by Randi Pink
I glanced at the price tag hanging underneath my armpit. “A hundred and seventy dollars.”
“The blacks didn’t give you spending money?”
I shrugged, and they shot a quick look at each other—judgment. “Take it off and we’ll get our makeup done.”
“We know the Lancôme lady.”
“Shit,” I said under my breath.
“What?” they said.
“Oh, nothing.”
When I finally exited the room, the twins were already seated in the makeup high chair. The same Lancôme lady that Alex and I had fought applied liquid liner to Amera as Amelia watched, arms folded.
“Kat! You can be next.” Amera motioned me toward the counter—her eyes still half-closed. Amelia refolded her arms and let out a hostile sigh. “Amelia. Be patient, my God. You are such a brat. Ouch!”
“I’m so sorry,” said the Lancôme lady.
Amera held her palm to her left eye. “You poked me in the eye with the liquid liner, seriously, bitch!”
“I am so sorry,” she said again, staring as I approached the counter. “Hi, I mean, where’s your boyfr—?” She bumped a small blush display, and it went crashing to the floor.
“Lucy! What the hell is wrong with you?” the twins yelled.
Lucy was on her knees, attempting to clean the broken blush from the marble-ish floor, but she was only making it worse—swirling the pinks into the violets, creating a tie-dye effect. Her head was down, and she kept mumbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“She’ll be all right. Her eye needed a good poke,” Amelia snickered.
“Shut up, stupid.” Amera bent forward to look into the lighted magnifying mirror. Her eye was bloodshot, veiny, and surrounded by black stuff.
“No, not you. You.” Lucy pointed at me—stopping the twins in their tracks. “I’m a good person. I love the Lord, really. I go to church and I have black friends.” She stood and placed her hands on my shoulders. “I even let a few black women come to my house for Bible study. Every Wednesday!”
“Lucy, she’s not black. What the hell are you talking about?”
Tears fell from Lucy’s eyes, leaving black streaks on her stark-white cheeks. Waterproof, my ass. “No, not her. Her boyfriend.”
“No! Oh, God no. It’s my bro—my … exchange family brother, Alex.” I attempted to laugh it off.
Lucy pulled back, still holding on to my shoulders. “But you said that—”
“No, no, no, Miss Lucy.” I eased her hands away. “You must be confused. He’s not my boyfriend.”
The twins laughed.
“She would never date that loser. She has Joshua Anderson chasing her around,” said Amera.
“The Joshua Anderson of Anderson Toyota, Jeep, Dodge,” added Amelia. “Plus, we don’t mix in Montgomery.”
“Wait,” Amera said. “Do you mix races in … wherever you’re from?”
I shifted from one foot to the other. All three of them gawked at me, anticipating my answer like it was really important. “Right on the border of Kansas and Missouri. Most people don’t realize they share Kansas City.” There was a long pause as they continued rubbernecking me.
“Well?” Amelia pressed.
“Not really.”
“See! She would never date a black.”
Lucy took a step back. “But the way you acted…”
“I acted? You asked for it, lady.” I cleared my throat, realizing I was raising my voice. “I mean, you were pretty unpleasant.”
“Kat!” said the twins.
“She’s married to our cousin’s uncle or whatever.” Amelia patted Lucy on the upper back.
Amera’s gaze was fixated on the magnifying mirror. “She’s practically family, Kat. Chill out.”
“You just called her a bitch.”
“Like I said—practically family.” Amera backed away from the mirror and kissed Lucy on both cheeks. “If this gets infected, I’ll sue.” Lucy bowed her head and mouthed additional apologies. She, too, kowtowed to those ninety-pound twins—everyone did.
We walked toward the exit. “I have to go to the little girls’ room. Wait here,” Amelia said before jogging back to the Lancôme counter.
A few minutes later, Amelia tossed a Gus Von March bag at my chest. When I opened it, the Lily Pulitzer outfit and eighty-dollar water bra were inside.
I stopped. “I can’t take this.”
“Nonsense,” they said.
“I can’t pay you guys back.” I looked at my feet as we headed to the car.
“No need, I made Lucy buy it for you with her employee discount. She really can be a bitch.” Amelia climbed into the driver’s seat.
