by Amir Abrams
He pushes it away. “Nah, you good.”
“Uh-huh. I know I am.”
“You stay playin’ for real though.”
I grin, snatching my money back ’n’ stuffing it back down into my bag before he changes his mind. I sidle up alongside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You know I love you, boo.”
“Whatever, man. I ain’t beat.” He laughs. “All you love is playin’ games, yo.”
“Ooh, lies, lies, ’n’ more lies.” I inch up on my tiptoes ’n’ give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the food, boo. I’ma eat it when I get home from school today.”
He pushes me off him. “Get off me, yo. I ain’t effen wit’ you, Fee. You play too much.”
“Ohh, I’m not playin’, yet.” I inch up again ’n’ whisper something real nasty in his ear. He tries to act like he isn’t beat, but he starts grinning ’n’ licking his lips.
“Yeah, a’ight. When?”
“Now,” I tell him. “I’ma go in the bathroom ’n’ take ’em off for you. So you can have something to think about throughout the day.”
The nasty dog starts drooling. I tell you. Boys. I wish some boy would tell me he’s gonna take his drawz off for me to sniff; I’d slap his dang face off. But this lil horny hound is all excited about getting my panties. Mmph.
I start walking down the hall. “I’ll have ’em for you when I get outta next period.”
“Nah. I want ’em now.”
I laugh. “Boy, you stoooopid.”
“Nah, I’m dead-azz.”
“Whatever.” I huff, brushing my bangs outta my left eye. “Come on.” He follows me to the girls’ bathroom ’n’ waits outside by the doors. A few seconds later I return from the bathroom with my pink lace panties neatly folded, then hand ’em to him. Now he’s all grins ’n’ giggles. Just that quick he’s forgotten about how he got played last night. Silly fool.
I make it to my next class two minutes after the bell rings.
“Glad you’re able to join us, Miss Madison,” Mrs. Sheldon, aka Mrs. Haterade, starts in the second I waltz through the door. This lady stays tryna turn up. I can’t stand her. She’s such a . . . ooh, she’s lucky I don’t call old ladies the B-word. ’Cause that’s exactly what I’d call her. And if you ask me, I think she has some kinda complex toward the real pretty girls. Yup. I sure do ’cause she’s just as sweet as molasses to the lot lizards ’n’ chicks that look like baboons. But let it be a fly chick like me ’n’ she stays tryin’ it.
Lady, go have several seats! Don’t be jelly ’cause I’m young ’n’ beautiful. Hate ya’self, boo.
But I’m not messy. So I’m gonna keep it cute ’n’ move along. I open my mouth to explain my reason—well, okay, my lie—as to why I’m late. But she shuts it down. “Save it. Take your seat.”
I roll my eyes. Don’t do me, boo. I take the nearest seat next to Alicia—not that I really wanna sit next to her—dropping my bag onto the floor beside me. I peep her looking at me outta the corner of my eye.
I turn to her. “Can I help you?”
“You’re such a snotty bitch,” she hisses.
“And you’re still a ox stuffed in a thick girl’s body, but you don’t hear me calling you names, now do you? Good day, ma’am.” I shift in my seat.
Mrs. Sheldon clears her throat, shooting daggers over in my direction. “Excuse me, ladies. Am I missing something? This is an AP English class, is it not?”
Alicia says, “Yes.”
I just stare at her.
“And you are both seniors, correct?”
“Yes,” Alicia says again.
“Miss Madison, please feel free to chime in.”
I twist my lips. “Mm-hmm.”
“Great. Now I trust the two of you have been getting along and working diligently on your project to present next week.”
Alicia shifts in her seat ’n’ of course the messy bish tries to toss me under the dang train, bus, ’n’ garbage truck all in the same sitting. “Well, I don’t know what she’s doing.” She tosses a look over at me. “But I’m doing my part,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
I toss my hair back. “Good day, boo. And how does that have anything to do with today’s lesson, ma’am?” I ask.
A few kids in back of me jeer her on. “Ooh, she tryna play you, Missus S.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
I shrug. “No, shade. I’m just tryna understand the relevance of the question since last I checked I thought we were supposed to be discussing”—I pull out my book—“this. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, which, by the way, wore my nerves down. Ooh, don’t do me like that again. No, ma’am.”
