds the glass as if it’s the most precious jewel ever. I just stand there with my hands in my coat pockets, listening to the slurping. I’m trying to figure out how to make my exit.

  “Maybe I can call a doctor for you,” I say. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

  She just shakes her head. “I don’t much like hospitals,” she says.

  “But maybe you’re really hurt.” I’m feeling a little better now because she doesn’t seem to remember me.

  “No hospital,” she says again. “I’ve lived a lifetime. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it in my own bed, in my own home.” She finishes the water, so I walk over to take the glass from her and rest it on her nightstand.

  “Look at me,” she says. “Bathed in my own urine. What a life.” And I look away because I know she wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for me.

  “In that dresser there,” she continues. Only, she doesn’t point or anything. Just looks toward it. I guess she notices that the drawers are all on the floor. She adjusts her eyes downward.

  “I have some sleepwear.…”

  I walk over and skim the piles of stuff on the floor. I pick up this ruffly flannel nightie, then walk over to the bed, put it down, and back away. She picks it up and tries to raise herself off the pillows, but for all the breathing and grunting going on, she doesn’t get very far.

  “I don’t know if I can do this by myself,” she says. I don’t know what she expects me to do. “If you can just help me get this sweater off.”

  Okay, I can do that. I unclasp her colorful flower brooch, careful not to poke her accidentally in the neck with the pin part as I pull it away from the sweater. Then I tell her to raise her arms, and I just yank the sweater up. Only, from all the groaning and moaning she’s doing, I’m not so sure I’m not breaking one of her arms.

  “You okay?” I ask. She nods. I figure my job is done, so I start backing up.

  “I’m going to need a little more help,” she says.

  I glance at the white button-down shirt she has tucked into her gray slacks, wondering exactly what form of help she’s looking to get from me.

  “The shirt,” she says.

  So I walk back and start unbuttoning it. And as soon as I get it open, I see all this wrinkled chicken-looking skin dotted with spots. And there’s this mole just below her collarbone, and it’s got like three long white hairs growing out of it. Good Lord! I just shake my head, suck in a breath, and lean her to the right side so I can pull her arm out of the left sleeve. Then I lean her to the left side and do the same with her right sleeve. Even though she’s skinny, the skin on her arms is all saggy and loose, like it’s not really attached to the bone. And she’s wearing this beige bra, but I’m not sure what purpose it serves, ’cause I’m standing there looking at these two really old, deflated balloons. Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad anymore about not having any breasts at all, because when I get older, there’ll be nothing to sag.

  I fold the shirt in two and lay it at the foot of the bed.

  “And now for the trousers,” she says. I guess I shift my eyes a little, ’cause she then says, “I’m not proud to have to ask for help taking off my own clothes. I’m not proud to have a young girl looking at this body, but what choice do I have?”

  Honestly, I don’t want to have to help this little old woman get naked. I’d rather scoop my own eyeballs out with a rusty spoon. I try to think about things logically. If I help her, then I will have gone above and beyond anything that could be expected of me, and all my recent bad luck will be reversed. So I just count to ten really fast, take a big breath, and go back over to the bed. I’m trying to figure out the fastest way to do this. I take off her boots. Then I have to roll her over some so I can get to the zipper at the back of her pants. Then I slide it down and have to hold my breath for a second, on account of the smell of old pee. This is getting worse by the minute.

  I get her pants all the way down her legs and pull from around her ankles. And I thought her arms were rubbery-looking. She’s wearing these big nylon panties, but I can see her hipbones poking out from her sides. They look awfully sharp, like if I was to accidentally rub my hands across them, my palms would be sliced to pieces. She takes the ruffled nightie and slowly gets it over her head, then her arms. I help pull it down over her chest and her hips. But then she starts tugging at those oversized nylon panties.

  “Can you help me with—”

  “Nope, can’t help you with that.” I cut her off before she can finish getting the sentence out. She was about to utter words my ears don’t need to hear.

  “Okay,” she says quietly, then starts panting and breathing hard as she struggles to get the pee-stained panties off. Good baby Jesus! I’m realizing that it’s probably more uncomfortable to watch her than to just go over and help, so I turn my back, lift her nightgown, and without really looking, I pull the panties down her legs and drop them on the floor. She just lies there, breathing a little easier.

  “Thank you,” she says. I nod, and then there’s silence. She’s breathing more regular-sounding now, so I’m thinking I should probably make my move. Only thing is, I can’t seem to figure out what to say to excuse myself. And the silence goes on and on.

  “I’ll get you some food,” I finally blurt out as I run out of the room. I turn down the hall toward the front door, where her groceries are scattered. After picking them up, I head back to the kitchen. I really don’t know what to give this woman to eat, so I gather a little of everything: some bread, a jar of jam, a couple of pears, a box of wheat germ, and a jug of water. But as I reach for a tray, I catch my reflection in the china cabinet. I forgot for a moment that Mama sheared me like a sheep. Even my maroon knit hat can’t hide my complete lack of hair. I force my eyes away from that cruel image and head back toward the old lady’s room, where I lay the tray of food on the nightstand closest to her side of the bed.

