by Sharon Flake
Dear Jaquel—
That’s romantic. Get a love note. Read it. Memorize it. Burn it. Save the ashes.
Why would u wanna save dust?
Dear J—
What kind of paper would you write a love letter on?
Dear DM:
I wouldn’t write a love letter. But if I did, I’d use what I had—paper bags, notebook paper, whatever.
I want mine on pretty paper with roses on it, or pastel blue paper that smells like flowers.
See there, Devita Mae!
That’s why boys don’t do stuff like that! Bad enough y’all want us to write to you. Then it’s gotta be on good paper. Then the paper’s gotta smell sweet—forget it. No love letters!
April 15
Dear Diary:
Guess what? Chicago is history. She got dumped. Well, first Jaquel’s mom got on the phone and said her son wasn’t sending her money for nothing, so she should stop asking. I asked Jaquel how his mother knew stuff about him and Chicago. He said him and her talk a lot. I like that. A boy who is close to his mom will do right by you every time. Anyhow, that same night he dumped her, he called me. All he did was talk to me about her. I ain’t care. See, the way I figure it, one day he’s gonna stop talking her up and then he’ll see I’m the one for him.
April 22
Dear Diary:
Jaquel’s mother came to class. He forgot money for his SAT test and today was the last day to turn it in. She embarrassed him, too. She walked right up to Dominique and asked to meet Jaquel’s partner. We weren’t even doing letters then, so I wasn’t sitting by him. I raised my hand when she said my name. “I just wanna invite you to dinner,” she said. Nobody else heard. Jaquel turned red, even though he didn’t know what she said. I told him later on. He just shook his head. But he didn’t tell me not to come. So I came three days later. I never saw anything like it. The tablecloth was thick and white. The candles were long and pink, and they matched the flowers on the plates and the water glasses with the long, skinny stems. I sat in between Jaquel and his little sister, Janice. All the time I was chewing the chicken and swallowing the pink lemonade I was thinking, this is gonna be me when I grow up—me, Jaquel, and our seven babies.
April 25
Hey, Devita Mae.
Y are you mad? Did I say you was my girlfriend? Did I invite you to dinner that day? No. My mother invited you. I told you I liked the girl in Chicago. We break up all the time. That’s just how it is. Now we’re together. Stuff happens.
Jaquel—
This assignment is almost over. When it’s done, don’t talk to me. And you know what? I hope that Chicago girl hurts your feelings real bad. Just like you hurt mine.
D—
I’m sorry. Some girls just get under your skin.
Jaquel—
I bet that Chicago girl is like the girl on the bus who kissed the boy she didn’t even know. Bet she is kissing some boy right now, and you’re here waiting for her to call you on your cell or go to that ball with you. Boys get just what they deserve, ’cause when you are mean and stupid, why shouldn’t bad things happen to you?
April 29
Jaquel:
I talked to Dominique. I told her we didn’t have no more stuff to write about. She said we can finish up early, and do silent reading till this is over next week. That works for me.
Devita Mae Calloway:
Why can’t girls keep their emotions out of stuff? We don’t have to write about you and me. We can write about other things like that new movie that just opened up.
J—
I thought you didn’t like to write. So quit writing me. This is my last letter to you. And while I’m writing it, let me tell you a few things. I am an A student. I am on the softball and tennis teams, in case you didn’t know. I am cute and I can have any boy I like, but I like you. Only, you know something? I ain’t always gonna like you, so you better figure this thing out quick. I’m giving you one last chance to choose me.
Devita Mae—
You can’t bum-rush no dude. I got me a girl. You just my friend. And if you don’t wanna be my friend, oh well.
J—
Oh well! Don’t write me no more. Don’t call me no more. Don’t speak to me in class. Don’t come crying to me when Chicago drops you like a pack of crackers crawling with ants.