Amera replied, “We barely speak to our cousin’s uncle anyways. He’s from our dad’s white trash side.”
“We play up the family angle for free makeup. And other stuff.”
Throughout the ride home, I sat on the Gus Von March bag and made myself as small as humanly possible in the backseat. I peered out the window, trying to ignore the negativity spewing from the front.
I knew Amelia was driving because she’d taken the scenic route through the wealthier section of Edgewood, where single houses were nestled on acres of wooded land. Magnolia trees lined sidewalks filled with power-walking pedestrians in hot-pink jogging suits. One exceptionally skinny walker wore leggings with the exact same pattern as the Lily Pulitzer outfit in the bag beneath my butt. My hands involuntarily balled into fists. Lucy had bought the clothing. Malicious, stupid Lucy who worshipped the demons in the front seat and prejudged my kindhearted big brother at a glance. My press-on nails dug little red half-moons into my palms, and I felt the anger rise from my stomach, through my chest, and finally settle in my pursed lips.
When we pulled into my driveway, I leaped from the Bug before it came to a complete stop.
“God, Kat!” Amelia shouted.
“Yeah, don’t be so eager to get away from us,” said Amera. “God.”
Hampton growled at the Bug’s rear lights as it rolled away. When the car was no longer visible, I walked to the neighbor’s garbage can, lifted the lid, and threw the Gus Von March bags inside with the rest of the trash.
YOU CAN’T HAVE IT ALL
But I wanted it all.
I wanted thrifting with my mom. I wanted to tell my dad what cars he should and should not buy. I wanted my big brother to help me find quarters. I wanted to be invited to parties where I could dress like a Barbie doll and flirt with popular boys. I wanted to ride in a car that didn’t smell like diesel fuel. I wanted to feel comfortable in bathing suits and body-hugger jeans. I wanted it all, but if I had to choose, I chose Katarina.
Before Katarina, Alex and I had never gone a full day without at least one deep conversation about life, liberty, and the pursuit of popularity, but during my first week as Kat, he treated me like a pauper would treat the queen, like he was not worthy of me. Missing Alex was a gut-wrenching consequence of the choice I’d made. I missed him so much, sometimes I couldn’t concentrate.
I tried to evade my family by staying in my room during reruns of Unsolved Mysteries, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw Alex climbing Colossus alone, or Mom leaving, or Dad buying another lemon of a vehicle. They were ruining everything, so I avoided all of them. I avoided talking to Dad; he never listened to my advice anyway. Stuffed earbuds in to block out Mom’s morning screams and praise Jesuses; I don’t know why I’d never thought of that earlier. And took showers extra early; that way Alex could have full access to our shared bathroom when he woke up.
On school days, the twins picked me up before and dropped me off after school, so I never smelled like diesel. The weekend, however, was another story. On my first Saturday morning as Katarina, I couldn’t avoid my family.
Mom woke up the house at eight a.m. screaming. “Who spills coffee on their own hardwood floors? Must be crazy as hell.”
“Go back to sleep, Mom.” Alex stirred in his bed.
But my mother never sl
ept past seven forty-five, and she made damn sure no one else in the house slept past eight o’clock. She’d continue her ruckus until at least one of us paid attention to her.
“How am I supposed to sleep when your daddy’s walking the dog all times of night?”
Dad stayed quiet. Sometimes he elected to keep his mouth shut and disappear into his own mind. Dad was a strange man with a lot of flaws, but his feelings got hurt easier than anybody else I knew. Alex had inherited that curse. Deep emotional wounds that festered for months and years. Dad still brought up the look I gave him the one time he spanked me as a child. My attitude toward such things was I deserved the spanking—you delivered—get over it and move forward. Dad, on the other hand, couldn’t let it go. Little memories built up inside and tormented him like ghosts.
“Toya!” Mom screamed. “You want to go thrifting?”
Our favorite mother-daughter pastime—thrift store hopping. While most of Edgewood’s mother-daughter duos spent their Saturdays at Gus Von March, my mom and I sifted through other people’s trash to find treasure. I was a brilliant thrifter if I do say so myself, but Mom sucked. She was a pipe-dream thrifter who believed every worthless tchotchke was worth a million dollars—fake fruit, ceramic white children with red lips, pretty much anything that could be purchased at the Dollar General.
