Genesis Begins Again

by Alicia D. Williams

  “I was just gonna invite you to my talent show,” I say, rushing the words. I tell him the date and that I hope he comes. He doesn’t say anything, and now I’m right back to wondering what would’ve been a lot easier. I turn to go and when my hand’s on the door handle, Dad stops me.

  “Genesis.” The softness in his voice makes me wait, hoping, stupidly hoping, that he says he’ll proudly come. I wait as he takes a drag from the cigarette, flicks it in the air, and says, “I am trying.”

  twenty-seven

  The very next afternoon, a tan package sticks out from our mailbox. It’s addressed to Mama, but the return address reads LUSCIOUSLY WHITE. Lusciously White? Oh, my cream! Dang, I’m lucky Mama hadn’t gotten the mail before me. Luck. That word just zinged me. Reminds me of Grandma talking about her family, marrying up, and how it wasn’t luck that made them lucky. It sure wasn’t luck that made her hold that bag up to Dad’s face or got him choking his words, It woulda been a lot easier. All that luck . . . yeah, that luck is exactly why this cream is now in my hands.

  Even still, I’ve gotta admit that my stomach is doing that squeezing thing that it does—but for a good reason, ’cause as soon as I get in my room, I tear off the tape and slide out the box. It’s, oh my gosh, pink and shiny, with cursive gold-embossed letters. Gold-embossed letters—now how can I stay mad? They’re so pretty; I can’t stop tracing them over and over again with my fingertip. When I open the box, I’m extremely careful not to damage it even a tiny bit. A small, folded piece of paper sits neatly on top of the jar, like a welcome letter. I carefully open it. Inside are testimonials, with before and after pictures. And at the bottom of the paper it reads: GUARANTEED RESULTS IN FIVE DAYS. Five days. You mean, I could look like Mama in five days?!

  I lift out the jar. It’s white with a shiny, gold lid. I hold it in my palm, but my hands are clammy. I place the jar down and wipe them on my jeans. Then slowly, slowly, I twist off the top, and there it is. Good-bye, ugly; and hello, beautiful! I’m about to dip my pointer finger in the cream, but my heart is beating so fast. Questions bombard my mind, and they scare me. Will this really work? What if, like, my face breaks out or something? Would my life really become less complicated? I picture the look on Troy’s face when he saw me reading about this stuff. And just like that, I’m not sure if I can do this.

  I stare at the swirl of white cream for a long, long time. Even that swirl of cream at the top of the jar is perfect. Perfect. Oh, I want to be perfect. I dip in my finger, put a little on my cheek and rub it in. I put a dab on the other. It slides on smooth like satin. It feels cool, soothing like moisturizer. Dip, dab, and rub. I can’t control myself, and soon I’ve slathered my face, hands, and neck. Then I pray the prayer I’ve prayed for so long: God make me beautiful, make me light, and give me pretty hair.

  After dinner Mama suggests we take an evening stroll. We haven’t done anything like this in quite a while, so it feels kind of strange. We stop at the corner, wait for a car to cruise by before crossing the street. We pass huge houses with drapes wide open. Flat-screen TVs and artwork can be seen through some of the windows. People are out jogging and some walking dogs. And once I finally loosen up, Mama drops the bomb on me. “We’ll need to start packing.”

  Packing? I knew it was coming, I knew it. But what about my friends? What about me finally getting math? What about Mrs. Hill and our special times after school? What about . . . what about the talent show? Dad has to see me sing—

  “Mama, we can’t move.”

  “Genesis, I know you and Sophia are becoming fast friends.” Then she slows her pace. “Believe me, it’s ripping my heart apart to know that we can’t stay. . . .”

  My staying isn’t only about Sophia. It’s about so much more. Never would I have imagined that I’d get the nerve to audition for a talent show—but I did. And it’s made people pay attention to me—Mrs. Hill, Yvette, Belinda, Nia, Jason. It’s as if I’m . . . popular. And bottom line—I’ve got to do that show next Friday. When these last words spill from my mouth, Mama says, “Okay.”

  It must be hard for Mama to stay. Dad’s not making it easy at all. Part of me feels guilty to ask her for anything, especially since she’s given up so much for so long—her dreams of being a dancer, a journalist, going back to college, and now staying in a house that she can’t have.