May 15
Dear Diary:
Dominique says she is collecting our letters and diaries in two weeks. You know what that means? I will have to start a new diary. That’s the one I will turn in, not this one. Dominique don’t have to know all my business. Besides, I don’t want nobody reading my thoughts on Jaquel. He and me still ain’t speaking.
May 31
Dear Diary—
Guess what? Jaquel’s mother called me. Well, that’s not what really happened. I saw her in the store. She came over to me and asked me to come to dinner again. I said no. That’s all I said. It was she who said she was glad Chicago was out of the picture and that she always liked me best. Then she asked how come I never call their house. I told her I was not chasing Jaquel no more. She winked. Said that was good. “Sometimes a girl needs to step back and let a boy see what he’s missing.”
I liked what she said, only me stepping back hasn’t changed things all that much. Jaquel only waves to me. I told her that. Then she told me something I didn’t know. “Almost every night he’s got something to say about you.”
I didn’t believe her until she told me about how my father grills boys and how the other day when I raised my hand in class to ask a question, my sleeve pulled back and everybody could see I hadn’t shaved for a long time. That embarrassed me. “If he likes me,” I told her, “then he’s gonna have to say something. I am tired of him hurting my feelings all the time.”
I guess his mother said something to him, ’cause a few days later he sat down next to me in class, which he never does no more. And he talked to me. We both got a B+ on our project. Two days later, him and me were standing outside talking. He’s been nice to me ever since. There’s no more letters, just him and me talking, in person, on the phone, that kind of thing.
June 14
Dear Diary Girl:
Since I bought another diary to hand in, I wanted you to feel special ’cause we’ve been together since I started writing down my feelings for Jaquel. So I hope you like your new name. A lot of things have happened in the last two weeks. Me and Jaquel sat down outside of school and talked real good. He apologized for being mean to me all the time. And he said he was finished with Chicago. I was right about to tell him he was stupid for hanging in there so long, when I thought of something from the book. You gotta make a boy feel good about who he is. So I told him in my sweetest voice that it was her loss, not his. I told my mother the other day that I didn’t like that book so much, anymore. It never says what a boy should be doing for you. My mother says that’s what she and my dad are here for, to let me know that a boy should respect me, stop when I tell him to, and make me feel special by doing nice things for me. I didn’t want to hear all that, but she told me anyhow.
But, you know what? Jaquel was sweet to me that day we were together. He was standing so close, he made me sweat. And he asked me if I wanted to go a movie and out to eat on Saturday night. You know, I think he is shy sometimes. He was staring at his feet, almost the whole time. But when he did look up, and stare in my eyes, he kept licking his lips with his tongue, like they were dry. And sometimes he would push me, a little, with his elbow. I almost kissed him, you know. I almost just pulled him to me and kissed those big, pink lips of his for the longest time. Only I stopped myself. ’Cause I’m making him want me; not throwing me at him. But when we kiss, oh my goodness, the earth’s gonna shake.
June 15
Devita Mae—
We don’t have to write no more, so what’s up with the letters?
Jaquel,
I just wanted to thank you for taking me
out. I had a nice time.
D Girl—
You told me that.
J . . .
I wanted to ask you something. Only writing it down seemed like the best way to do it.
All right. Ask.
If u wrote a love letter to a girl, what would u say?
Oh God.
Just answer the question, please.
I would never write one.
’Cause you can’t?
No.
’Cause you scared?
No.
Why then?
Drop it. Y can’t girls just drop things?
Dear Jaquel,
If I wrote a love letter to a boy, here’s what it would say:
My Sweet Jaquel, I like you. I think you are funny, cute, and got the sweetest lips. I like sitting next to you. You make me want to touch your hand and be someplace quiet with you. I think sometimes, “Does Jaquel like me the way I like him?”
That’s what I would write in my letter. What do you think?
Dear Devita Mae: I do not write love letters.
Oh.
