Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl

by Carolita Blythe

  “Because that was my choice. I mean, do you see what’s out there? Besides, I’ve got enough to handle with my job, my daughter, and my God. Don’t have time for dating fools.”

  There’s this pause. Then a loud, “Hey, hey, huh. Hey, hey, huh. I love a woman who has a strong mind. I like to call it spice. And spice makes everything better.”

  Mama rolls her eyes, but Jerry just keeps on going.

  “I run a little company that ships barrels to the Caribbean. Barbados, Dominican Republic, Virgin Islands, Dominica even, so I’m more than stable enough to take care of my woman,” Jerry says as he winks at Mama. At least, I think it’s a wink. Who knows, maybe one of those greasy chemical drops finally made its way into his eye.

  Mama’s wearing her gray church suit with her black boots. The jacket stops just above her waist, and the skirt is just tight enough to show off her butt. When she gets up to help Aunt Nola clear the table, it’s as if her butt is a magnet and Jerry’s eyes are beams of iron. He can’t seem to look away.

  Dinner over, beautiful Lisa disappears into her room to stare at herself in her mirror or brood or do whatever she spends all her time in there doing, while Andre and I sit on the stairs watching the adults, who have moved into the living room. Aunt Nola gathers up her Otis Redding and Sam Cooke records.

  “They need to lose that old music and get with some Fat Boys and Run-DMC,” Andre mumbles.

  Ice starts going into glasses and rum and whiskey begin to flow. The music gets louder, the laughter comes more frequently, and some out-of-date dance moves start taking place between Aunt Nola and Uncle Paul on the brown shag carpet. As they hug and sway and giggle, I notice Mama moving away each time poor Jerry tries to sit closer to her on the couch. He leans in to whisper something, but she sticks a cigarette in her mouth, quickly lights it, and turns so the cigarette creates a barrier between her and Jerry’s face. Only, it’s coming way too close to his chemically treated hair.

  Uncle Paul makes his way over to them and motions for Jerry to go and dance with Aunt Nola. When Jerry does so, Uncle Paul takes Mama by the elbow and walks her into the dining room. I give Andre a look, walk down the hall, and sneak over to the edge of the dining room.

  “You got a good man in there and you don’t even want to give him a chance,” I hear Uncle Paul say. “You sit here screwing up your face and acting all holier-than-thou waiting for God only knows what to come in and steal you away. You’re waiting for Charles to come back to you, but you better get over it. It hasn’t happened in all these years, and it’s definitely not about to happen now that he’s found someone else.”

  “It’s just not fair,” Mama says. “It’s not.”

  “Jesus, Jeanne. Life’s not fair. Things happen. And sometimes there’s nothing you can do about it but move on. He was the first man you ever truly loved, and I know that means something. But Charles wasn’t perfect. And there are good men out there who are stable, who know that once you have a family, maybe it’s time to stop chasing pipe dreams. Jerry’s one of those men. And the older you get, the fewer good men you’ll find. Time doesn’t stop for anybody. One day you’re gonna wake up and find you’re not so pretty anymore.”

  That’s when Mama looks up and notices me standing there before I have a chance to duck away. But for the moment, she seems more embarrassed than angry. For the moment.

  “It’s time for me to be heading home,” she says. “I’ve had more to drink than I should have, and I need to get myself prepared for work tomorrow.”

  I’m hardly able to get my coat on and a couple of goodbyes in before she’s out the door.

  “All right now, Jeanne, I hope to see you again soon!” Jerry yells at her. And Aunt Nola comes hurtling down the stairs after us with a bag of leftovers. Mama takes it with her left hand, thanks Aunt Nola, then grabs hold of my coat sleeve with her right hand and starts pulling me through the gate and down the block, all the while huffing and puffing and hissing.

  “You’re a real piece of work,” she grumbles. “Stealing, lying, eavesdropping on grown folks’ conversations. Who knows what else you’ve been doing. But you mark my words, little girl. What goes around comes around. Keep this up and I promise you that one day soon, you’ll come to regret it.”