I, however, could find chic treasures among all the junk. I liked the idea of clothing with a soul, so I imagined historical facts about my finds. For instance, a pink knee-length skirt may have belonged to a 1950s Southern housewife who vacuumed in high heels. Or a crisp white button-down may have been worn by Condoleezza Rice for a DC job interview; she was, after all, from Alabama. I felt for ol’ Condie. Smart, educated, powerful, but black and Republican. Black Republicans got so much crap for being black and Republican. Deanté called Condoleezza a sellout, an Uncle Tom, a traitor to her race. I had never met a black Alabamian proud of her success—a shining example of black support for you.
“No, Mom. I don’t feel well.” I felt fine, but I didn’t want to deal with thrifting with a middle-aged black woman. Too many stares to deflect. It was for her protection, really.
“Okay, but Lovelady’s having an early-bird sale. Everything’s fifty percent off.” Any other day that would have gotten me; I was a sucker for a bargain. I had vivid dreams of a comfortable house filled with places to sit, places to eat, utensils to eat with. Every now and then, I spent the thrifting cash Dad gave me on things for the house, and then they’d always turn up missing, or broken. As a result, I focused on the decor of my bedroom, which was shabby-chic cozy.
“I’m sick, Mom.” I hated lying to her.
“Please come with me. I need your help picking the good stuff.” She sounded pitiful and relentless. I had to go for the jugular.
“Why don’t you call Aunt Evilyn?” I shouted before burying my head in the pillow. It was one of the meanest things I could say to my guilt-ridden mother.
There was a long pause from downstairs. I imagined Mom’s head hanging low with shame. I imagined her sick with the kind of guilt moms get when they leave their kids home alone for necessary twelve-hour shifts. I imagined her shattered.
“Can I come?” Alex said from his room. Sweet Alex.
“Praise Jesus. We can stop by the pawnshop on the way.” If the thrift stores were mine, pawnshops were Alex’s. Alex dashed down the stairs, leaving Dad and me alone in the empty castle.
I tried hard to go back to sleep, but it was no use. I spent about an hour picking my outfit for the party later that night. I had no clue what people wore to parties. In movies, it ranged from satiny dresses to jeans. The athletic token black character would arrive late in gym spandex and tennis shoes, yelling, “Where da party at?” while the white kids laughed and high-fived their hilarious, eternally friend-zoned buddy, never once considering him or her a love interest. The Real World was the worst. It never failed, the black roommate was immediately categorized as BFF-material, or loud and obnoxious, or comic relief, or all of the above. Only the exceptionally beautiful black roommates were given the time of day romantically. Meanwhile, mediocre-looking white roomies were cuddled to sleep by handsome college guys with muscles. MTV casting directors made black kids want to be white without even realizing it.
In the end, I settled on an orangey floor-sweeper maxidress with little fabric rosettes lining the top. Orange didn’t pop against my white skin as it did when I was black, but the dress fit flawlessly, so I went with it.
Afterward, I joined my dad on the living room pillows. I noticed he still wore his holey sneakers.
“Did you go out?”
He looked down and chuckled. “I went for a walk,” he said before kicking off his dirty shoes in the middle of the living room floor.
“What’s with the midnight walks, Dad?” I asked. “They’ve been more frequent lately.”
It was as if he’d been waiting for someone, anyone, to ask how he was doing.
“I just don’t understand it.” He clasped his face in his palms. “I try, Toya. I do try. Maybe my idea of trying is different from the next man’s, but I do try.” He jumped up to begin pacing the living room. “I bought her this big house in the suburbs. I work like a dog to pay for this thing.” Hampton let out a knowing huff of air. “Sorry, buddy. I work hard, I mean. It’s never enough! This is my first day off in two weeks. No. Seventeen days. I try every day, and still she despises me.” He sank back down on the largest pillow across from me. “You’re smarter than me. Tell me. What am I doing so wrong?”
