by Paula Guran
“Mama, I’m almost done with my junior year. I don’t want to go somewhere for just my senior year.”
The truth was, Rayven had no other school to attend. And they both knew it.
It’s just hair. It will grow back. You might like a short ’do.
Rationalizations tiptoed in before Rayven blasted each of them aside. She spent the entire weekend riding one emotion after another, sometimes one coming so quickly on the heels of the last that processing anything was impossible. Tears—sad ones, angry ones, frustrated ones—each took their turn. With her mother’s emotions mixed in, Rayven wondered how they’d survived.
By the time Sunday night arrived—insistent, swift—Rayven felt like an abandoned water bottle lying on a beach somewhere. Flattened and empty.
“You want me to help you?” Cathy’s voice, thin and young all of a sudden.
“No. I’ll do it.”
“I can help you shape it up, a little, if you want.”
“Mama, I’ll be fine, just let me do it.”
The bathroom door clicked, a barrier of wood between them.
Rayven picked up the black-handled scissors and faced herself in the mirror, squaring her shoulders.
On Monday morning, heaviness pressed on Rayven’s eyelids, the weight of unending tears. Mama asked her if she wanted to stay home from school that day, and while the idea had tantalized her, Rayven decided to go.
What was putting it off for another day going to do? She already felt ugly, she may as well share it with everyone.
Quiet hummed in the car ride, tardiness nonexistent.
Mother and daughter stared through the windshield, eyes haunted and hollow.
The whispers were worse than outright insults. She couldn’t tell what they held, the words swirling on the edge of her hearing before breaking into pieces of silence. The not-quiet hung in the hallways, parting for her as she passed.
“Shhh.”
“W.T.F.”
“ . . . glow down for sure.”
Even Sonia’s eyes couldn’t hide the shock and despair, though her friend made a valiant effort. Rayven imagined she could see the lump working its way up Sonia’s throat.
“I hate it,” Rayven hissed as soon as they made their way into the restroom.
“Ray, it’s not that bad. Really.”
Sonia’s hand crept up before falling under the shame. Even she wouldn’t touch it.
Rayven’s reflection scowled back at her.
“It is that bad. And it’s all McGee’s fault. I hate that bitch.”
* * *
Anguish had prevented her from doing anything with her locs the night before except place them in a bag. Rayven had no idea what to do with them. She wanted to keep them, memorialize them in some way, but grief had to wane before she could think clearly.
When Rayven entered her bedroom that afternoon, ready to flop onto her bed while her mother made a quick dinner and changed before her night job, her eyes traveled straight to her small desk, where she’d left the bag.
It wasn’t there.
What the—?
Under the desk, around the desk, on and under her neatly made bed, in her closet and then a search of the entire three-bedroom house. All twelve-hundred feet of it. Outside to the carport.
No bag. No locs.
“Mama, did you throw that bag away, the one with my locs in it?”
Mama was tying her maid apron behind her and reaching for her car keys.
“What, Ray?”
“Did you throw my locs away?” The shrillness in her voice threatened to crack and break.
“No. Why would I do that? Where’d you leave them?”
“In a bag in my room. They were on the desk when I went to school this morning.”
“Girl, I’m gonna be late if I don’t leave right now. Dinner’s on the stove, so you eat. You’ll find them, you just forgot where you left them.”
“I didn’t!”
In the silence that followed, Rayven could almost feel the charge in the air. Mama’s gaze was level and unflinching, driving Rayven’s down to her shoes. Clearly, her mother sensed her distress and was giving her a break, letting that one white-girl-drama moment fly. But she knew Mama wasn’t going to allow another.
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Mm hmm. We’ll talk later, I have to go.”
A moment later, the car’s engine roared before fading away.
* * *
On the closet floor, pushed behind a spare quilt, sat the bag. Rayven didn’t remember tossing it there, but she must have. In all of the heartache of the night before, she had no memory of most of it.
Except each snip.
