by Renée Watson
“Okay.” I roam around the store looking through the sea of clothes and see a section far back on the right side of the room with a sign that says Plus Sizes. I didn’t even know this store had clothes that would fit me. I walk over to the plus size section, wondering why my sizes have to be in a special section of the store and not mixed in with the other sizes. There is a definite divide, as if a shirt with a 3X tag will contaminate the other clothes. I look through the clothes—there’s not much to choose from. Just two racks compared to a whole store full of options for thinner girls. Just as I pick up a sweater to try on, I see the advertisement on the wall. A model with full cheeks and curvy hips is standing with that half-smile, half-serious look that models give. In a room full of fat people, she’d be considered thin. The caption under her half-smiling, half-serious face says: Rubies and Jeans Plus: Because every girl deserves to look beautiful.
A store clerk sees me and says, “Not finding what you’re looking for? We’ve got a bigger selection of plus size options online. Free return if it doesn’t fit.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and walks away.
Online? Why can’t I try on the clothes here in the store? Why are these two racks hidden in the way back of the store?
I read the ad again: Rubies and Jeans Plus: Because every girl deserves to look beautiful. I think about the word “deserves” and wonder what they mean by it. How about: I am beautiful. The way I am. For a moment—just a moment—I think about taking out my black Sharpie marker and rewriting the statement:
Because every girl is beautiful.
Because every body is beautiful.
And then I think about crossing out the word “beautiful,” because what does that even mean? This is a clothing store. It’s just clothes. Wouldn’t that be a good ad?
Rubies and Jeans: It’s just clothes. Come try something on.
I look back at the poster one more time before walking away. I study the girl’s body. She isn’t thin, but she is definitely not a big girl like me. I wonder why girls with bodies like mine can’t even model the clothes that are made for us. Most times when I see body types like mine on advertisements, they are on posters like the ones in the subway—big body, sad face. Sometimes they are the before picture in a weight-loss success story, but bodies like mine aren’t often seen with happy faces, stylish clothes. I put the sweater back on the rack. I don’t really need anything anyway. I always waste money when I’m shopping with Chelsea. While she’s trying and buying clothes, I usually stick to the accessories section looking for earrings, things to put in my hair, or cute wallets. That’s usually the option for a big girl in most stores. And I think maybe I buy something every time because I want to feel normal, don’t want Chelsea asking, “Why aren’t you getting something?” It’s been this way since the sixth grade. The first time we went shopping together, I remember trailing behind Chelsea, going rack to rack, Chelsea’s arms full of options, mine empty. Chelsea noticed I wasn’t picking out anything to try on and she said, “What’s the matter, not finding anything you like?” I knew in that moment that she didn’t even realize that I actually can’t get anything from the stores she shops at. She kept on asking me, “You’re not going to get anything?” And so at the counter when she was paying for her clothes, I picked up a pomegranate-mint lip gloss. I think I only used it once.
I walk over to the dressing room. Chelsea is still trying on clothes, and now Nadine is in the room next to her. I sit on a chair in the waiting area, scrolling through my phone, not really looking at anything important. When Chelsea and Nadine come out of the dressing rooms, they both have a handful of clothes in their arms. They stand in line, buy them, and we leave. On the way out of the store, Chelsea says, “I think this is my new favorite store.”
At home, it’s just Dad and me. Mom and Jason are at his karate practice. I start making dinner so when Mom gets home that’s one less thing she’ll have to do. Dad comes into the kitchen just as I am filling a pot with water.
“What are you making?” he asks.
“Spaghetti.”
He reaches up on the top shelf and takes down the glass jar that has dry noodles in it. The jar is half-empty, so I can hear the noodles shift and rub up against each other, sounding like the music shakers Mr. Morrison has in the prop box at school.
“Thank you,” I say. I could have got it down myself. Well, I would have had to use a stool, but I could have. Dad walks all over the kitchen gathering ingredients and setting out the dishes I will need. “You don’t have to help, Dad. Just sit here and keep me company.” The more he exerts energy, the more tired and miserable he’ll feel tonight.