  It’s as if all the adults in my life are channeling each other. Was everyone sitting in on Devil Nun’s lesson about karma? The old lady said practically the same thing, and she and Mama are about as different as two people can be. Then again, maybe they’re not so different after all. Mama doesn’t really have that many people in her life either. The few friends she had, she’s driven off with her moodiness. If it wasn’t for Aunt Nola and Uncle Paul, there wouldn’t be anyone inviting her to Easter dinner. And I’m pretty sure they only do it because they’re related.

  Just call me a sucker. Because come Monday morning, I show up at the old lady’s apartment with some of the lamb and potatoes and green beans we carried home from Aunt Nola’s. I planned on never seeing her again, but I guess I don’t think anyone should have to spend a major holiday all alone, especially if they’re really decrepit and probably only have one or two holidays left anyway.

  “Who is it?” she calls out after I ring her doorbell, which is bull, because once again, I saw the light behind the peephole change, so I know she looked out and saw it was me.

  “It’s Faye. From the other day.”

  “How can I help you?”

  She cannot be serious. She’s going to cause me to rethink my good deed.

  “I brought you something.”

  It takes more than a minute for the door to finally open.

  “Here,” I say as I hold the plate out to her.

  “Didn’t think you’d come back,” she says.

  “Me neither.… So are you gonna take it or not?”

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I suppose I would have asked the same thing, what with the plate being all wrapped in aluminum foil and super-stuffed into a Ziploc bag so that it’s hard to tell what exactly is in there. For all she knows, it could be a big hunk of garbage or a dead baby squirrel or something. But in my defense, I had to go through some Mission: Impossible–type maneuvering to get it to her.

  While Mama was busy washing up, I transferred some of the food from the leaky tinfoil Aunt Nola had wrapped it in to a Ziploc bag. When I got to Ms. Viola’s, it immediately went into her fridge. Only, I had to write myself a note as a reminder to take it out before school. All that trouble for an old woman who is a complete ingrate. All that trouble for an old woman who just looks blankly at me with her peculiar eyes. I really don’t think people should have green eyes, only reptiles and cats.

  “It’s Easter dinner,” I say. “I mean, if you didn’t have it with anyone.”

  She just stands there in her doorway sizing up the package, not asking me to come in. I’m hoping she takes it soon, because my arm is starting to tremble from the weight of the food.

  “So, did you?” I ask.

  “Did I what?”

  “Have Easter dinner with anyone?”

  “No,” she says softly as she finally takes the plate. But in place of some gratitude, the woman straight-up insults me.

  “Tell me, are you still being a truant? Still looking for a place to hide from the cops? Hoping I’ll let you in?”

  “For your information, I have no intention of holing up in your apartment. I’m on my way to school right now.”

  “You’ve decided to go back?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have much of a choice. Believe me, I gave good thought to not showing up again until sophomore year, but outside of a major disease, I guess it would be kinda hard to explain a two-month absence. As it is, I’m gonna have to get creative in disguising the missed day that’s gonna show up on my report card end of semester.”

  “Then why go through all the trouble of not going in the first place?”

  “Well, what would you do if your mother chopped off your hair and left you look
ing like one of those village girls from National Geographic?”

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, it is, believe me.”

  She studies my face for a little while. “Let me see it.”

  “No way.”

  “I’m guessing you won’t be able to keep that hat on in school, so all your classmates will be getting an eyeful of it very soon.”

  “Most of them already have. You wouldn’t believe the humiliation, which is why I had to take that day off. I’d just as soon not have anyone set eyes on it again.”

  “How about you take the hat off now and show it to me?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s unbelievably ugly.”

  “Let me see it,” she says again.

  I sigh, look up and down the hallway, then slide my hat off. The old lady looks at my head for a long time.

  “See, you can’t even come up with something encouraging.”