She blinks. “Excuse me? Please elaborate.”
“The book is extremely depressing.”
“And why is that?” she wants to know, tilting her head.
I sigh. “Not that I wanna be center stage today, but . . .”
Someone says, “Yeah, right.”
A few kids chuckle.
I throw my left hand up, then middle finger up. “Ooh, don’t do me.” And of course, Mrs. Haterade tries to give it to me, like I’m the one causing problems. “Annnnyway,” I continue, igging her. “The whole time I was reading this mess I felt like I was in the middle of a horrible nightmare. First of all, she hates herself to the point where she thinks havin’ blue eyes ’n’ blond hair is gonna make her more beautiful. It’s like she was obsessed with it. I mean, dang. She shoulda just embraced her ugliness ’n’ kept it movin’.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Mrs. Sheldon says, frowning.
“Omigod!” Alicia snaps. “Are you frickin’ serious? That girl—”
“Her name is Pecola,” Mrs. Haterade interjects.
“Okay. Pecola,” Alicia says, “was treated like shi . . . uh, crap. If someone is always ridiculed ’n’ made to feel worthless, like she was, how you expect her to like what or who she is? She’s spit on, teased. Then her own father, with his nasty self, rapes her, and ends up knockin’ her up. Pecola’s whole life was bleak. Her father tried to burn down their house. He drinks. Her own mother doesn’t really show her any love ’n’ all they do is beat each other down. Her parents fight. I mean, c’mon. Her whole life was effed up.”
“Girl, relax,” I say dismissively. “You takin’ up for the chick like she’s a long lost cousin. It’s only a book ’n’ it’s my opinion. Get over it.”
“And now I’m giving you facts. Almost everyone around her mistreated or abused her. So, you get over it.”
I shoot her an icy glare. “And like I saaaid, in my opinion, the book was borrring and too dang depressing. And Fiona has no time for tragedy ’n’ heartache. Period.”
“Okay, girls,” Mrs. Haterade says. “Settle down. Let’s not turn this into a verbal sparring match. Yes, it’s true. The book is very sad and haunting. But it’s a deep and inspiring one as well.”
I grunt. “Mmph. I can’t tell. The only thing it inspired me to do was shut it.”
I blink back the burning sensation that’s building up in the back part of my eyeballs. I feel like I am about to burst out in tears at any moment. I didn’t realize talking about this dang book would have me feeling all types of crazy. Snippets of my own damn life being tossed in my dang face. Not that my father was a drunk. Or ever tried to rape me or burn down our house. But I know what it’s like to be ridiculed ’n’ made to feel like you’re nothing by your own mother. That was most of my life. And it had nothing to do with being dark-skinned ’n’ ugly. Or having brown eyes or blue eyes, or wanting to be white.
I have green eyes ’n’ blond hair. And I’m very light-skinned. Almost white, at first glance. But guess what? That ish doesn’t mean jack. Growing up, I still felt worthless. Still felt like I didn’t belong. And, even now, sometimes I still do. But I’m not about to admit it here. Oh, no ma’am, no sir. Not in front of these clowns. That’s my dirty lil secret. Trust. I didn’t need to read about feeling ugly ’n’ being treated
like crap in some miserable book. I can look in the mirror if I wanna be reminded of misery.
I take several deep breaths, then push out, “Well, someone shoulda sent her silly butt the memo that having blue eyes like Shirley Temple doesn’t make you more loveable. And being white or light doesn’t guarantee your parents are gonna love you more, or respect you more. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re gonna be accepted by anyone.”
Someone in back of me says, “On the real, what Pecola went through is no different than what my lil thirteen-year-old cousin went through last summer when her moms’s boyfriend raped her. Dude kept on rapin’ her ’n’ her moms was walkin’ around actin’ like she didn’t see or know what was poppin’ off. No different from Pecola’s moms, if you ask me. My cuz ended up pregnant ’n’ with gonorrhea at the same time. And my aunt blames her for that mofo . . . oh, my bad, Missus S. But she blames my cuz for what happened.”
The classroom starts to rumble.
“Omigod!”
“Oh, that’s effed up!”
“I hope his butt’s in jail.”
