Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl

by Carolita Blythe

  “They’re releasing you to me,” she says. “I have a taxi waiting outside.”

  * * *

  I can count the number of times I’ve been in a taxi—four. Those other times it made me feel all snooty and upscale having someone drive me around. Today, the ride is not such a good one. After the old lady tells the cabbie to drive us back to where he picked her up from, she doesn’t say a single word to me. I just sit there staring out the window. I see these two little kids laughing as they skip on home with their parents. They look so happy. I’m pretty sure they’ve never had a day where some old, gimpy security guard’s heart gave out while he was chasing them.

  The old lady still doesn’t say anything to me as we walk down the hallway of her building. She doesn’t say anything as we walk into her apartment. She doesn’t even say anything as she makes the tea and toast. There’s only the sound of the plates rattling and the faucet running and her shoes on the tile floor. She doesn’t even really say anything when I ask to use her phone to call the sitter. I take that to mean she’s okay with it, so I go into the living room and talk real low once Ms. Viola picks up. Don’t really need Ms. Downer overhearing this little fib about me having to stay for an extra tutoring session.

  When I return to the kitchen, she hands me a tray with the tea and toast and butter and jam on it. I carry it into the living room and watch as she slowly maneuvers herself into the armchair next to the couch.

  “What time does your mother get home?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Around seven, I guess. Why?” But she doesn’t answer me.

  “You’re not gonna ask me what really happened?” I ask.

  “Would that change the outcome of things?”

  “But I wasn’t stealing the stuff. I mean, I was, because Caroline egged me on. But then I felt bad about it and changed my mind. I was actually trying to put the stuff back. And it wasn’t even my idea to begin with.”

  “It never is, is it?” And she fixes this heavy stare on me.

  “But I never meant for that man to get hurt. I mean, who has a heart attack while they’re chasing somebody? He wasn’t in any shape to be a security guard. Probably had a bad heart to begin with. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “No. And I was only there in the first place because I wanted to get some new clothes for our year-end ceremony. You were the one who said I shouldn’t be satisfied dressing like everyone else.”

  “So now it’s my fault too? Faye, you need to understand how your actions affect other people. It might not have been your intention, but you were still in there stealing, taking from people who were just trying to earn an honest living, from people who were only looking forward to finishing out their day at work and then going home to their families. That man won’t be making it back home to his family tonight. He won’t be hugging and kissing his loved ones. Now, maybe he wasn’t in any shape to be a security guard. But does that make what you did any less wrong?”

  “I know!” I yell. “I know. I’m horrible. Horrible! No redeeming qualities whatsoever. You think I don’t know that? I steal and I lie and I hurt people, and as much as I’ve been trying, I just can’t seem to do any good. I hurt that security guard just like I hurt you before. And I’ll probably hurt someone else in the future.”

  I shoot up out of the chair and go into the kitchen to grab my jacket and knapsack.

  “Where are you going?” the old lady asks.

  “I don’t know. Just away from here.”

  “I told those officers I’d look after you. And I meant that. At least until your mother gets home. If you step one foot out that door, I will call them back and have them explain to her what happened today.”

  I walk back into the living room and slam my knapsack on the floor. Only, since the floor is carpeted, it doesn’t have much of a dramatic effect. “I don’t get it. Why do you even care?”

  “Because when I look at you, I think of my daughter. I think of how her life might have been if I had done things differently. I think of how mine might have been. I think of the confusion and insecurities she must have had because I wasn’t there to answer all the questions a mother should have been there to answer.

  “Faye, you think you are this terrible person, and you’re not. You are a sweet, funny, imaginative young lady. And you act as though you don’t, but you care. If you didn’t, you would never have come back here to see if I was okay. But it’s as if you see weakness in caring. Maybe because you think your mom doesn’t care, although I’m certain she does. She simply doesn’t know how to show it. But just because she doesn’t treat you the way you should be treated doesn’t mean you have to treat the world the way you do. You’re better than that. You’re so smart. The world is there for your taking. I don’t want to see you throw that away. I care about you too much.”

  And then, all of a sudden, I feel my cheeks getting hot. And I feel my eyes blur with water. I swear, I can have somebody call me the worst names—stupid, ugly, not worth a damn—and I just roll my eyes and shrug. It’s like I’m Superman: bad words bounce off me. But I’m not used to anyone saying anything kind to me. I don’t know how to react. But I refuse to cry. So I tighten the muscles in my face and open my eyes real wide. I’m not about to make any noise. Not a moan or a wail or even a sniffle. But then I see the old lady stand and move over to me, and I feel her hands against my back, all bony and skeletonlike. I don’t want her to touch me, so I try to shrug away from her. But she takes a seat on the couch and leans in to hug me. And I feel how frail she is. And it’s becoming harder and harder for me to control the muscles in my face, no matter how much I scrunch it up.

  When she moves off into her room, I lie on the couch and replay the events of the afternoon. They’re going around and around in my head but I somehow manage to drift off for a while, because the next thing I’m aware of is her saying, “Faye, it’s nearly seven o’clock. Isn’t your mother home by now?”