  “When do we have to move?”

  “Before they put us out,” Mama jokes. A gut-punching joke, but I ease out a chuckle for her. “No, seriously, they’ll have to file the eviction papers at court and stuff, but I need to save money. So that means we’ll move in with . . . Grandma.” Mama lets out a loud sigh.

  “Think we can stay till . . . the end of the school year, at least? Please?”

  Mama says she’ll try to make that happen, but no promises, especially with Dad not having a job. I thank her over and over again and add a reassuring “We got this, Mom!” And that’s when I do something that’s been long overdue, right there on the sidewalk, in front of somebody’s house with their curtains all open: I hug her.

  twenty-eight

  This Saturday morning, Yvette calls rehearsal at her place. I can tell Sophia’s still bothered by my joining the group, but says she understands, so I don’t feel too bad about going. Before getting dressed, I study my face for a change. Nothing. I’m on my fifth day already and nothing. I apply a layer of cream and prepare to leave. I’m super hype, not just about practice, but because today—Yvette’s doing my hair.

  Mama lets me go by myself to Yvette’s—well, only after walking me nearly to her doorstep—because come on, I can’t be strolling up Yvette’s sidewalk with my mother! She made me promise to call when I get inside. But I almost forget because Yvette’s house is fancy and huh-uge, huger than Sophia’s, but she doesn’t show me around. She leads me straight to her room, which is large and light purple and has a bathroom attached. You can go through the bathroom and cross into a whole other room.

  “Come on, let’s get started. Belinda, you ready?” Yvette calls out.

  Belinda springs up from a pink-and-white striped cushioned chair. “Yep.”

  Yvette presses on her iPod, which is docked on a station next to her bed. “This is the song we’re gonna sing,” she informs me. I haven’t heard it before. It’s a pop song that’s probably only played on white stations; it’s definitely not something that would ever be on FM 98’s R&B rotation. Yvette assigns the vocals and has already made up the moves! Just like in the auditions, she’s front and center, only now with Belinda and me slightly behind her. When I ask about the other girl, the one who’d been with them when they’d auditioned, Yvette waves her hand dismissively and says, “Don’t worry about her.” It isn’t until we finish one run-through that I realize that Yvette’s doing all the lead vocals, Belinda has a few, and I have one line. One line?

  “Hold on,” I say. “Are the vocal assignments set in stone?”

  “Yes,” Yvette says decisively. “We thought it’d be better to keep it simple, especially since we now have less than one week to teach you the song and dance steps.”

  “Yeah, it might be too much if you had to do all kinds of memorizing, don’t you think?” Belinda adds, her eyes baby doll wide.

  I start to protest, but have second thoughts. I better not pick an argument with the person who’ll be putting chemicals on my head in a few minutes.

  “So are we ready? Let’s run through it again.” Yvette claps her hands, and we swing our arms out to the sides, twerk during the bridge, and a few other moves that are easy enough for me to pick up. Yvette drills us on our marks and harmony, as if we’re just her background vocalists. But I don’t say anything. She’s doing my hair.

  When she’s decided we’re done, Yvette leads us to the bathroom. She has me sit on the toilet seat lid and begins to base my hairline with Vaseline to protect my skin. “You’re going to love it once it’s done. Trust me.” Yvette opens a black jar with a brown label. “This stuff’s ridiculously amazing,” she say
s, all confidence. Starting at the back of my head, she plunks a ball of cream on one area and works it through my hair with the comb.

  “I cannot believe people still press their hair. It’s so . . . ancient,” Yvette is now saying, adding more cream.

  “I know, right?” I agree. Mama did it over a week ago, so I pray she won’t notice any change. Yvette works her way to the top of my head. “It’s starting to tingle,” I tell her.

  “Tingle is good. That’s how you know it’s working. Now hold still, we’ve only got fifteen minutes to get this through your hair—well, less than that now.”

  I breathe in my nose and out my mouth real slow. I count to ten. Then to fifteen. Then to fifty. This “tingle” is worse than getting nicked by a hot comb. By the time she reaches the front of my head, I can’t concentrate on anything except the fire in my follicles. “It’s burning . . . in the back and around the edges.”