“I’m okay, Jasmine. I’m having a good day today.” He chops garlic on the cutting board, then opens a can of fire-roasted tomatoes. None of us are the best cooks, but we can doctor anything up and make it taste good. We buy spaghetti sauce from the market and add our own stuff to it. Dad works on the sauce while I break the noodles in two so I can dump them in the boiling water. “You don’t have to be scared of me, Jasmine. I’m not going to break.”
“But you’re going to die.” I didn’t even mean to say that. It just came out as quick and easy as the tears streaming down my face. The steam from the hot water hits my face, and I don’t move. “Sorry—I—”
“Don’t apologize,” Dad says. “It’s true. Eventually, I’m going to die.” He sprinkles salt in the boiling pot of noodles, then stirs the simmering pan of sauce. “But not today. I am not going to die today. Today we are cooking together, and we’ll eat dinner. And I’ll probably eat too much but still want some ice cream, and your mom will fuss at me, but we’ll share a bowl anyway. And since it’s Friday, maybe we’ll watch a movie tonight, the four of us. Something Jason can handle, of course. That’s what’s happening tonight.”
I step back from the stove, trying so hard to hold in my sadness, but it spills out of me. Dad puts the spoon down, turns the burner all the way to simmer, and takes me in his arms. He lets me get it all out, and over and over he tells me, “It’ll happen. And there’s nothing we can do about it. But not tonight. Not tonight, sweetheart.”
Isaac and I show up for the open mic just in time. Word Up hosts a Teens Only open mic once a month, and it starts promptly at seven p.m. They are pretty strict that it’s twenty performers only, and I say performers loosely because you’re pretty much allowed to do anything on stage. I’ve seen people juggle, read monologues, perform with their dogs, sing a cappella, swallow fire (that one was actually banned from the bookstore—understandably), but you get the idea.
Nadine always brings her phone and connects to the speaker system. Currently she is on an old-school eighties and nineties kick, so Prince and TLC are in heavy rotation. Tonight she’s wearing her super-short hair slicked straight back. She has five earrings in her left ear and one in her right that holds a long feather that rests on her shoulder like a bird. She has a bright purple scarf wrapped around her waist like a skirt and a neon-green bra that shows through a black sweater riddled with holes. I could never pull that off. “Yes, yes, yes,” she says as soon as she sees me. “So glad you made it. I already signed your name on the open mic. You’re set.”
“Thank you,” I say, kissing her cheek.
“Where’s Jasmine, though? She should be here—you two are like the stars of the internet right now.”
“It’s her dad again,” Isaac says, and moves to grab a doughnut and pour cups of coffee for us. The bookstore is already filling up, and I can tell they’re about to start. Nadine shakes her head and shuffles through her phone at the same time. None of us can stop thinking about Jasmine and how she’s handling everything. I see Isaac move to text her, and I peek at his phone—We miss you. I miss you—it reads.
I love it.
“I’m so sorry about her dad. I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s writing and getting her emotions out there, because people are studying you two big-time. Everyone is loving the posts,” she says, looking behind me. “I love everything you’ve be
en posting. I wanna make a Write Like a Girl playlist. Will you post that if I do?”
“What? Yes! We will definitely post that. I love it. Make it tonight, and I’ll post it in the morning. People like to check in the mornings, or at least that’s what I’ve noticed, since I check our stats all the time. It’s like googling yourself.”
“I definitely don’t google myself,” Nadine says, starting to laugh at me.
“Anyway, it’s like that—and people visit it all the time!”
“Yeah, because it’s good. And not cheesy. That’s the problem with Music that Matters. Our advisor only posts out-of-focus photos and video clips of us playing. It’s so boring.”