  “Thanks,” she says softly.

  “That’s cool,” I say. “Okay, bye!” I try to make a mad dash, but her voice stops me.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “What?” I ask. I heard her. But I’m not as skilled as Caroline when it comes to lying, so I have to buy some time to come up with a good story.

  “I asked how you got in here.”

  “Oh. Well, this friend I go to school with lives in this building. I was waiting for her to come down so we could ride the bus together, and I was kinda bored. Well, you know, sometimes I play around with doorknobs. I always try them. It’s something weird I always do. But they never open. But then I tried yours and it opened, so … I mean, I wouldn’t have come in or nothing, but I saw you lying on the floor.” I stop talking and shake my head a little. The thing is, when you have to make up a lie on the spot, you can never tell whether it’s a good one or not—at least, I can’t. She just gazes at me for a while with her squinty, cloudy, Saran Wrap–covered green eyes. I mean, she’s really looking at me, and I’m getting very nervous. I start twisting my scarf around my neck like it’s a noose.

  “So, how come you were on the floor?” I ask.

  “Because some bad little girls pushed their way into my apartment so they could take my money.”

  “Really?” I say. Only, I don’t know how convincing I sound. “That’s a terrible thing to do to somebody.”

  “I’m glad you know that.”

  “Okay. Um, when did this happen?”

  “A couple of days ago, I believe.”

  “Oh,” I say. Man, I thought old people didn’t remember anyt
hing. “Well, I have to go. Your telephone is right there. Maybe you can call somebody to come look after you. Your family …”

  She makes this weird grunting sound and turns away a little.

  “I don’t have any,” she says softly.

  “Oh, okay. Then maybe your friends. Everyone has friends. Some people have lots. Me, I only have three, although two of them, I’ve been rethinking lately. Don’t even know if you’d consider them true friends. So I guess I really only have one definite friend and two possibles.” I realize I’m rambling, so I stop. “You do have friends, don’t you?”

  “Most have passed on.”

  “Well, that sucks,” I say. And then there’s the silence again.

  “Maybe you could come back sometime,” the old lady finally says in hardly more than a whisper. “If you can find the time.”

  “O-k-kay?” I stammer out, because I know full well there is no way in hell I’m ever coming back. “How about I get your phone number. You know, in case I can’t quite, uh, get … down here.”

  She looks at me for a while, and I do my best not to look away. They said on this TV show once that looking away from someone is a sure signal that you’re not being on the up-and-up.

  “Top drawer of the night table, there’s a pen and paper.”

  After I take down her number, I notice her still staring at me all weird.

  “Well, okay, got your information. And there’s the phone right nearby, so when I call, you don’t have to move very far for it. Or, in case you think of a friend, maybe, who isn’t dead.” I stop myself when I realize how stupid I sound. “I mean, in case you think of somebody to call. Well, I really need to get a move on. My friend’s probably taken off without me.”

  I don’t wait for her to say anything else. I just crumple up the piece of paper and stuff it into my pocket, then shoot out of the room and down the hall. I don’t even come to a full stop as I scoop up my schoolbag and flee that apartment.

  Maybe God doesn’t hate me after all. The old lady’s not dead, so there’s no possibility of me being brought up on criminal charges or facing eternal damnation—not for murder, at least. There’s probably a long list of other things I could be found guilty of. Anyway, now I can wash my hands clean of this incident. Personally, I think I went above and beyond what was necessary. I brought her food and drink, and talked to her a bit. And I looked at her naked body. Touched it, even. So if you ask me, I’ve more than done my penance. Disaster averted.

  I settle in to wait for the bus for school in front of a large poster advertising Easter candies in the window of a half-price discount store. I try to keep my focus front and center on the cars passing by and the people dodging in and out of traffic to make it across the street, but eventually I give in to the urge to turn and look at my reflection. I slowly ease my knit cap back. One good thing dealing with the possibility of a murder does, it allows you to forget that you look like a hairless cat. But with my mind now free and clear to concentrate on other things, I’m forced to deal with my suddenly changed appearance. There’s not even enough hair to cornrow, so I have to settle for a tiny Afro—and that style hasn’t been in since the end of the last decade.

  I think about not going to school, but then I’d just have to deal with it on Monday, since Tuesday begins our Easter break. But then what do I do the following week, and the week after that? I can’t possibly avoid school each and every day until the end of the school year in June, although it’s a thought. I mean, it’s only two and a half months away, Or maybe I should just take it one week at a time. Survive through Monday; then I have nearly a week off to figure out some sort of camouflage for this thing on top of my head.

  As the B41 pulls up, I look at my reflection again. I notice how big my ears look without any hair to offset them. Like satellites. Then I pull my knit cap so far down over my head my eyes are almost covered, too.

  Three people get off, and the bus driver keeps the doors open for me, but I don’t advance any. He calls out to me and I just stare at him. Finally, I take a deep breath and move forward. Might as well get it over with.

