“Should we stop by the Melody Icey and surprise your sister?” Mama’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
“Right now?” I look down at my stained shorts and faded pink tank top. And then I glance at Mama’s holey sweatpants. “Maybe we should go tomorrow?”
“Nonsense. We’re already out. I want to see where Eve’s been disappearing to all these weeks.”
When we pull up to the parking lot it’s packed. Mama circles the lot until we find a spot and then we walk up to the entrance. I take a place at the end of the line but Mama pushes her way through the crowd. “Excuse me. My daughter works here. Excuse me. We’ll only be a moment.” She keeps repeating as if she has VIP access. “Come on Makeda. What are you doing back there?” She yells from up ahead and the whole line turns to look at me.
“What are you doing here?” I hear Eve’s voice as Mama reaches the front.
“There she is. Look at you! Hard at work. And in uniform too!” Mama squeals. “How cute is that little hat.”
Eve is wearing all red with a white apron and a little cap on her head that looks like an upside-down cone.
“You look like a sad unicorn.” I can’t help but giggle. In fact all the other employees do too. The upside-down ice cream cone hats slipping down over their eyes as they bend over to scoop ice cream from the enormous freezers.
“Haha. Very funny.” Eve says. “Keda don’t even get me started on your outfit today.”
“Well I think it’s cute.” Mama says again. Eyeing the tubs full of ice cream. “I’m very proud of you Eve. At least one of my daughters is making the best out of her summer.”
There go my ribs again. Trembling. Did Mama drive here just to make me feel worse?
“Mama. You’re holding up the line. What do you want?” Eve has no time for praise. She’s very busy. The line behind us is growing impatient.
Mama orders a waffle cone with a triple scoop of cookies and cream. “I only had toast for breakfast.” She says. “So make the scoops extra large.”
“Maybe you want to eat something else when you get home?” Eve throws me a nervous look. “Like with protein or something?”
“Mmmmh this is soo delicious!” Mama ignores Eve and is already devouring her cone.
I get a double scoop of mint chocolate chip on a sugar cone. We sit at a table by the counter so we can watch Eve in action. Mama doesn’t look at me once. Every now and then she sighs with admiration at Eve. “She gets her social charm and stage presence from me.” Mama says to no one in particular. Watching as Eve jokes with a customer and his daughter. Halfway through eating my ice cream I get a stomachache.
“Better eat the rest before it melts.” Mama pushes.
“I’m full.” I say. “I kinda feel like I’ll throw up if I take another bite.”
“Well next time get a smaller scoop. There are kids all over the world who don’t have the luxury of wasting food. You’re lucky you know.”
“I know.” I manage to eat a few more bites. Then I just let the ice cream cone melt in the sun. My hands sticky with guilt.
Never Forget
That night the Georgia Belles show up but they sound different. Their voices somewhere in between shouting and singing. I toss and turn in my bed and fall in and out of darkness. Around 2am sticky hands pull me from my sleep.
Did you forget about us? The Georgia Belles fill the whole room with their new noise. At first they are sweet sisters. They tell me all about Atlanta. How the light leans crooked off of rooftops at sunset how peach cobbler is supposed to taste.
We know your real mama. The one that gave you away. They sing.
What does she look like? Is she pretty? I sing back.
You know she looks regular. Like a regular black woman.
But I do not know anymore. I know the pink color of the Sandia Mountains at sunset.
I know the roundness of my own dark cheeks. But I don’t really know any regular black women. What do they sound like what do they feel like what do they wear to church on Sundays? The questions spill out of my mouth like silk.
The questions make an intricate web on the walls. But the Georgia Belles whisk them away with their hands. Too many questions. They scold. You’re not listening. I am listening. I want them to leave. I want everyone to leave me alone.
I close my eyes and count to one hundred. I open my eyes to find the Georgia Belles even closer now. Sitting on the edge of my bed. The Georgia Belles getting their sticky hands all over my yellow sheets. The Georgia Belles throwing tall tales around the room.