“We kinda lucked out with Ms. Lucas. She’s so busy with coordinating all the clubs, and she totally trusts us, so we have a lot of freedom with what we post.” I shrug my shoulders, already thinking about when I’m gonna share Nadine’s playlist and who will be watching for what we post.
“Welcome to Word Up Teen Night, folks,” Leidy Blake says from the stage. “Come in, make room. We have a packed house tonight, and the list is almost officially full, so make your way to the front.” Leidy hosts every month, and she is amazing. She’s basically the godmother of the bookstore and has been in the neighborhood since she was born. Her long silver hair is wrapped up in a bun on top of her head, and she has a crystal necklace on and a few chunky rings on her fingers. She’s exactly what I want to look like when I get older. She is a local’s local, and nobody cares that she’s in her sixties.
“Hey.” I look around and see James standing behind me. “Did you go up already?”
“Not yet,” I reply.
“Uh, James Bradford is here . . . to see you,” Isaac whispers over at me. I start to laugh. Nadine is eyeing me from her corner spot and holding both hands up to air high-five me, which I try to do secretly, since it’s getting even more crowded in here and I don’t really want anyone to see me air high-five my friend.
“How’s about we get our first performer up on the stage,” Leidy starts. “Please welcome one of my personal favorite poets: Chelsea Spencer.”
When I say I killed it, I’m not trying to brag, seriously. I am just saying that I am good at only a few things: gathering good people, creating womanist/feminist blogs that rock people to their very core, and writing and performing poetry. That’s really it, so yes, I nailed it. I performed it just the way I’d been practicing, and the crowd loved it, at least I think they loved it. Leidy Blake calls up the next performer to the stage, and I walk back to take my seat.
James leans toward me. “Thanks,” he whispers in my ear, and I can feel my whole body shiver. Nadine instantly starts playing “I Wanna Be Your Lover” by Prince, and I start to laugh. She knows me so well.
“You gonna get up there? Read that poem you wrote for me?” I ask.
“Well, after that performance, I think mine needs some work. Maybe next time. Glad I caught you, though. I like that poem.” He squeezes my shoulder, then walks out.
“Let’s keep it going. Next up, please welcome Rachel from the Incarnation School,” Leidy calls out, shaking me from my James Bradford haze. Did he come here just to see me?
“Thanks. So, I’m here tonight to talk about this new blog: Write Like a Girl, because it’s what all of us have been talking about all day,” she starts, and the crowd starts to clap and yell again.
I was still reeling from James showing up to hear me read, but now I’m even more in shock. People at other schools have been reading the blog?
“Most of us are fed up with the sexism happening in our schools. We’re also dealing with racist teachers, racist principals—it doesn’t stop. And what Jasmine Gray wrote told the truth, so I’m here to read it now for those of you who didn’t read it, and for those of you who still don’t get it. My name is Rachel Lewis. I’m a black girl who will not be put into anyone’s box. I am no Jezebel, Mammy, or Sapphire. I am my own woman, and I’ll act any way I want to. I am not . . .” She starts to read every description Jasmine wrote.
I look at the crowd; about fifteen people have their phones up and are recording the reading.
Isaac comes up behind me and says, “I think you and Jasmine have officially created buzz.”
An Almost Love Poem
for James
by Chelsea Spencer
You
my shine
galaxy
of breath & lungs
all of me a wave
crestfallen over you
the planets shift when you’re near
I count their revolve, a tremble
to know your heart bumps up against mine
hope it will stay steady this whole long time.
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Created by Nadine Abdul
Write Like a Girl Top 10 Playlist
1. “Respect”—Aretha Franklin
2. “Run the World (Girls)”—Beyoncé
3. “Doo Wop (That Thing)”—Lauryn Hill
4. “Cranes in the Sky”—Solange
5. “The Greatest”—Sia
6. “Queen”—Janelle Monáe
7. “U.N.I.T.Y.”—Queen Latifah
8. “Girl on Fire”—Alicia Keys
9. “Bad Reputation”—Joan Jett
10. “You Don’t Own Me”—Lesley Gore
This Halloween is the worst ever. I’m spending the night at the hospital with Dad so Mom can take Jason trick-or-treating. He was not at all impressed with the treats the nurses are giving out—small bags of apple slices, tiny boxes of raisins, black licorice.