June 18
Dear Devita Mae Calloway:
I hate to write. But you are back to not talking to me and ignoring me so here goes. I do not write love letters to girls. But if I wrote one, I would say, Dear Devita Mae: Girl, you are fine. And them eyes, man they something else. When you look at me and bat them long lashes, Girl, I ain’t saying what I be feeling. Cute is the best part of you—but not the only good thing about you. You don’t let me boss you—I like that. But you ain’t no dude neither, and you ain’t after my money. I can tell, ’cause you’re not all the time begging for my change. This ain’t no love letter, you know, but it’s a note. . . . Something for you to burn when you’re done reading it.
Jaquel,
I like you a lot, and I am glad you are not the kind of boy who thinks giving a girl what she wants is a bad thing.
Dear Devita Mae:
I like you too. But don’t think I’m gonna keep writing you after today is done.
Okay.
Good.
Jaquel,
Maybe you could write me every once in a while, on special occasions, like on my birthday and once every other month.
Devita Mae, Eyes of Gray.
You better burn them letters if I write ’em, okay?
I will burn the letters and save the ashes.
Okay, Devita Mae.
Then I will keep writing you letters. Nothing long, just notes.
Just notes.
Just for you.
The Ugly One
THEY CALL ME THE ugly one—the boys do, anyhow. The girls call me Marbles, because of the bumps on my face, I guess. My grandmother tells me not to worry. That one day I will grow up and be beautiful, like the ugly duckling in the book. But she don’t tell me what to do now, while I’m still ugly, and all by myself.
They transferred me here to Mulligan High last year, in the second half of my freshman year. The principal said it only made sense, ’cause he couldn’t make the kids stop bothering me. And he was tired of my grandmother and my father coming up there all the time, “raising Cain.”
Mulligan ain’t so bad, I guess. Maybe that’s ’cause I keep my mouth shut. Don’t answer questions when teachers call on me, or finish tests before the rest of the class. But I keep my grades up, no matter what. So far, I got a 3.98 average. My little brother says that’s ’cause I don’t have no friends. “Just books to keep you company.” He’s right. Only I never tell him that.
My name is Asia Calloway. I am just a regular girl. Not too tall. Not too short. Not fat, or skinny, or nothing. If it wasn’t for my face, people would not even remember my name. But this thing—this face—gets me noticed everywhere I go. And all I want to be is invisible—to curl up like a dot at the end of a sentence and disappear.
I was born pretty, that’s what Grandma tells me anyhow. “You had shiny black chicken feathers for hair,” she’ll say, rubbing the soft hair on my head. “And skin the color of piecrust baked just so.”
Then something happened. Bumps—boils popped up on my face like bubbles in a witch’s brew. I was seven when the first one came. Ten when the doctors finally figured out what went wrong.
“Don’t worry,” Grandmother says. “They gonna find a cure for it, by and by.”
No they won’t. Even I know that.
I never miss a day of school, ’cause once school’s out, it’s me in my room all by myself. So rain or shine, I’m here. Like today. Even if nobody but the teachers talk to me.
“Out the way,” a girl says, pushing past me when I get off the bus.
I apologize, even though it’s not my fault.
“Hey, Asia,” Nock says, walking over to me.
He’s with three friends, and smiling at me way too much. I know what that means—trouble. I walk a little faster.
Nock yells for me like he’s calling plays on the football field. “ASIA!”
I stand in place. Squeeze my books to my chest, and watch my fingertips turn white.
Nock’s hairy brown arm slides over my shoulder. I close my eyes for just a minute and pretend he’s Ramon.
“Asia Calloway, why you ignoring me, girl?”
I’ve never been held by a real boy before. So even though Nock’s staring at my bumps like some gross experiment he’s got to work on in chemistry class, I am kind of happy inside.
“Yo, ugly,” a boy says, throwing a Tootsie Pop wrapper at me.
Nock gives him five. “Hey, Ug—Asia. You going to prom tonight?” he asks, laughing just a little.