“Mister Croix, I’m sorry to hear about your cousin,” Mrs. Haterade says. “And you’re right, her story is no different from what we hear today. Truth is, Pecola’s story, although fictional, is the reality for so many of us. There are hundreds and thousands of Pecolas in the world. And just like in this book, for many of them, there are no happy endings.”
I choke back tears. My stomach starts to twist in knots ’n’ I can feel my breakfast bubblin’ up inside of me ’n’ I can tell I am gonna be sick. Like right now. I can taste it in the back of my throat.
Oh no, oh no. These fools will not see me break down. Not today. Oh no, honey-boo. I snatch up my things ’n’ bolt for the door with Mrs. Haterade calling after me, but I don’t make it to the bathroom in time before I am hunched over in the middle of the hallway, tossing up my guts along with every nasty word my mother has ever said to me.
18
“I’m so damn sick of you, lil girl!”
“I swear, I’m sorry I ever had you . . . !”
“You think I wanna be tied down to some lil snotty, fresh-mouthed kid?”
“You’re gonna end up worthless like the rest of them hot-in-the-azz little girls in the streets you tryna be like . . . !”
“I’m not raising whores up in here . . . !”
I open my eyes. Blink several times to adjust to the darkness. My head is pounding. I’m breathing heavy. And judging by my covers being off the bed ’n’ my pillows all over the place, I musta been tossing ’n’ turning in my sleep again.
Another nightmare. This time I was being chased by a pack of rabid dogs ’n’ my mother was leading the pack, wielding some type of black leather whip, talking all reckless. She sicced these wild mangy dogs on me ’n’ had me running for my life.
I’m not sure exactly what the dogs in my dream mean since we’ve never owned any. But what I do know, what I always remember, is the mean, evil way my mother is always glaring at me.
“Fiona, don’t let what she says get to you,” Leona would whisper to me as she hugged ’n’ rocked me until I’d fall asleep or simply be too cried out to shed another tear. “You’re beautiful. Don’t ever forget that. Okay?”
And, yeah, I would nod like I believed her, but deep inside I didn’t feel it. How could I? I mean, really. My own mother thought I was some ugly misfit who ruined her life.
But I know better now. Still, it hurts sometimes when I think too long about it, which is why I do everything I can to not think about it, or remember any of it.
I don’t like her. And, honestly, I don’t think I ever will.
Oooh, boo, pull ya’self together. You too fly to be lookin’ ’n’ feelin’ all crazy.
I swipe tears from my face, then reach over ’n’ grab my cell from off the nightstand to check the time: 1:13 A.M. Omigod, I can’t believe I slept through Scandal. I don’t even bother checking the six messages I have. I climb outta bed, dragging myself to the bathroom. I flush, wash my hands, then a few minutes later I step out ’n’ head down the hall toward my mother’s bedroom to see if she’s home. Why I even bother when I know she’s not is beyond me. Her door’s closed. I press my ear up against it, then slowly turn the knob, opening it.
Empty.
Just like I knew it would be.
Why you care?
She’d rather be at work instead of being here, or being a mother, any-damn-way, so get over it.
Oh, trust. I’m over it.
Lies.
Mmph. Well, lies or not. The truth is, sometimes it gets lonely being up in this big ole house alone. Not that I want some annoying lil sister pestering me ’n’ working my last nerve tryna suck up all’a my attention, or bugging me about borrowing my things, or worse—going through my ish without permission.
Oh no, hun. Trust. Ain’t nobody got time for that. I’m not that kinda bored. Still. It’d be nice to have someone here, sometimes. Uh, hold up. Let me rephrase that. It would be nice to know there’s someone here who gets me, someone who I like. Not some ole grump who just wants to eat, sleep, work, ’n’ slick-talk me every chance she gets. Like, jeezus, get yo’ life, lady. Anywaaaay . . .
I shut her door, head downstairs to get something to drink, then ease my way back up to my room, grabbing the remote ’n’ turning on the TV. I climb back up in bed, flipping through channels. Then decide to go on Facebook ’n’ page stalk until I finally drift back to sleep.
I don’t snap my eyes open again until, until... seven o’clock. “Aah!” I shriek, bolting up in bed. “Omigod! I’m gonna be frickin’ late. No, no, no!”