  I spring up off the couch and quickly get myself together. Shoot. I meant to get back to the sitter’s before Mama got home.

  “One moment,” the old lady says. Then she shuffles off to her bedroom again. I want to go, but I wait for her to come back. When she gets to me, she’s wearing a beige sweater over her brown pants and shirt. She’s also put on a little beige hat. With her white skin, she sort of blends in with all that beige and looks like a Band-Aid.

  “You’re going out?” I ask.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Where to?”

  “Your home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a fourteen-year-old girl who’s had a very traumatic incident, and you need to tell your mother. And if I don’t go with you, you won’t tell her.”

  “Nah, I’ll tell her. I was gonna tell her.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That … well … I don’t know. Tell her what happened.”

  “If that’s the case, then why did I hear you leaving a message that you were still at school?”

  And all of a sudden, my head starts spinning, and I’m feeling dizzy and outside my own body. And my stomach is starting to do backflips, like there’s an acrobat in there. Or maybe it’s Nadia Comaneci dismounting from the balance beam to a perfect ten. Whatever it is, I don’t feel that well. And I think about just pushing the old lady down and running.

  “Why do I have to tell her?” I ask.

  “She’s your mother.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t know her. She’s not gonna understand.”

  “That you witnessed a man go into cardiac arrest and almost die? I don’t care how difficult she might be. You’re her daughter and she needs to know. Besides, the police might need to get in touch with you again, and then what?”

  “Then you can come with me.”

  But she’s obviously not about to listen. I try everything to change her mind, but it doesn’t work. And so I labor down Parkside Avenue like I’m heading off to my executi
on. If this old woman whispers a word to Mama about what took place at the Dressy Dress Mart, I’m no longer of this world.

  It’s staying lighter a lot later now, and as I look off into the sky, I catch sight of the most brilliant oranges and purples and pinks as the sun gets ready to set. I try to think of a thousand ways of getting out of this situation. I’m a pretty fast runner, so if I took off down Flatbush Avenue like the Flash, the old lady would just have to let me go. I mean, look at how slowly she moves. I could make a break for it, stay away for a few weeks, and when I came back, she’d probably have gotten over it. My brain tells my feet to go, but I look over at her and how she’s concentrating so hard on each step she takes. And I think about how her hug felt and I think about how I never really had a grandma. I think about the nice words she said to me. I think about how we met and I just sigh. I want to make my big escape, but I just can’t seem to.

  The thing about my apartment building is, it pretty much blends in with the others on my street. It has six floors, like most of the other buildings, and it’s made of the same reddish-brown brick. It has fire escapes zigzagging across some of the front windows, and a fairly long walkway from the street to the lobby. But as I round the corner from Bedford Avenue, it suddenly seems so prominent. It’s as if someone has replaced it with the Empire State Building. And as we get closer and closer, my entire body starts to get cold. I’m thinking this is how people about to face a firing squad must feel.

  “This is my building,” I say as we turn down the walkway. Moments later, I’m standing in the lobby looking at the call box and at the apartment number, E11, but I just can’t press it.

  “Go on,” the old lady says softly.

  I swallow, but my throat closes up a little. Finally, I take a breath and push the number. We wait a while and there’s nothing. And I’m thinking, Maybe Mama isn’t home yet. Maybe there was a fire in the subway and they had to evacuate her train. I get ready to let out a sigh of relief when there’s this crackling sound followed by the words, “Faye, is that you?”

  “Hi, Mama,” I say. Before I can finish, there’s this loud buzz. I push the front door open and hold it for the old lady to walk through. As the elevator climbs from floor to floor, I start feeling a little faint. At least, I’m feeling the way I think people probably feel when they’re about to faint, considering I’ve never passed out in my life.

  I don’t say anything when Mama first opens the door. I just swallow really hard. But her piercing look toward Ms. Downer prompts me to speak.

  “Mama, this is Ms. Evelyn Downer.”

  Ms. Downer nods and smiles a little, but Mama just keeps standing in the doorway, puffing away at a cigarette and staring at her. Then she sighs this big “Woe is me” sigh and shakes her head.

  “What the hell did you do now, Faye?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Then who the hell is this woman with you and why is she here?”

  “There was an incident today,” the old lady begins. “Go on, Faye, tell her.”

  So, there I am, standing at the end of the long lonely hall with Ms. Downer, who Mama doesn’t seem to want to let in. I’m figuring that after Mama hears my story, she probably won’t want to let me into the apartment either.

  “All of a sudden, you can’t talk,” Mama says. “What did you do now? Go on.”

  “I didn’t do anything. I was in a store. And there was this security guard. And he ended up having a heart attack. The next thing I know, he’s lying on top of me like he’s dead. And the cops called Ms. Downer, so she came and took me back to her place.”

  Mama stands there staring at me, her right hand still holding on to the door, her left hand now making its way from the cigarette up to her forehead. Her eyes get real narrow and her face gets all weird and contorted. But then her face suddenly becomes still.

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I thought Viola said something about extra tutoring since your finals are coming up.” Mama looks over at Ms. Downer. “And why did the cops contact you?” But before the old lady can speak, Mama continues.