  “Well, it is short. But it’s also thick, and it’s healthy. Just think, you could have my hair. Maybe there’s a little length there”—she bends her neck forward and points to the middle of her head—“but there are so few strands left, I have to spend half the morning arranging them in such a way to make it seem as if I have more.”

  “Where do you go that you need to care how your hair looks?” I ask.

  “I’m old, not dead,” she says. “I’ve allowed enough things to slide. But one thing I’ll never neglect is my hair. No woman should ever neglect her hair.”

  I go to put the hat back on.

  “Oh, lose the hat,” she says. “If you walk around owning who you are and what you have, people have no choice but to respect you for it. Besides, you shouldn’t put so much stock in what your classmates think anyway. It’s a given that high school kids can be complete idiots.

  “It’s your first day back from your holiday break—don’t walk into that school already defeated. You go hiding under that hat, those little idiots will definitely sense your discomfort. You go to school owning that hair of yours, they’ll have no choice but to get on board. And as for the ones who don’t, to hell with them. They’ll back down when they see your confidence. Pretty soon, they’ll find something else to fixate on.”

  I allow the old lady’s words to sink in as I turn and walk out of her building and down to the bus stop.

  * * *

  They’re still looking and whispering and pointing at me when I get to school, but it’s not as mortifying as it was that first day after Mama hacked off all my hair. I don’t know if I’m “owning” my new look the way the old lady had in mind, but I keep telling myself to hold my head high and let all their little comments just roll off my back. Whenever I feel my shoulders about to slump or my neck about to hang, I just take a deep breath and allow the air rushing into my lungs to help puff out my chest. It’s nearly impossible to stay hunched over when you’re inhaling deeply.

  By the end of the day, the whispering has died down significantly. And Keisha’s friend Nicole even mentions that the style is starting to look okay on me. By the end of the week, no one seems to even notice me anymore. I can’t believe I spent so much time obsessing like I did when there’s really nothing I can do but go about my business and wait for my hair to grow back. I never would have thought an old white lady with a big attitude and a little bit of hair could make a difference in the way I looked at anything, but she did.

  For the first time since we mugged the old lady, things are starting to feel normal again—with the exception of the babysitter situation. But all it takes is a week back at school for me to figure a way around that predicament.

  “I’m so happy you’re coming home with me and Nicole,” Keisha says as we come out from the Nevins Street subway station in Fort Greene. “It’s been so long since you’ve been over. We’re gonna have a great time. I promise.”

  “Keisha says your mom is kind of strict,” Nicole says to me.

  “Yeah, that’s an understatement.”

  “So how’d you manage to get out of having to go home this afternoon?”

  “Math study hall.”

  “What?”

  “Exactly!”

  Keisha laughs and shakes her head as we pass a corner bodega.

  “Think your brother’s home yet?” Nicole asks.

  “Nic has a crush on that freakazoid,” Keisha admits to me. “I don’t understand why, but whatever. And Nic, Faye has a crush on Curvy Miller.”

  “No, I don’t,” I lie.

  “And Faye doesn’t lie very well either.” Keisha laughs some more. “What are you gonna do if he comes over later? He probably will, you know. I’m not kidding about him being there all the time.”

  “Whatever,” I say quietly. “What Curvy Miller does is none of my business.”

  The boys who are hanging out in front of the barbershop next to the bodega call out “Yo, baby” as we approach. I kind of want to thank them for not singling any of us out like boys usually do. You know how they’ll yell “Yo, baby in the blue jacket,” or “What’s up, beautiful, with your little pink scarf on.” That can get pretty embarrassing, especially when you’re never the one wearing the blue jacket or the pink scarf. And I especially want to thank them for not making any comments about my hair. See, Keisha’s a cute girl. She looks like a slightly chubbier version of Janet Jackson. And even though Nicole shows miles of gumline when she smiles, she does have a fashion model–type body. With my recent physical alteration, I kind of feel like the third man down on the totem pole.