That small sound had echoed in the tiny bathroom. After the first one, she couldn’t look any longer—she continued cutting by feel. In the end, a two-inch Afro remained. Shorn and weary. Had she shampooed her hair next? She must have. She must also have rubbed coconut oil throughout it and twirled what small pieces she could in an effort to make it look . . . different. At some point, Rayven assumed she’d given up on all of that and just gone to bed, where sleep welcomed her into its embrace of forgetfulness.
The bag’s mouth gaped, a stray loc poking out as if to test the air. Rayven pulled it out, then the next, and all the rest. They were so long, she thought. Four years of life resting on her lap.
Gone.
Gathering them into a bouquet, she tied a thick white ribbon around one end to keep them together and snagged a white carnation from the short vase on Mama’s nightstand. The flower peeked out from the ropes, nestled within them. Rayven carried the arrangement the same way a parent might carry a dead child pulled out of a river and placed it on her bedroom windowsill.
During the day, the sun would shine on them and at night, the moon would tell them secrets.
One week later, the student body chatter had moved on to a new target, to Rayven’s relief. She’d resigned herself to her short haircut but not actually accepted it. Thin headbands that matched her school uniform did nothing to assuage her ongoing sorrow.
Kids milled around her, some grabbing books out of their lockers, others walking to class. She peeked at her reflection in the small mirror stuck inside her locker door, wondering why she continued to look for something hopeful.
A pop of yellow caught her eye.
Rayven reached up, expecting the worst because it wouldn’t be the first time one of Queen Mary’s finest had snuck an object into her hair—the end of a broken pencil once, a hermit crab shell another time.
“Ow,” she breathed. When she’d pulled on the yellow thing, whatever it was, it stung, as if she had pulled her own hair.
Rayven rifled through her bookbag until she found the compact. She held its mirror behind her as she gazed into her locker door reflection.
A yellow flower poked from her ’fro.
Even the shrill bell went unheard.
She tugged at it and again, felt that sting. Her fingers burrowed deeper, straight to the roots. And indeed, the base of the flower felt like roots. Plant roots. Growing from her head.
“Miss James,” a sharp voice clapped from behind her.
The locker door slammed.
“You’re going to be late, you better get going to class,” Mr. Baxter said.
Rayven looked around and indeed, the hallways were mostly clear, except for one boy racing to get somewhere.
“Yes, sir,” she managed to say. Rayven completed the walk to Chemistry by memory alone because the odd yellow flower consumed her entire mind.
She pulled Sonia into the restroom at lunch.
“Do you see it?”
“Yeah,” Sonia said.
“It’s growing out of my head.”
Sonia looked at her.
“I’m serious. Dig down in there, you’ll see.”
Sonia’s fingers gently obeyed and after a moment, a small gasp escaped her lips.
“What is that, Ray?”
“Don’t pull it!” Rayven hisse
d, but it was too late. Sonia jumped back, her hands in the air. “I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s growing there just like it would grow out of the ground. Hang on, I’ll take a picture.” As Sonia dug around in her bookbag, she described the petals and the small green stem emerging from Rayven’s scalp like the hair around it.
Rayven heard a series of quick shutter clicks.
“Here,” Sonia said, handing over her phone.
In the photo, the small yellow carnation contrasted with Rayven’s dark hair. She zoomed in on it to get a better look. Nothing seemed extraordinary about its curled petals and circular shape, except, of course, where it grew.
The girls looked at one another in the mirror over the sink, wearing matching masks of confusion.
The next day, two more flowers had sprouted in Rayven’s hair. White and pink, their soft petals just poking out against the black coils. She showed them to her mother, who shared her silent puzzlement.
“I’ll take you to the doctor,” Mama finally said.
“But I’m not sick.”
Mama’s mouth worked. “Well, what else are we supposed to do? This ain’t normal, Ray, to have flowers growing out your head.”