I plop back against my pillows, struggling with the idea of getting up ’n’ getting dressed. God, why can’t today be Saturday? I swear. I live for the weekends. Girl, snatch back these covers ’n’ get yo’ life! You have no time for lying around acting all pitiful ’n’ feeling sorry for ya’self. No no, honey-boo, get ya’self together!
I stretch ’n’ groan, then begrudgingly hop outta bed, feeling no more rested than I did when I awoke in the middle of the night. I feel real groggy ’n’ extremely cranky. And I know waaay before my soft feet hit the floor that today’s not gonna be a good day, for me or for anyone who dares to try me.
I curse myself for oversleeping as I race around my room like a wild woman, yanking a black bra ’n’ panty set from outta my dresser drawer, then snatching a cute pair of jeans off a hanger along with a sexy lil red wrap blouse. Ooh, I hate rushing. I turn on my stereo ’n’ let my boo Ariana Grande do me right as I sing along to one of her latest songs, heading for the shower.
Forty minutes later, I strut into the kitchen ’n’ stop in my tracks. She’s home. Mmph. I cut an eye over at her. She has a cup of coffee in one hand ’n’ the Jersey Journal in the other. She has her face pressed all into the newspaper, mumbling ’n’ shaking her head about some old man getting punched up by three men over on Duncan ’n’ Mallory Avenues.
I have no interest, so I pretend to not hear her. I don’t even wanna be in the same room with her right now. But I am too hungry to turn back around. I shuffle on over to the refrigerator ’n’ pull out a container of vanilla Greek yogurt ’n’ a bowl of sliced strawberries. I pour some yogurt over the fruit, then seal the container, placing it back into the fridge.
“Oh, so there must be something wrong with your mouth, huh? You too cute to speak, right?”
Oh, here we go with the BS already. I frown. “Um, hello. I don’t see you sippin’ through a straw, so that tells me your jaw’s not broke. So what’s wrong with you speaking to me?”
“What?” She slams the paper down on the table. “Lil girl, I think you keep forgetting who the parent is up in here. You’re gonna walk up in here, go inside my refrigerator ’n’ eat food I buy ’n’ not open your mouth ’n’ say one word to me, like you don’t see me sitting here? You have it all backwards. You’re the child. I’m the adult. When you walk into a room, you open your mouth ’n’ you
speak. I don’t give a damn if I saw you or not, with your disrespectful azz. I’ll be glad when you get the hell up outta my house.”
I shoot her a dirty look. “Trust. The feeling’s mutual. Please don’t even sit there ’n’ act like you’ve rolled out the red carpet ’n’ welcomed me with open arms. You didn’t want me here the moment they sliced me outta ya stomach. So boom! I’m sick of you actin’ like it’s my fault you had ya lil nervous breakdown or that you’re three scoops from damn crazy. I didn’t ruin ya life, boo. You did. It’s not my fault ya husband ran off ’n’ left you for some other woman.” I tsk. “I see why he left you . . .”
“Whaaat?!” She glares at me. “Keep it up, Fiona. Okay? Keep testing me. I’m this close”—she snaps her fingers—“from hoppin’ on ya tail. I don’t know what you were doing all night that you couldn’t get up for school on time, but I’m not signing no notes.”
I shoot her another dirty look, pulling out a stool ’n’ sitting at the counter, as far away from her as possible. “I didn’t ask you for one, either. Did I?”
“Well, I’m telling you.”
“Mmph. Well, thanks for the notification. You coulda at least made sure I was up.”
She grunts. “For what? Making sure you get up for school is not my concern. You grown, remember?”
“But you just said you were the parent here, remember ? Make up ya mind.”
“Don’t try me, lil girl. Now hurry up ’n’ get the hell up outta here.”
Oh no, hun. She is not about to do me.
I take a deep breath. Count to ten slowly in my head, then backwards. I can hear Leona in my head saying, “Pick ’n’ choose your battles.”
But little does this lady know I’m in no mood for her. Oh no. I’m so not. I’m getting sick of picking my battles. She keeps pickin’ ’n’ itchin’ for a fight. And I’m about ready to give her one ’cause I wanna get bloody on the battlefield. Still. I’m tryna bite my tongue ’n’ keep it cute. For now.