  Fort Greene is a pretty crazy area. It’s like the neighborhood has multiple personalities. Keisha’s house is eight and a half blocks from the station. We walk down a street lined with trees and the most beautiful old town houses, only to turn a corner and find ourselves in the middle of what looks like Armageddon. Two blocks later, it’s back to the tree-lined and elegant again. Unfortunately, Keisha’s street happens to be one of those that looks as if it barely survived the final world conflict. It must have been a great street once, but now there are all these gutted homes with boarded-up windows and doors. And half of these abandoned places are covered with graffiti. Keisha’s house is one of only a few that seem to have been spared whatever firebombing occurred. She said her mom and stepdad bought it three years before they were even able to move in. It took them that long to fix it up. But her stepdad is banking on the area getting better again. For now, they all live on the first floor and rent out the second and third floors to two other families.

  When we arrive at Keisha’s brownstone, our first stop is the living room. She yells out her brother’s name to make sure he’s not home yet, then heads straight for the liquor cabinet, where she grabs a bottle of rum, which she hands off to me, and three glasses, which she hands off to Nicole. She takes another little detour to the kitchen, where she throws a bottle of Schweppes ginger ale into the mix. Once she has all her ingredients, we run down her hallway and hole up in her room. Nicole plops down onto the bed while I curl up on a nearby armchair, and Keisha stands at the dresser and goes to work on her alcoholic concoction.

  Her room couldn’t be any more girly. Everything is pink or green or flowery, or a combination of the three.

  “When will your folks be home?” I ask.

  “Not before six, so we have plenty of time,” she says as she holds the bottle of rum up to the side of her face, as if she’s in an ad for it. “Now, this is a ten-year-old. The good stuff. Ray’s friend from Guyana got it for him for special occasions.”

  It’s kind of weird that she calls her stepdad by his first name, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “And today most certainly qualifies as a special occasion,” Keisha continues as she goes back to her bartending, mixing a little bit of soda with a whole lotta rum. Since I can’t really drink much alcohol without getting sideways, I can already tell that this is going to be an interesting afternoon. But I decide to go for it anyway. The rum doesn’t really taste that great, kind of like an all-purpose
household cleaner that’s been set on fire. After every sip, I feel as if some of the skin on my throat is being peeled off. Keisha definitely didn’t add enough soda to it.

  Nicole’s face is as contorted as mine as she drinks her portion, but Keisha seems to be handling it just fine.

  Halfway through the drink, my head starts to spin. And I’m laughing so loud that Keisha has to shush me, but her shushes are almost as loud as my laughing.

  “My brother’s gonna be home any second now. If he hears us laughing like this, he’s gonna know.”

  “Who cares?” I howl. “But what if Ray notices there’s not as much rum in the bottle as there should be?”

  “He’s not the one who usually drinks it. It’s my mom. She probably has to, to put up with him. He’s a handful.” And we giggle some more.

  “What if she notices?”

  “She’d probably think it was Kevin. But even if she found out it was me, she’d just sit around and lecture me about drinking and what it can do to my brain cells.”

  “You’re so lucky your mom doesn’t hit,” I say.

  “It’s on account of her always reading black history books,” Keisha says as she sits down on the bed next to Nicole. “She’s convinced that black people beating their kids is a learned behavior from slavery times. She says masters used to beat the slaves, then those same slaves would beat their kids. She says if she beats us, she’ll only be perpetuating the slave masters’ brutal ways.”

  Keisha and Nicole both have those “sit down and discuss it” type of civilized families. They met the first day of the school year and have been pretty tight ever since. They have a lot more in common with each other than I have with either of them. Nicole’s parents also own a house, nearby in Clinton Hill. And they have no problem paying full tuition for her to go to Bishop Marshall. Sometimes I wonder if Nicole would even talk to me if Keisha wasn’t in the picture.

  “You’re lucky,” I say to Keisha.

  Nicole closes the Vogue magazine she’s been flipping through and pops up from the bed.