“What’s the doctor going to do?” For some reason, she feared him snipping the flowers away. She wouldn’t let him. Her fingers bailed over the petals. They weren’t hurting anything, the flowers. They were just . . . growing somewhere they weren’t supposed to grow.
Plus, someone at school was sure to say something.
And they did.
“Miss Clarke, can you send Rayven James down to the office?”
Again, those milky blue eyes that Rayven imagined spitting into. The cough-cough through a clear throat.
Just get to the damn point.
“Rayven, I can’t help but notice your new hairstyle.”
“Why, thank you.”
The pink lips downturned at the smooth sarcasm, wrinkles standing out against the lipstick, just outside of the lines.
“While hair bows, ribbons and headbands are acceptable for girls, flowers are not.”
“I’m aware, but I don’t exactly have a choice here.”
“Pardon?”
Rayven exhaled. The cat was out now, she may as well send it running down the street. “The flowers are growing out of my head, Mrs. McGee.” After a beat, she continued. “I tried pulling on them and it was just like pulling on my hair. It hurts. So I can’t take them out.”
Disbelief shone in the principal’s eyes. Of course. Why would she believe something so fantastical?
“Let me see.”
Rayven shrugged, standing. What was the old bat going to do? She wouldn’t let her touch her or put her fingers on the flowers. Mrs. McGee came from around the desk and stood beside Rayven, her eyes fixated on the petals. Her hand began to raise.
“Don’t touch my hair,” Rayven warned.
“Now, young lady, I’ve already told you—”
“And I told you that they’re growing out of my head! You can’t just pull them out.”
“Okay.” A change in tone, like a thick coat of honey poured over a slice of bitter lemon. Rayven didn’t trust it. “We’ll have the nurse take a look at you, will that be all right?”
“That’s fine. My mother’s taking me to the doctor to get looked at anyway, but I’ll go to the nurse. You’ll see.”
“Perfect.”
They entered Nurse Bennett’s office a few minutes later. Rayven stood silently as Mrs. McGee went into an explanation that dripped with derision. She may as well call me a liar, Rayven thought. The nurse didn’t ask any questions, as if she saw students every day with odd things growing from their scalps.
“Do you mind if I take a look, Rayven?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
Rayven sat in the chair and the nurse slipped into plastic gloves. She felt a gentle prodding across her head.
“Ouch!” she hissed.
“I’m so sorry,” the nurse said, her hand over her mouth. She’d tried to pull one of the flowers away. She turned to the principal and stammered for a moment before getting the words out. “Mrs. McGee, they’re really growing out of her head!”
Each morning, more flowers bloomed in random places. Once, three small morning glories curled behind Rayven’s ear, but otherwise, they showed up in singles: a red snapdragon at the crown, an orange poppy at the nape. Within a few weeks, only half of her hair was visible. The rest of it was a garden of colors. Purple violets, pink meadowsweets, and white doll’s eyes nestled next to blue forget-me-nots. On occasion, a single petal or bud fell off on its own, to be found later on a couch back or pillow, its replacement already filling in the gap it left behind.
Her mother had taken her to a doctor, who’d been just as puzzled. He’d wanted to cut one flower away to study it, but Rayven had refused to let him.
What if it was like cutting a piece of her? Would she bleed, feel real pain? She didn’t want to find out.
The doctor suggested a specialist, but for what? What were they going to do? The flowers weren’t harming her, they were just . . . growing. So that’s what he wrote on a note that she took back to school. Not that it did anything to calm Mrs. McGee down.
The threats started. Expulsion was tossed out. Rayven eavesdropped on the conversation between her mother and the principal one afternoon as Mama dared the woman to expel Rayven.
“It’s a medical condition,” Mama snarled into the phone.
“It’s also a distraction, Mrs. James,” came the voice from the speaker. “Students aren’t getting their work done because everyone is so busy talking about Rayven’s hair and the flowers. We simply can’t allow it.”