I didn’t have enough words to explain all the things that my father did wrong. I didn’t know how to tell him that he’d crushed my mother’s dreams the day he bought the empty castle. All she really wanted was to stay at home and homeschool us, but he was too consumed with the status of Edgewood to notice such things. And not to mention his moping around the house, spilling coffee, and leaving the seat up. All in all, he was a flaming-hot mess, but I couldn’t hurt him. Even if I told him, he was in no state to hear the truth about himself. I took the coward’s way out.
“She’ll come around, Dad.”
A slight smile brightened his scruffy face. “You really think so?”
“Sure,” I lied. “Oh look, Independence Day is on.”
And then we watched one of my father’s all-time favorite movies for the thousandth time. I’d always been fond of Will Smith. He didn’t curse or act a fool in public. No visible gold teeth or spinner rims on his car. Just a clean-shaven regular guy who happened to be black.
“Hey, doll, your mother told me that you and Alex are having trouble.” He lowered the volume of the television but didn’t press mute. For Dad, that meant genuine concern. Television served as one of his only true pleasures in life, and he turned it down for nobody. The mute button was reserved for death or loss of limb.
“You two talk? I didn’t know you and Mom did anything except fight.” I immediately regretted saying it. He would mull that one over for at least a month.
He muted the TV. Uh-oh. “We’ve really done a bang-up job being there for the two of you, huh? We’re a mess.” He smiled, and I smiled right back.
“You guys do your best.” I wasn’t puffing smoke; I really did think that.
“So what’s up with you and Alex? You’re buds, always have been,” he said. I watched Vivica’s boobs slow-bounce away from the alien invasion. I had to give it to her, she was cute in her day. Lately, though, she pumped herself up with too much filler; cheeks, lips, butt, all of it. “All right, then, when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here.” He put the sound back on just in time for a Will Smith one-liner. If there was an Oscar for one-liners, Will Smith would have a mantel full.
That Saturday, TNT’s Men Who Love Movies series showed back-to-back blockbusters. I sat there for hours soaking myself in digital testosterone side by side with my dear dad. Independence Day followed by Die Hard, followed by Die Hard with a Vengeance followed by Braveheart. Of the four, Braveheart was the
one that made me cry like a newborn. I knew I’d get the post-cry dry headache; I couldn’t help myself. The death of Mel Gibson’s wife was bad enough, but the bagpipes, oh dear God, the bagpipes. I never knew bagpipes could be so depressing.
I hugged Dad and went to my room. Hugging my father was like hugging a statue; he never, and I mean never, hugged back. I could feel his love, but he had real trouble expressing it in conventional ways. His love was expressed by working overtime at the Police Dispatch to afford the empty castle, and by bringing home dollar packs of Little Debbies. I’d eaten so many Pecan Swirls by the time I started high school that the sight of them made me gag, but I could never tell Dad.
When I peered into the bathroom mirror, my eyes were bloodshot and puffy, cheeks rosy and tear streaked. As Toya, I would have looked disgusting. As Kat, I looked adorable. Just then, Mom and Alex walked in the front door, laughing and tittering at their pawnshop hop. Jealousy dashed across my chest. I was usually the one laughing and joking with Mom, not Alex. I was usually the one laughing and joking with Alex, not Mom. I felt the two of them slipping through my fingers. Jealousy was a ridiculous emotion. I had publicly disgraced my brother; so shouldn’t I be happy for him? Mom and Alex joined Dad in front of the TV while I got ready for the party. After makeup, hair, and shaving, I slipped into my maxi and walked downstairs in the middle of Rocky.
“Ooh. You look pretty for eight o’clock at night. Where do you think you’re going?” Mom tapped her fuzzy pink house shoe on the hardwood.
“I was invited to a party for the first time in my life.” I figured they would have a harder time saying no if I was already dressed. “Can I go?”
Dad turned down the TV. “Why don’t we just go to GC as a family? Since you’re already dressed and everything.” GC was the Williams family’s nickname for Golden Corral, the nicest restaurant we could afford. The servers hated to see us coming, since we never left a tip. Mom had developed a strategy to avoid tipping: clean our own table, and say thanks over and over. Even when I was cute and little, I knew it never worked. Thank-yous and less crap to wipe wouldn’t feed the waitresses’ kids.