The plan for Halloween was going to be me and Chelsea dressing up as Gloria Steinem and Dorothy Pitman Hughes. One day, when Chelsea was over and we were making buttons for our eighth grade end-of-the-year project, Dad overheard us talking and said, “You two are little versions of Dorothy Pitman Hughes and Gloria Steinem.” When neither Chelsea or I knew who Dad was talking about, he made us look them up, and that’s when we saw the iconic photo of the both of them holding up their fists, with a confident defiance on their faces. Chelsea and I promised each other we’d replicate the photograph for this Halloween. Although I wasn’t sure anyone would actually know who we were. Unless we walked around side by side all day with our hands in the air in fisted protest, I doubted we’d be easily guessed. I think this made Chelsea want to do it even more. She likes for people not to know who she is dressed up as. We decided to emphasize our hair and clothes—Chelsea would wear a long wig, parted in the middle, and I would wear my hair out in an Afro. We even went to the Goodwill on 135th in Harlem to find seventies clothes.
Now that I am not going, Chelsea said she’s not dressing up at all, which will be the first time ever in life that Chelsea has not been in a costume for Halloween. I’ve seen pictures of her as a baby dressed as a ladybug, a sunflower. Always something.
“You don’t have to stay, Jasmine,” Dad says. His voice is scratchy and weak.
“I know.”
“You’re going to miss your school’s dance,” he says. “And you already missed the open mic thing. And weren’t you and Isaac going to go to the Schomburg Center? You can’t keep missing everything because of me. You really don’t have to stay,” Dad tells me.
“I know,” I say. I turn the TV on, flip through channels trying to find something that isn’t depressing, like the news or one of those animal shows. I know I’m missing out on a lot of fun, but if I go, I’ll just wish I was here anyway. Plus, I’m really scared of something bad—really bad—happening while I’m away. I don’t know what I’d do if I was at some silly dance and my father died. And I know that sounds extreme, like what can I do anyway if I’m here? I’m not a doctor. But I am his daughter. His first and only girl. I need to be here.
When I turn to the station that shows reruns of classics, Dad says, “Leave it here.” A Different World is on. Dad and Mom swear this is one of the best shows ever to be made. They watch it for nostalgia’s sake, reminiscing about their college
days at Clark Atlanta. Mom is always pointing out an outfit, saying, “I used to wear that back in the day,” or “That style used to be fly.”
Used to. Key words.
Dad reaches for the remote and moves the bed up a little so he can see the TV better. It’s weird to me that the controller for the television and the bed are all in one. “I was cool like Dwayne Wayne,” Dad says. He musters a laugh out; it is faint, but it is there.
“Dad, Dwayne Wayne wasn’t the cool one. Wasn’t his character considered a nerd?”
“Nerd or not, he got the girl in the end,” Dad says. “Just like me.”
I laugh.
When the commercial break comes on, Dad lets out a deep sigh. “She didn’t sign up for this,” he says. It almost sounds like he doesn’t remember I am here, that I can hear him. But then he turns to me and says, “I know our vows said for sickness and in health, but we assumed sickness would come much later. Much, much later. I just wish—” Dad’s voice cracks. It isn’t until I look at him that I realize he’s crying. Actual tears. I have never in my whole life seen my father cry. Just the sight of it makes me crumble to pieces. I don’t know what to say to him—the man who always, always knows what to say to make me feel better. I can’t just let him sit in the bed crying, alone and full of frustration. I get out of my chair and sit on the edge of his bed. I take his hand, hold it in mine. Just as I squeeze his hand, my phone buzzes. It’s sitting on the windowsill, so the vibrating is loud and obnoxious.
