“Hear me out, Sharon.” Grandma continues, “It’s clear as to why you’ve been avoiding me.” Then—whoa!—Grandma goes all the way to Jerusalem and back to admit that she’s made some mistakes, and that maybe she shouldn’t speak every thought on her mind because if her parents were so down on her, then she’d think twice about visiting too.
“What I’m trying to say is—you’ve got to do what’s best for you and Genesis. I’ll understand if you need to, you know, go back . . .” Grandma’s voice breaks.
I’m sneaking up the steps, straining to hear the rest of Grandma’s speech, but with this darn laundry basket in my hands, I trip and drop it.
“Genesis?” Grandma calls out. “You fall down them stairs again?”
“No, ma’am,” I say, then louder: “I’m all right.” I crouch there, waiting to see if Mama’ll come check on me. Instead, I hear her softly say, “Thanks, Ma.”
Something’s wrong with me. I should feel good about this, but I don’t. It’s not like I don’t want to go back home, to our beautiful home. But what about the five years of trying to help Dad get better? Or the “Go to Alcoholics Anonymous or otherwise”? Dad hasn’t done anything to deserve us coming back. Heck, he should have to do more than beg and make promises. He should—he should act like he wants us home. Is that even possible?
When I finish picking up the spilled laundry and step into the kitchen, Grandma’s face is shiny and Mama’s eyes aren’t as tired looking. I try not to stare. But I’m sorta amazed. After all this time—the preaching and family traditions—Grandma has had a change of heart. Well, shoot, anything’s possible, then. So maybe, just maybe, after these last few days, Dad’s changed too.
Boy, was I wrong.
When we get home Sunday evening, the first thing Dad says when Mama goes to put her bag back in their bedroom is not about his missing liquor, but, “Well, that didn’t last long.” And the second thing he says is, “Been practicing for your show, Chubby Cheeks?”
Wishing my eyes could shoot lasers, I glare at him, then storm to my bedroom. My shirt—my stupid, ugly shirt—is still on the floor. It’s exactly where I left it, covered in streaks of makeup. It’s there, taking me right back to Wednesday night. I snatch it up in both hands and pull, but it won’t tear. I yank again and again, but nothing. I dig out my scissors. And slash. I slash it in two, and I slash it again, and then rip it apart with my hands. Slash and rip. Slash and rip till there’s nothing left but shreds. For years I’ve had this shirt, and now I gather the scraps and dump them in the bathroom trash can. No more pretending. No more swinging my hair and flicking my wrists. And no more imagining me singing alongside Dad.
But just then, I catch my reflection in the mirror. And the voice—Dad’s voice—has been waiting.
Naw, she ain’t nothin’ like me. . . .
“Shut up.”
You were supposed to come out looking like her.
“Shut up, please.”
Who you think’s gonna love you with the way you look . . .
He’s right. He’s right. He’s right!
And I hate him for it.
And I hate that I’ve tried everything—and nothing works. What. Does. It. Take?!
There, in the corner, is the bleach.
The label warns dangerous. But the label also promises to whiten. Brighter than bright. Disinfects ugly, black mold, too. Turns everything sparkling white. I fill the tub with water so hot that steam rises. I uncap the bleach. The smell is strong, but I pour a tiny bit in the tub. Then a little bit more. And then I undress with a prayer: Lord, let this water lighten me.
Wait—what if it burns? I slowly, carefully stick my hand in and wave it through the water. I count to ten, and then twenty. No burn.
I step one foot into the hot water. And then the other.
Reason #75: Because she’s tired of trying to be friends with the pretty light-skinned girls.
I hold the sides of the tub, and ease myself in.
Reason #63: Because she doesn’t have straight hair.
I ease back and let the bleach soak into my pores.
Reason #84: Because she can’t stop adding to this list.
I slink farther down to drown everything out, but not too deep—can’t get my hair wet. And I try not to care, but I do. I try not to hurt, but I am. I try not to feel, but I can. And so I say, “Forget it,” and squeeze my eyes tighter than tight before dunking my head under the water. When my lungs are about to explode, I burst out of the water. It had to be, what, seven, eight minutes of being in the tub. And I’m still black. The stupid bleach doesn’t burn; it doesn’t even offer a tingle of change. Not even where my scabs are. And now my hair needs restraightening!