  “You’ve been scratching your scalp, that’s why. You should know better,” Yvette scolds, and continues combing.

  “Just hold on,” Belinda urges calmly, “you’re nearly done.”

  I struggle to stay seated another minute, then one more. Then Yvette runs a comb through my hair and the teeth feel like they’re scraping my scalp open. It’s hot. So hot that I can’t take it anymore. I leap up.

  “It’s on fire,” I cry out. I push Belinda out the way, stick my head in the tub, and turn on the faucet. Cold water runs over my head, and Belinda helps wash out the cream. Then something miraculous occurs—as she washes, I notice . . . the slight touch of her fingertips! My hair’s so thick that Mama has to scrub hard for me to feel her touch on my scalp. And . . . the weight of my head also seems lighter. How can that be? There’s something else, too—wet strands stick to the sides of my face, just like white people’s hair does when they get out of water! After I pat my head with the towel, Yvette gently combs it out, and the comb doesn’t get caught. There’s no torturous yanking and pulling at all. Next, she dries it and won’t let me look.

  “See, I told you,” Yvette exclaims at last, finally turning me toward the mirror. “You’ll have to watch for scabs, but your scalp’ll stop being sensitive in a day or two. Trust me, I’ve made the mistake of scratching before a relaxer one too many times.”

  “Wow, Genesis,” Belinda is saying at the same time, and I see truth in her green eyes.

  I get up to look. My hair! It falls down on my shoulders, smooth as silk. I give my head the slightest of shakes, and my hair moves with it! My fingers glide through the strands. It’s never done this, even with a fresh press. I shake my head again as if this is some kind of trick. “It’s so . . . light,” I exclaim.

  “Want me to flat iron it?” Yvette asks.

  I do, but I tell her no. Mama would surely notice.

  “It’s so stinking cute that it’s ridiculous,” Belinda coos, flipping my hair playfully.

  “Yes.” I agree. “It is so stinking cute.”

  “You know what would really be stinking cute?” Yvette asks rhetorically. “If you add extensions.”

  “Extensions? No, not me.”

  “Oh my gosh, yes!” Yvette points to my head. “You could add a piece here and one right here to hang down your back.”

  Mama would go off bad enough if she knew I got a relaxer, so there’s no way I can walk in the door with a weave. Shoot, I still gotta walk in the house with my funky ponytail.

  Yvette claps her hands together. “I just had a thought. What if we give you a makeover?”

  “No.” I take a step back. “I’m not feeling that.”

  “Yeah, let’s do it.” Belinda runs to get a kit, and before I know it I’m back sitting on the toilet lid, the two of them powdering and dabbing my face. They have me dreaming all kinds of what-ifs. What if I really do turn out beautiful? What if I can get hazel-colored contacts, or green, like Belinda’s? What if Mama loves my hair and lets me keep my relaxer and add extensions?

  “You look so freaking cute,” Yvette announces. I get up and face the bathroom mirror. I am very freaking cute.

  “Oh my gosh,” I gush. “Ya’ll are so ridiculously amazing. I don’t even recognize myself.”

  “See?” Yvette raises an eyebrow, cocky. “Stick with us, it only gets better.” I blink, almost in disbelief. These girls took time to make me pretty. They smile with me in the mirror, hugging me. Then I think of Sophia. I can’t imagine how they could possibly be mean to her. I want to ask, but I can’t ruin this moment. At last, I have friends—pretty and popular friends. Could Sophia be wrong? I mean, why would Yvette take time to make me look like this if she’s trying to use me? When Yvette twirls my hair around her finger and says, “Don’t you love it?” I nod because I do. In this moment, I forget that I only have one line in a verse. In this moment, I love my friends and I really do, finally, ridiculously, love my hair.

  On Sunday, Yvette fusses about my messy hair after all the work she put in. Ain’t no way I can tell her that I have to wear it like this to hide from Mama. She moved on and had us rehearsing dance steps. Even though it was fun, all the twerking made my back and thighs sore. Still, once I’m back home, I hobble up to the mirror to see if today’s the day that God has answered my prayers. I study my face, craning my neck this way and that way. And yes, I see them! Tiny light spots, barely noticeable. After washing up, I massage on more cream. And as I brush my hair, stroking it over and over—my light, bouncy hair that sways with every move—I can feel the small scabs from the relaxer burning my scalp. I muss it up just a little, but it doesn’t matter, look at me!