  * * *

  “Faye, you weren’t in first period,” Keisha says as she eases over to my locker and stands directly in my line of vision. It’s all for the best. There’s only so much I can take of Charlene Simpson giggling and throwing her hair back and casting her spell over Curvy Miller.

  “Got here right near the end, so it didn’t make any sense to go in,” I explain.

  “What happened? Did you oversleep?” she asks as she walks around to the locker on the other side of me, freeing up my line of vision to Curvy and Charlene just as his right arm coils around her waist like a muscular chocolate-brown snake. I look at Charlene for a moment. She twists her body a bit and balances on one leg, and all I can see is this round little curve of a butt. It’s just not fair. Even in our shapeless gray uniform pants, she looks good. My slacks always look as if they’re fighting to stay up on my hips, and barely winning at that. And forget it when the weather warms up and we have to wear the pleated skirts. Honestly, unless I’m wearing my undershirt, you can’t really tell that any progress has been made in the mammary department. I can only hope that one day something will curve, swell up on me, or indent. To think I’m less than six years away from being twenty and still pretty much waiting for puberty to kick in—how terribly wrong is that?

  My line of vision is interrupted again as Keisha crosses back over to the other side of me, and she follows my gaze.

  “Like I told you before, Faye, if you really want to have some time with your boyfriend without Charlene around, you should start hanging out at my place after school. Even though they’re on different teams, Curvy and my brother have become really close playing baseball. And since he lives nearby, he’s always hanging out at our house when they don’t have practice or a game, talking about strikeouts and earned run averages … and girls, of course.”

  “No, I’m good,” I say quickly. Truth be told, I wouldn’t know what to say to Curvy if I got the chance. It’s just that he has those dimples to die for, and those great arms, which I suppose he got from throwing that amazing curveball of his.

  “So you’d rather stare at him from afar? Why not just speak to him?”

  “I’ve spoken to him,” I say a little too defensively.

  “ ‘Oops, sorry,’ ‘Your pen fell on the ground,’ and ‘Did they run out of orange juice?’ is not speaking to someone. I mean, it is, but it’s not a conversation. Besides, you could talk to him and find out he’s not all that.”

  I just shrug.

  “Anyway, you didn’t answer me,” Keisha continues. “Did you oversleep this morning?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “You didn’t miss much of anything. It was all about East Germany again.”

  The bell rings, indicating we have about two minutes to get to second period before we’re officially marked late. There’s a flurry of activity as metal locker doors slam shut and kids secure their books and move off to class. I stare at Curvy as he and Charlene head our way, but he doesn’t look in my direction. Not even when his knapsack nearly decapitates me. He just keeps laughing and smiling and succumbing to the spell of perfection.

  “Faye, come on. We’re gonna be late. You know if Sister Margaret Theresa Patricia Bernadette shuts that door and we’re not at our desks, seated, well, that’s a whole can of worms I’d rather keep shut and sealed.”

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly. I stuff my coat and scarf into my locker and close the door, all without taking my cap off.

  “Why do you still have your hat on?” Keisha asks.

  “My head’s cold?” I say. Only, not so convincingly.

  “Well, you might be able to get away with it in some of your other classes, but that’s definitely not going to fly in religious studies.” Keisha lowers her voice all serious and steps closer to me. “That crazy old nun will yank it off with that crucifix that’s always dangling from her neck, i
f she has to.”

  Truth is, my head is overheating and I can feel the perspiration getting trapped in the knit cap. I look over at Keisha’s hair, which is all neatly combed and pulled into a ponytail with a red bubble clip. I look around at the Puerto Rican and white girls still milling around in the hall—their hair all long and cascading over their shoulders. I want to keep my cap on for as long as possible, but I know it has to go, so I suck in some air and pull.

  “Jesus, Faye. What did you do to your hair?” Keisha says as her eyes light up and grow bigger—almost to the hyperthyroid size of Caroline’s.

  “I don’t know, Keisha. It looks really bad, huh?”

  “Well, um. Not really bad, but … I think it’s a little uneven.”

  “Tell the truth. I look like the long-lost daughter of Mr. T and Grace Jones, don’t I?”

  “No. I wouldn’t say that. Anyway, short hair is in these days. Look at those models in Jet and Ebony. And what about Annie Lennox of the Eurythmics? You’re just being fashion forward.”

  “Thanks for trying to make me feel better. Even though you’re lying. Anyway, I didn’t cut it. My mother did.”

  “Why? Was she mad at you again?”

  “She’s always mad at me. But Caroline stuck gum in it.”

  “Why would somebody do that to somebody else?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I swear, Faye. I don’t know how you can say those girls are your friends.”

  “I told you before, they really helped me out when some of those other kids in the neighborhood weren’t so nice, or welcoming.”

  “Yeah, well, couldn’t you have just said thank you to them and moved on? I mean, what do you even talk to them about? What do you all do together?”