There’s a knock on the door. Then quietly, “Gen?” I don’t answer. “Genesis?” Mom says in her answer-me voice.
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Mama says.
I wrap myself in a towel, and wrap another around my head. It’s as if Mama gives me time to dress because as soon as I get my pajamas on she’s cracking open my door. “Hey.” She comes and sits on the edge of my bed, looks up at Billie Holiday.
“You added a picture? To your wall?” Mama asks. “It looks nice up there.” She pauses, as if she isn’t sure what to say. “I still have to check for that movie. Keep forgetting . . .” is what comes next. Almost a minute goes by before she comes out and asks, “Do you want to talk?”
I glance toward the door. “Where is he?”
“Your dad? He’s . . . he’s in our bedroom. You don’t have to worry about him.” Mama rubs my back and asks once more, “Anything else you wanna talk about . . . like the night we left?”
Eventually I’ll have to explain why my face was covered in her makeup. “No,” I say, but then quickly change my mind. “Yeah. Why we come back this soon?”
“Because—” Mama pauses, and I wonder if she even knows why. Then she says, “Honestly, I’m just not there yet, to completely walk away.” Huh. Seems to me Mama was mighty close to her breaking point last Wednesday when she was beating up the steering wheel.
Even so, her answer is one that I can accept. Because truthfully, I’m not ready for us to move away from Dad either. Not that I’m not done with his drama, because I am. But we can’t go because—and it’s killing me to admit this—but if we leave for good, then I’ll never truly be his baby girl . . . he’ll always see me as . . . nothin’ but Chubby Cheeks from the basement! And I ain’t no Chubby Cheeks, get what I’m sayin’?
“You think those meetings really gon’ help?” They haven’t done a thing yet. Then I catch myself because heck, even Grandma’s coming around.
Mama twirls her hair, thinking. “Your father, his pain is deep rooted from when he was a kid. I’m not saying this to—” Mama gazes off now, her eyes troubled. “I just don’t understand why he gets so mean toward you.”
That’s easy. “Because he hates me.”
Mom looks shocked. “He doesn’t hate you!”
“Yes he does, and you know it. You were right there in that basement when he said I was nothin’ like him. You hear him talk, all the time about how I don’t look like you. Even Grandma notices. Shoot, I don’t blame him.”
Mama’s lower lip is trembling. I don’t want her tears, ’cause she already knows the truth. But then she surprises me. She collects herself and says, “When you were born, you were this tiny, light-brown ball of joy. And your dad . . . he was so proud . . . except when my mama said things like, ‘See how dark her ear tips are and those cuticles, that’s how dark she’s going to be.’ ” Mama half smiles, remembering. “That made me happy because I didn’t mind having a chocolate baby. I didn’t want you to be picked on for being light like I was.”
“Wait, you got teased?”
“All the time. People called me ‘stuck-up’ and ‘Lite-Brite,’ and a whole bunch of other names. I’ve never told your grandmother, but I was in a couple of fights.
’Course, she loved when people told her I looked white. I hated it ’cause at school it was, ‘Oh, you think you’re cute,’ and ‘You think you’re better than everybody, I’mma beat you up.’ I got all that.”
Dang, that’s what I—oh no!—thought about Nia.
“And my hair was even longer than it is now. My mother never let me cut it—she was proud of it. But it wasn’t her head being yanked all the time. I got so many threats from other girls. One time I got so tired of the threats that I chopped it off. To my ears! I got a good beating for that.” Mama dabs at her eyes, but now I can’t tell if it’s because she’s laughing or crying. “Every day she reminded me that I was better than most Blacks. Not because I was smart or kindhearted, but because I was light-skinned. Light-skinned. Can you believe it? She’d say, ‘Sharon, you could marry—’ ”
“Mama, that’s it. Don’t you get it?” I say, it’s all clicking together now. “I’m not light like you—that’s why he hates me.”
“What? No,” Mama says, fast.
“Yeah, it is. And it’s all because of Grandma and that stupid brown bag.”