  When I get to school, the first thing I do is sneak off to the restroom to comb my hair again. It’s so straight, even the edges. Then, I search my face for more changes. Hopefully someone’ll notice the difference. No one does, not even Sophia. Not even the nosey girls in PE. So I determine that the changes are either my imagination or desperately high hopes, and I stop focusing on them. But then at tutoring, Troy does something strange. He moves his desk to sit across from me instead of beside me. And he stares. And stares.

  “What?” I say. “I can’t solve for m if you’re going to sit there looking at me like that.”

  “You bought that stuff, didn’t you?”

  “What stuff?” I play dumb.

  “The stuff that was on the computer. . . . You said, ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ remember?”

  I’m about to deny it, but as I raise my finger in protest I spot some light splotches on my hand. Barely noticeable. I extend both hands in front of me. How could I not have seen this before?

  “So, I’m right?”

  “I . . . I . . . wasn’t actually going to get it,” I stammer. “It kind of just happened.” Troy gives me a look. Should I explain myself to him? Would he understand? I test the waters with a joke. “But it’s not like I got butt implants.” He doesn’t laugh.

  My heart is sinking. He’s the first and only boy who’s been my friend, and I don’t want to mess that up. “Okay, okay. I don’t know how to say it, but . . . I just want to be pretty.”

  “You don’t think you already are?”

  I want to tell him that there’s nothing pretty about being black like me, but he should already know that.

  “I thought you were,” he goes on, “but that . . . that’s not about being pretty. You’re taking it to another level.”

  What does he even know about being pretty? “Well,” I start, not really knowing how to respond, “sorry to disappoint you, but . . . there’s nothing wrong with trying to improve myself. Shoot, girls do it all the time with weaves and fake contacts.” Troy sits stone-faced, as if I’m not making sense, so I go on. “Blackie. Ape. Those are just a few names I’ve been called, Troy. And I’m tired of it. Tired of being told to work twice as hard and be twice as good. When people look at me they think ‘ghetto.’ You’re as dark as me, but, well, maybe you don’t know what it’s like ’cause you’re here, living in a fancy bubble.”

  Troy’s tapping his pencil
against the table, fast and hard. “A fancy bubble? Really, Genesis? Don’t think I don’t get the speeches too, and don’t think I’ve never been called names: Black Nerd, Chocolate Einstein. People look at me and expect me to be this great baller or rapper or dancer—” He closes his book, shoves it into his backpack. “But what you’re doing, that’s not a solution. You’re still gonna be Black. You’ll still be called names. And you’ll still have to be twice as good.”

  I stand up to disagree. “No, ’cause I’ll be light. That’s a whole different set of rules.” Then I ask him, “For real Troy, how many Black superheroes you see in your comics—well, besides Black Panther?” I gather my notebooks, too, adding, “And you know how I know you live in a bubble? ’Cause you’re playing classical violin at a talent show.”

  I make it down the hall and slam into the girl’s restroom. I can’t believe I was so mean to Troy. Classical violin, really, Genesis? My heart’s racing. I inspect my face and instantly feel better. My skin appears smoother, and yes, there are tiny, light circles. How did he even notice that? Then I grin because Troy noticed the difference, and that means—thank you, God; thank you, God—my skin’s lightening! It’s really, finally happening.

  Right before chorus, I make up a legit reason to stop Jason. What I really want is to see if he notices I’m lighter too. “Hey,” I say, flipping my hair out of my face. “When do we rehearse?”

  “Rehearse?” Jason asks. Terrance comes up and smacks his back, like guys do.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to know where to stand, what to wear, stuff like that.” Jason looks blank. “For the show?” I prompt.

  Terrance starts grinning. “You didn’t tell her, Jay?”

  “Tell me what?” I squint at Terrance. I want so badly to smack that smirk off his face.

  “Well,” Jason says, “you’re only laying the hooks on a track, along with the beat.”