The Georgia Belles laughing when I yell: Go away! The Georgia Belles harmonizing and sing-yelling back: Don’t be mad just ’cause you talk like a white girl. A spoiled little white girl who never gets slapped.
It is raining. It is the first time in weeks. The Georgia Belles sway to the window and block the breeze. I am so thirsty. I’m all mixed up in my bedsheets. My cheeks are chewed bloody. Your mama didn’t want you ’cause you’re ugly. They roar.
I want to kill them. Your mama told me you looked like a prune when you were born. A shriveled black prune and that’s why she gave you away. I do not know. I’m all mixed up in my sheets.
I don’t care about HER. I don’t need her. Go away! I yell.
The Georgia Belles move from the window and stand silent over me. They smell of hospital sheets and wet bark. We told you not to forget. They belt.
I cannot look away. The Georgia Belles lean in looking like all the pretty but messy parts of a storm. Never forget. They hiss. Then the Georgia Belles slap me into morning with their sticky sticky hands.
The Boy Book
Mama and I are so tired the next day that we forget we are hosting the end-of-year homeschool party on Saturday. It’s Eve who reminds us and somehow we get the house in order just in time. The day of the party Mama orders six pizzas from Sweet Tomato and Eve brings home two tubs of ice cream for the party. Everyone else brings a dish or a dessert to share. Mama sets up a big table on the back porch. She and the other parents hang out while we run around the yard and play games. I wait for Huck to arrive but Mr. John pulls up alone. “Huck’s away at Model United Nations camp.” He tells us. And my heart sinks. So much for Huck ever remembering me now. I probably won’t see him again until the fall.
By 8pm the party ends and everyone heads home. Mr. John stays to help clean up the back porch. As he is leaving he turns to me and says: “Huck wanted me to tell you ‘Bye. And have a great summer.’ He was sorry to miss this.”
“Oh. Thanks. I hope he has fun at Model UN camp.”
I want to ask Mr. John what Huck’s email address is. Maybe we can write each other messages? But Mr. John is out the door before I get a chance. So Huck was thinking about me after all? I feel heat rise in my cheeks. What could this mean? I look at the clock. It’s already 10pm in Baltimore. Too late to call Lena. I really could use our boy book right now.
The boy book is a black journal that Lena and I used to share. It has the name of every boy we’ve had a crush on including celebrities like Prince Harry and Jaden Smith. When I was still living in Baltimore Lena and I passed it back and forth on the weekends like a piece of top secret evidence. When we found out I was moving we buried it in a Ziploc bag in her backyard for safe keeping. Under the name of each boy crush is his identifying information and a neatly printed T-chart listing his pros and cons. After listing the pros and cons of each boy we go through them together and rate each pro or con on a scale of 1 to 10 of how important it is to us: 10 = very important and 1 = not important. Then we add the numbers up. If the pros outnumber the cons we know it is true love. If the cons outweigh the pros then we know that the boy is trash and not worth our time.
I head to the computer and start a new post. I know Lena will check it in the morning.
posted Saturday July 9th
L
I’m so mad we buried the boy book because I could really use it. We’ll have to dig it up next time I see you. I hope I can visit soon. These ho
meschool kids are ok but no one compares to you. Or the adventures we used to have together.
Well there’s really only one person who has my eye. Maybe you can help me figure out if it’s worth it?
Huck Andrew Peterson
Age: 12
Hair: Black
Skin: Tan
Eyes: Light brown with flecks of gold
Muscles: Kinda
PROS
CONS
Can recite every country and capital in North and South America by memory
Obsessed with geography
Is taller than me and in 7th grade
Needs to shave his upper lip
Has a cool room with maps and stuff and has lived here his whole life
Awkward and shy
Likes to read like me
Is a spoiled only child and can be a big baby when he gets mad
Has a birthmark shaped like a pear on his left arm
Has annoying parents
Is homeschooled like me and can be really sweet if you get to know him
Might not like black girls
Fireball
Is no longer an angel. The rest of the baby chicks have turned into sweet midsized hens. But Fireball is a rooster and he is the worst of them all. He is a miniature terror with mean eyes and feathers the color of burning embers and I secretly hope the wild dogs will eat him alive. On Sunday morning Mama wakes us up yelling from the kitchen: “Fireball got out of the pen again!” She’s been grumpy at me since I told her I wasn’t going back to Girl Scouts. After grumbling and washing the sleep out of our eyes Eve and I dress ourselves for battle. We know better than to ignore her when she gets this way. We put on thick jeans and big rubber galoshes and puffy winter coats for protection (even though it is July) and then for extra dramatics I strap on Papa’s racquetball goggles.