“Brown bag?”
“Grandma . . . she told me about the brown bag and how she pulled it out with Dad,” I say, fiddling with my fingers.
“Did she.” Mama waves her hand as if waving the bad thoughts away. “It’s not the bag, baby. Your daddy, he loves you. It just seems the older you got, the angrier he grew. When you were about eight or nine, it’s like a light dimmed in him. He used to tell me how his own mother treated him, calling him ‘no good’ and ‘trifling’ and ‘black this and that.’ So I thought he’d be the opposite, knowing the hurt that meanness causes. . . .” She trails off, thinking.
Maybe that’s why Dad doesn’t talk about his mama. No good. Triflin’. Black this and that. His own mama didn’t even think he was one of the good ones? “So why did his mom dog him out?”
“Don’t know for sure. But my guess is that because his father abandoned them, all the anger and bitterness she held for him, well, she took it out on your father. And I know it seems like I’m always making excuses for him, but . . . he’s had a bad childhood. And maybe I feel guilty, especially for allowing stuff like the brown bag to happen. I didn’t even realize I was stuck in the habit of defending him, or rather defending the man I chose to marry. I felt like, if I didn’t defend him, then my mother would be convinced she was right in the first place, see?” Mama stands up and stretches. “And still, still I keep waiting for him to come back around to being your proud daddy.”
“Yeah,” I say, “me too.” Then I can’t help but ask, “Do you believe it? The family tradition?” I want to ask if she regrets marrying Dad, but hold back.
“The brown bag is . . . such an old way of thinking. A wrong way of thinking. I know it’s history, and I really am ashamed it’s our history, but you can’t believe in that. You just can’t.”
Yet, and yet, Mama’s always complaining about doing my hair, calling it “that head” or “tangly mess.” She believes it at least a little. It peeks out when she describes someone dark complexioned and adds: “But he or she’s still good looking.” Mama may not mean it; in fact, I know she doesn’t, but it’s there, under the surface. That’s why tonight, now, I let her make me pretty the best way she knows how, by washing my hair. She doesn’t even ask why my hair’s wet in the first place. She blow-dries it even though that’s my job, and we don’t have a meltdown. Mama presses my tangled hair without a word about how thick it is. Even though she’s drained, she still straightens it. And me? I’m too grateful to care that a thousand-degree hot comb is millimeters away from my scalp.
That night, when my head falls on the pillow—smelling of BB SuperGro—I have a fitful dream of Dad in a clown’s mask, cutting off my long, straight hair. But then there’s something else. A familiar smell. A favorite smell. The smell of Dad’s famous shrimp. A real smell. It wakes me up. Yet I don’t move. It beckons me to come, but I don’t budge. Dad is tempting me with a plateful of apologies. I know this for sure because I hold my breath, lie very still, and I can just hear it . . . the groan of the hardwood under his feet. He stands outside my door.
I roll over and pretend to be asleep.
nineteen
When chorus is over on Monday, I help Mrs. Hill by neatly stacking all the sheet music. She is giving Nia advice. “Go ahead and be daring. That’s who you are, and you have to be true to yourself, right?”
I want to join them, but I’m not one to stick my nose into someone else’s business uninvited. Still, I can’t help but ease my way over and nod at the right times, as if I’d been included in the conversation from the get-go.
Nia says, “I’m trying to figure out if I’m dooming myself with an original piece.” Then, to my surprise, she turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Me? Well, sure . . .” I hesitate.
“So you agree with Mrs. Hill, then?” For the life of me, I can’t recall what Mrs. Hill just said. “You wouldn’t tune out an original song, especially when everyone else is doing top tens?” Nia presses.
“No, I’d listen.” They both look at me so intently that my brain freezes, until Mrs. Hill nods for me to continue. “Like, your essay was amazing. No one else wrote so deeply about a book, or read theirs the way you did. If your music’s the same way, then you’ll win. For sure.”
Nia studies me, lifts her chin in acknowledgment. “Thanks.”