I shake my head no.
Nock tickles my ear with his fat, flat thumb. Then whispers, “Yeah, you is. With one of them, right?” He points.
His friends talk all at once. “Naw, man, I ain’t taking her.”
“She a dog, man. Ruff! Ruff! Give a dog a bone,” one kid says, throwing a big thick pencil my way.
Nock’s fingers pull at my long black hair. He shakes his head and spits. “God gives you good hair like this, and a face like that. It don’t seem right. Do it?”
My left foot moves. My right foot follows.
Nock gets mad. “I tell you to go, girl?”
I look around. More kids are pressing in on me. “No,” I say, taking two more giant steps.
Nock is knock-kneed—that’s how he got his nickname. When he moves toward me, his jeans rub together.
“Yo, Nock,” a boy in the crowd yells. “You take her to prom, man. You be beauty, she be the beast.”
They all laugh, even the janitor just picking up leaves under the dogwood tree.
Nock’s girlfriend, Nicole, comes over. She tells him that she should drop him just for talking to something like me.
I put my head down and walk into the crowd. They part like sliced butter, ’cause they afraid they gonna get what I got.
“Ill,” people say, like looking at me makes ’em sick to the stomach.
And even though I know better, I rub my hand across my lumpy face and slide it through one girl’s long brown hair. I pat another boy on the cheek, just when he’s trying to get out my way. I reach back as far as I can and pinch Nock’s girlfriend’s arm. Then I run just as fast as I can.
“The principal called,” my grandmother says when I get home.
“I know.”
“Said you attacked some kids. Just like you used to do in the other school.”
I throw my books down on the table. Jump up and sit down on the cold, green kitchen counter. “If they wasn’t so stupid they would know what I got ain’t catching, just ugly.”
My grandmother’s arms jiggle, like Nicole’s fat booty, when she lifts ’em and points to me. “How many schools you been to now, gal?”
My baby brother, Barley, walks in the room and answers for me. “Seven.” He holds up five fingers and his thumbs. “I bet it’s gonna be eleven by the time you graduate.”
Before I answer, Barley puts in his two cents. “Just ’cause you ugly, don’t mean you can’t have friends.”
The chair creaks like it’s breaking when my grandmother leans over and smacks Barley across the mouth.
“I just meant . . .” Barley says, running to me with his arms out.
He’s squeezing the blood outta me. I’m staring at myself in the metal paper towel holder. It’s a ugly face. He ain’t lying about that.
Barley is nine years old. Too big to be picked up. I do it anyhow. “Shhhh. I know what you was trying to say.”
He twists my long curls around his finger like spaghetti on a fork. “I mean . . . you gotta be ’specially nice to people, if you want ’em to like you.” He looks up at me. “Treat ’em like you do me.”
I put Barley down and head for my room. My grandmother says I better call my father at work and tell him what happened. He knows, I say. He knows it was coming, anyhow.
I go in my room and lock the door behind me. Cut on the TV. Cut on the stereo. Close the lavender shades. Yell at Barley when he turns the knob and asks to come in here with me.
I lie across the bed. And even with the music on I can hear Ramon’s soft voice. You know I’m taking you to the prom tonight, he says.
I kneel down by my bed. Pull back the pink, flowered spread and grab magazines from under the bed. “I know,” I say, turning to page twenty-seven and kissing Ramon on the lips.
Ramon is not Hispanic like you might think. He is Jamaican. He’s studying to be a lawyer. He’s too old for me, really. I tell him that. But he won’t listen.
Wear the yellow dress, he says. The one your granny bought you for your cousin’s summer wedding.
I run to the closet. Pull off my jeans. Pull the dress over my head and do circles in the mirror when I see how pretty I am.
“How should I wear my hair, Ramon?”
I close my eyes. He starts to hum. Then yellow roses and white daises float off the bedspread and cover my hair like a hundred butterflies.