“You girls look ridiculous!” Mama says over her coffee mug. “He’s just a rooster. You can’t even see properly in those goggles.”
“Why don’t you try catching him then!” Eve yells back. “Come on let’s get this over with.” She says to me.
I love to run. Especially next to Eve. The two of us scramble around the yard arms outstretched trying to herd Fireball back into the pen or into a corner so that we can grab him by the plume as he squawks and bites. I roar and charge at him as if I am a gladiator or a bull or Joan of Arc. I know I am the bravest. That I am the one. Who cares if those girls didn’t like me. Who cares if Mama is mad. The whole world will see. One day I’ll move to a big city with diners and park benches and tall buildings. I’ll rush through the streets with my songbook and binoculars and see it all with my own eyes.
“Grab him!” Eve yells as she falls behind. And I find myself alone in a corner staring Fireball down. Alone in a corner with the morning sky cracking yolk-light all over my head.
“You stupid rooster!” I yell adjusting my goggles ready to pounce. “I would eat you myself if I could.”
Upside Down
After we argue about Fireball and get him back in the pen. Mama does not get out of bed for three days. Not to make herself coffee or toast. Not to drive us to the library or grocery store. Not even to get the mail or scoop packages off the front porch. I’m pretty sure it’s my fault she’s so sad this time. I just can’t seem to do anything right these days.
When Papa FaceTimes on Wednesday morning Eve and I prop Mama’s laptop up in her bed so Papa can see her. She sits up and we crowd in around her so we all fit on the screen. He’s calling from Hakone which is a city to the southwest of Tokyo in Japan. He shows us a view of Mount Fuji from his hotel window.
“Yes. I’ve been there before Daniel. Remember. When I was eleven. I think I played the Mendelssohn.”
“I know love. But the girls have never seen it.”
Mama seems to lose interest in the conversation then as we give Papa quick updates on our life. Mama keeps her eyes open but I can tell she is somewhere else. She doesn’t say one word about me quitting Girl Scouts or about Alma. She doesn’t even brag about Eve’s job. I can feel that Papa is worried too because he’s talking to us in an exaggerated happy tone. Almost as if we are babies.
“And is everyone taking care of themselves? Why don’t you go out today? Treat yourself to a movie? Maybe go to the park. Have an adventure!”
“Daniel. I have a splitting headache.” Mama says finally. “Can we talk later?”
“Sure love. Just five more weeks and then I’ll be home. Hang in there.”
“Uh-huh.” Mama says already handing the laptop back to Eve.
We exit the room and stand in the hallway. Eve holds the computer up to our faces.
“Girls.” Papa says in a voice that sounds much more like his own. “If she’s not out of bed by tomorrow evening you need to let me know. And if it’s an emergency you are to call 911 and then your aunt Sarah in Colorado. She can get to you quicker than I can.”
“It’s ok Papa.” Eve says. “We’ve got this under control.” But she bites her lip and furrows her brow when she says this. I feel my throat get dry. Part of me feels guilty for adding to Mama’s stress lately but another part of me wants to run into her room throw the covers off of her and yell: GET UP. YOU ARE THE MOTHER HERE. GET UP.
When we hang up with Papa Eve motions for me to come to her room. “Shut the door.” She says.
“What is it?” I say. “You’re scaring me.” Eve hasn’t invited me into her room in forever. I look around now trying to memorize the mess: heaps of clothes and magazines. Piles of makeup and lip gloss on her dresser. A wall of pictures behind her bed with her friends from Baltimore and some from here. Her Melody Icey uniform hanging off her bedpost.