Mrs. Hill agrees. “I keep encouraging Nia to stop playing it safe. Don’t sell herself short.” She turns to Nia. “You’re so gifted,” she says. “And you, Genesis, have a voice alive with raw emotion. I encourage you, too, not to disappear behind your fears. You girls don’t know what you have. If I was your age”—Mrs. Hill snaps her fingers—“I’d strut on that stage and turn that place out.”
“Okay, I hear you, Mrs. Hill. I needed that.” Nia grabs her binder and waves good-bye.
“Did you need something, Miss Genesis?”
“Yes, I wanted to give you back your CD.” I don’t tell her that I can’t listen to it anymore, that Ella’s voice is now forever drowned out by Dad’s mocking claps.
Mrs. Hill takes the CD. “How did you like Ms. Fitzgerald?”
“She has a great voice, but half the time she, like, doesn’t even use words.”
Mrs. Hill laughs. “That, my child, is called scatting. Like we did in class the other week. It sounds like nonsense words, but it’s a technique that some singers—good singers—do to make their voices sound like instruments. Here, let me show you.” Mrs. Hill guides me to her piano.
“You sing, Mrs. Hill?”
She raises one eyebrow saucily. “I’ve done some singing in my day. Do you have time for a few scatting exercises?” I tell her yes, so she sits, plunks at various keys, and has me mimic the sound. “Good, but a little less staccato. And one more thing, good singers have good posture. When you collapse your sternum, you can’t get breath from your diaphragm.”
Grandma’s words snaps at me, Pull your shoulders up, stop hunching. Yet, Mrs. Hill’s calm pushes me past this moment. “Stand with your feet shoulder width apart. Good. We artists feel everything. We’re very vulnerable beings, and sometimes we collapse our bodies without even knowing. It makes us feel safe. We have to fight that. Now, repeat after me.” Mrs. Hill starts be-bop-de-bop-ing. I echo her. Let me tell you, it ain’t easy, but scatting is kinda fun!
“Now, going back to Ms. Ella Fitzgerald. Scatting is usually improvised. It takes confidence—there’s no room for doubting yourself. So maybe give her another listen.” She closes the piano. “And like I told you before, you have a gift. You should really consider auditioning.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her. And then I ask, “Do you take this much time with everybody?”
“Come on out, class, she’s on to me,” Mrs. Hill calls out behind her. After a moment she shrugs and says, “I guess just you,” and quickly adds, “and, maybe a few others.”
W
hy me? I ask, but only in my head. So—she really thinks I’m good enough for the talent show?
People always talk about believing wholeheartedly. I’ve believed a lot of things in my life, even prayed hard about them too. But hardly any of those wishes ever came true. So, what if I make it into the talent show and believe with all my heart that I’ll win, and say somebody else believes with all their heart that they’ll win too. Which one of us will take home the prize?
Tuesday’s lunch is chicken fingers. Not chicken nuggets—chicken fingers. And they’re good. But I have to scarf them down because today Mr. Benjamin announced a math test on Friday, and Troy has to help me work a miracle. Yvette and Belinda are a few tables over, sitting with some other girls. I try not to stare; it’ll make me seem too thirsty. But I’m imagining me on the other side of Belinda, leisurely sipping my juice as we joke and laugh. As soon as I’ve finished eating, I stack my tray and hustle to the library.
Up the hall a bit is Troy, with two other guys. Because of all our moving, I’ve learned to pick up on body language. The taller guy tags Troy in the chest. I step up my pace, but by the time I reach them the guys take off.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Troy says, but he sounds annoyed.
“Friends?” I say, nodding in the direction the guys went.
“No, I wouldn’t call them that.” Troy opens the door to the library. “You ready? Got a lot to cover for the test.”
“Yeah, that thing,” I say, bumming because one, Friday’s test, and two, Troy technically didn’t answer my question. He’s hiding something, for sure, but I don’t press him.
We find an empty table, and Troy pulls his textbook and some paper from his bag. He turns to the work pages at the end of the chapter and has me solve them on my own while he watches. Which, let me tell you, is nerve-racking. Every time I finish a problem, I glance over to see if it’s right, but his game face is tighter than Mama’s. When I’m done, he circles the ones that I got wrong and goes over my mistakes.
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