“Then maybe you need to teach your students how to focus! You expel my child, you better expect to get sued.”
If Rayven thought her mother’s counterthreats would get her off the hook, they didn’t. The principal seemed to take the entire weird situation as a personal affront, as if Rayven grew the flowers herself.
She didn’t know how she felt about them. On one hand, they drove Mrs. McGee crazy, which was incredibly rewarding. But they also made Rayven stand out in a way she didn’t want. Girls staring at her as she walked down the hall, conversations stopping when she walked into class, even teachers tearing their eyes away. If she could have her original hair back, she’d gladly take it.
Brody Tatlinger wasn’t the brightest student or the nicest or the handsomest, but he was a varsity football player so at Queen Mary—that made him a god.
Prior to Rayven sprouting a flourishing garden from her head, he’d never paid attention to the girl. She was one of the scholarship kids and he didn’t want anything to do with her, her people or her world. But now everyone at the school knew Rayven. Their feelings ranged from wonder to confusion to jealousy. Mostly, however, they kept their distance.
On that Thursday afternoon, when she passed him on her way to World History, he didn’t know why his interest was piqued. He’d seen the flowerhead dozens of times by then. According to school lore, the weirdo really did have plants growing out of her scalp, some kind of strange medical condition.
Rayven passed and without thinking about why he did it, he followed, although his next class lay in the opposite direction.
Rayven stuck to the right side of the halls, though the occasional rule-breaker fought against the flow of traffic and forced the pack to separate briefly before blending back together.
Two things happened almost at the same time: a violent tug at the back of her head and Brody’s loud curse ringing through the hallway.
“Oww—shit!”
All heads turned toward him, including Rayven’s, though her hand went to where the pain hummed.
Brody’s eyes were fixed on his thumb, from where a small black stinger protruded.
Only Rayven saw the bright yellow flower fall from his palm and the dying bee beside his foot, a coil of black hair wrapped around one of its legs.
/> * * *
It had hurt, but it seemed that Brody snatching a flower from her head didn’t leave any lasting damage. There was no bleeding and the spot didn’t feel empty, what with Rayven’s thick hair and remaining foliage. The anger simmered for a while, but at the same time, he’d received his just desserts.
Let that be a lesson to all of them, she thought.
But McGee proved herself to be a hard sell.
Rayven kept her head down and laid low as much as she could. She knew the principal was just waiting on her to shp up, to give her any reason to put Rayven out of the school. To prevent that, Rayven made the honor roll during the third quarter, excelled in Debate Club, and participated in class without being obnoxious about it.
So the fourth-period call, “Mr. LaSalle, please send Rayven James to the principal’s office” came as a complete surprise.
What now? drummed through her mind as she walked downstairs.
The same unpleasant air hung heavily in the room as the two squared off across the desk.
She can say what she wants, Rayven thought, she just better not touch me.
The glint of the scissors caught her eye. Mrs. McGee’s fingers tapped next to them before she picked them up.
“You’ve proven yourself quite formidable, Rayven.”
What? Bewilderment held Rayven’s tongue in place.
“At every turn, you’ve fought against me, even had your mother threaten to sue me. All I’m trying to do is run a school and running a school is a big job, young lady. I want everyone to excel and do well here. After all, we’re preparing young ladies and gentlemen for the next phase of their lives.”
The principal rose out of her seat, scissors hanging from her right hand, the pointed end punctuating the air as she spoke.
“We cannot have major distractions such as you when we’re trying to do our jobs. We cannot have one student wreak so much havoc all on her own.”
“I’m not doing that, Mrs. McGee, I have no control over—”
“You may not,” she cut her off, “but I will.”
Rayven rose slowly, her eyes never leaving the scissors, which seemed to float toward her as the principal made her move. A surprising swiftness propelled the woman, more quickness than Rayven had given her credit for. She turned and reached for the doorknob. A hand clamped on her shoulder. The hiss of scissor blades opening rasped in her ear.