  “And nobody’s answered me yet. Who exactly is this woman?”

  “She’s my friend,” I say.

  “Your friend? You’re fourteen. This woman is … she’s … I really don’t know how old she is, but she probably has seventy years on you. What fourteen-year-old is friends with a senior citizen? And once again, why did the cops contact her? Come to think of it, why were cops involved in the first place? And why were you even in that store? Were you stealing shit again?”

  JCJ suddenly comes walking out from the elevator, whistling cheerfully.

  “Hey hey. Looks like a party in the hallway. What’s going on out here?” he asks.

  Mama blurts out something about me causing trouble again, so JCJ tells her to invite everyone in so we can sit and talk about what happened without the whole fifth floor knowing our business.

  So now we’re all in the living room. Me and the old lady are sitting on Mama’s ugly beige couch with the blooming flower print. I hate this couch. Why Mama won’t remove the annoying plastic that makes a crunchy noise and sticks to the back of my legs in the summer is beyond me. Anyway, Jerry’s sitting on one of the matching armchairs, which is also covered in plastic, and Mama just hovers there with a newly lit Virginia Slim between the middle and pointer fingers of her left hand.

  “So paint this picture for me. How the hell did you two meet?”

  I just shake my head and look down at the brown carpet, because it’s all about to hit the fan.

  “I was having trouble with some groceries and Faye helped me out,” the old lady says. And my eyes shoot over to her. I’m so thankful she left out that tiny little part about me ripping her off and almost killing her. I think Mama must have caught my look of shock and surprise, because she then takes a puff of her cigarette and focuses on me.

  “That what happened, Faye?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Hmm. Okay,” she says after another puff. “So how did this helping with the groceries turn into you two becoming bosom buddies?”

  “I made her a snack. We talked about school. I’m old. I’m not that well. I don’t really have anyone to talk to. I asked if your daughter could maybe pop in from time to time. She has.”

  “We’re still talking about Faye here?”

  “Yes.”

  Mama shakes her head and arches her eyebrows, then takes a really long drag.

  “Uh-huh,” she says. I can’t tell if she believes any of this. But it’s not a lie. It’s just a very carefully constructed and edited retelling of the truth.

  “So at this store today, tell me what happened. Only, I’d appreciate a little more detail this time.”

  The old lady starts saying something, but Mama cuts her off.

  “I’m speaking to my daughter, Ms. Downer.”

  “I apologize,” the old lady says.

  “I was in there with a couple of kids walking around looking at stuff. And the old security guard who works there, well, he just up and had a heart attack. And he sorta fell on me.”

  “And you didn’t provoke him any?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Lots of incredible things happening here. Let me ask you this: If it was just a heart attack, what were the cops doing there?”

  “Maybe they happened to be outside walking their beat,” I say.

  “And again, you called”—but Mama doesn’t say her name, she just points—“this person because …?”

  “She lives nearby, and I knew she’d be home. And I know you don’t like me disturbing you when you’re at work.”

  Mama turns to Ms. Downer.

  “Is this what happened?” she asks.

  “I only got there at the very end,” the old lady answers.

  Mama doesn’t offer Ms. Downer any tea or even some water, which I think is pretty awful. She’s old. Old people need to drink lots of liquids. But JCJ has some manners, and he brings her some orange
juice. Ms. Downer is in the middle of saying something when Mama suddenly mashes her unfinished cigarette into an ashtray and claps her hands together.

  “Thank you, Ms. Downer. It was very enlightening meeting one of Faye’s … friends. Jerry, please show Faye’s guest out. It’s getting late.”

  I continue sitting on that couch, listening to the wooden beads as they knock together, listening to the two sets of footsteps as they recede down the hallway. I try not to look up because I can feel Mama’s electric glare. I hear the front door shut behind the old lady, and as if that triggers her, Mama starts going off.

  “You call some old random white lady instead of your own mother,” she hisses at me. She’s standing over me all tall and strong and threatening.

  “Come on, Jeanne,” Jerry says as he walks back through the wooden beads, causing them to sway and clack together some more. “She’s a kid. She was scared. Probably didn’t want to worry you.”

  “You don’t know how sneaky she can be, Jerry!”

  “Jeanne—” Jerry starts to say.

  “You’re. Not. Her. Father. She doesn’t have one. Maybe if she did, she wouldn’t be acting like this. Maybe if that father cared enough to keep the family intact, none of this would be happening.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m not her father,” Jerry says quietly.

  “And maybe you should go on home tonight,” Mama says. “I need to have some time with my daughter.”

  If eyeballs were able to make sounds, mine would be screaming. I’m shooting Jerry the most pleading of looks, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on it.

  “Not my place to get in the middle of family,” he says. “So I guess I’ll see ya, Faye. Good night, Jeanne.”

  Jerry walks back through the wooden beads. His footsteps get quieter as he makes it farther down the hall. Then there’s an opening and closing of the front door. I keep staring at the beads as they move slower and slower and then come close to knocking into one another. I want to run my hands across them and have them make noise again, because with Jerry gone and Mama staring at me with fire in her eyes, everything feels so ominous and still.