“Listen. You probably don’t remember the last time Mama was like this. You were too little. But now you’re older. And we both need to look out for her ok?”
“Ok.” I say. “But you said we should leave her alone last time. Stay out of her way?”
“I mean. She’s going to be fine. She’s so dramatic sometimes. It’s annoying when she gets like this.” Eve is talking too fast. “But we just need to keep an eye on her and keep her happy. Like Papa said. She’ll snap out of it. But we need to be in this together ok? It sucks that Papa’s not here but he’s never here you know?”
“Ok.” I start again. “But should we call Aunt Sarah? I mean maybe we need help—”
“No. No way. We can handle this.”
I gulp. “Ok.” I say. “I’ll try.”
“Ok good.” Eve jumps onto her bed and starts texting. “I’m going to tell work I’m sick and can’t come in today. I’m already late.” She mumbles.
I stand in the middle of her room like a statue. It’s my fault. My fault. My fault. I wait for Eve to offer me a spot next to her on the bed. For her to suggest we go take a walk again or play a game or sing a song but she just looks up and says: “Do you need something?”
And I know our talk is over.
I head back to my room. I look out the window. It is sunny. A beautiful day. Everything feels upside down and Eve’s behavior is confusing. One minute she wants us to “be in this together” and the next she acts like I’m the one annoying her. Being a needy baby. I didn’t ask for any of this. I should be outside. In the sunshine.
So I load up my backpack with sheets sticks books and canned goods. I dump my bag into an old rusty red wagon. Then I drag the wagon around the yard until I find a good place to build a tent fort.
“You’re a freak!” Eve yells from the house when she emerges from her room hours later and sees me sitting in my tent fort reading and eating my dinner from an open can of chili. “What do you think this is Coachella?”
And I stick out my tongue and yell back: “At least I have an imagination!”
In my tent fort I am the boss. I am in charge. I take care of myself. I am going places and nobody can stop me.
QUESTIONS I HAVE FOR BLACK GIRLS LIKE ME
posted July 12th
Dear K
Sorry I h
ave not written you in a while! I’ve been traveling for gym meets and next week I’m off to gymnastics camp for a month. I hope I will be able to write you on here while I am away. But just know that if I don’t I will write you as soon as I am back in August. Promise.
I really loved the song you posted about having the blues. Even if it was kinda depressing. LOL. Did something happen again? Wish I could meet you for ice cream and cheer you up. I miss you.
I hope you are making friends in that homeschool group. They all sound … interesting. But Huck seems cool. I mean. You know me. Go big or go home! LOL. I think you should go for it. Why not?
I’ve been super busy. I’m competing more than ever. Coach Asia says if I really want to make it as a gymnast I can. But I have to be even more committed. So I’m at the gym every day. I miss having you at my meets. Cheering me on.
Here’s a question I have: Why do black girls have to work ten times harder at anything we do?
Coach Asia told me I can be great. Like she was. But that people will always have eyes on me. Expect me to be perfect. Because there are still people in the world who really believe that black people are lazy. That as a black gymnast I am going to be “under a microscope.” Sometimes before a meet I feel like throwing up when I see all the people in the stands. Staring down at me.
Ok. Well. I have to go. I’ll try to write you one more time before camp. Oh man. Camp is gonna kick my butt.
Your BFF
L
Fire
My songs are not enough. The nighttime pulses and a heat I cannot control spreads over my body like brushfire. Later that night I throw my blankets into a pile on the floor. I lie on my stomach and press my chest into the coolness of my bottom sheet. I try with all my strength to ignore the growing pains in my legs. To not be ashamed of the ways I am changing. Nobody told me that growing up hurts. I smash my face into the pillow so that I can barely breathe. Not even Lena’s posts or thoughts of Huck or the feeling of the wind trailing its fingers on my back will make me feel better. So I thrash and thrash and thrash. And ache and ache and ache. And I curse my body for being so difficult. For being a piece of crumbling char that does not know how to light itself.
For Black Girls Like Me Page 10