Betty Before X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  Phyllis asks, “They have the whole basement to themselves?”

  “Yup!” Suesetta says, and sits on her bed, which isn’t made up. I think about how Ollie Mae would never, ever let me leave the house, let alone have company over, if my bed wasn’t made.

  “Are they ever going to move back to Alabama?” I ask.

  Phyllis looks at me like I should know better than to ask a question like that. “There’s nothing in the South to go back to, Betty,” she says.

  I want to say there’s plenty to go back to. That my Aunt Fannie Mae’s grave is there, and the house she raised me in, and my friends who lived down the road. My Grandma Matilda is there on her pecan farm. But I don’t say anything because I also know there are good reasons why people who look like us would never, ever want to go back.

  Billy’s voice isn’t singing anymore. Only the sound of his orchestra is filling the room.

  Suesetta leaps off the bed and grabs me by both hands, pulling me toward her. “Let’s dance,” she says. The three of us strut our stuff, bebopping all over Suesetta’s bedroom.

  Suesetta and Phyllis are trying to move like me, but they can’t. So Suesetta does her own thing and Phyllis plops down on the sofa.

  “You think it’s okay with God that we’re listening to jazz and we just came out of church?” Suesetta asks.

  My body is still moving and shaking, bebopping and gliding across the floor. Phyllis changes the record to Cab Calloway. “All those preachers at church say God made everything, right? Doesn’t that mean music, too?” I say.

  “I guess you’re right,” Suesetta says.

  We dance a little while longer, until Suesetta switches the record again, puts on something slow. She returns to her bed and leans back on a pillow. I look in the mirror, check to see if my hair is messed up from all this dancing. It still looks good. I read one of the posters hanging on the wall. I’ve never noticed it before, so it must be something new. The sign says, DON’T BUY WHERE YOU CAN’T BE HIRED. “Is that from the Housewives’ League?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Mrs. Malloy came by to talk with my mother about it. She said that Negroes should only buy from other Negroes. And if people don’t like us because we’re Negroes, we shouldn’t give them our money,” Suesetta tells us. “Did you know you could join as a junior member?”

  “No. What does that mean? What do junior members do?” I ask.

  “I think they go canvassing and also help set up for the teas and fund-raising banquets that the League puts on,” Suesetta says. “And there are classes to take—well, not like the classes we have in school, but more like history classes about our history.”

  “We should join,” I say.

  All of a sudden Phyllis’s face twists into a frown.

  I sit down on the rug, leaning my back against the dresser. “Don’t you think it would be fun to dress up and go to those banquets?”

  Suesetta says, “That part sounds fun. I don’t know about walking door-to-door to hand out flyers. Especially in the cold.”

  Phyllis is quiet. I look at her and before I can ask her if she wants to join, she says, “I’m not joining the Housewives’ League, Betty. That doesn’t sound like fun to me at all. Besides, my mom won’t let me.”

  I can tell by the tone of her voice that she doesn’t want to talk about it. She changes the subject real quick, not giving me a chance to ask any more questions. She picks up a magazine from the small table next to Suesetta’s bed. “Your family gets Ebony magazine? Not fair!” Her eyes are full of wonder and envy. She holds the magazine with care. “You’re so lucky, Suesetta. Ebony is so much better than Negro Digest.”

  “Negro Digest is smaller, but it has a lot of neat articles. I like it,” Suesetta says.

  “Yeah, but it’s boring. This has lots more color and photos, fashion and cute boys.”

  We all start giggling.

  I don’t have much of an opinion because I’ve never read either. Negro Digest costs twenty-five cents, and Ollie Mae says there are twenty-five other things she could spend that money on, so we don’t get any magazines.

  * * *

  We spend the next hour turning pages and pointing out who we think is cute, which outfits we are going to get, and which hairstyles we will wear. I stare at the spread that’s right in the middle of the magazine. “Ooh, I’m going there,” I tell them. “Rose-Meta House of Beauty in New York City! One day I’m going there to get my hair done,” I say. “Can you imagine all of us getting our hair done in Harlem?”

  We read the article out loud, taking turns. Phyllis goes first. She reads the headline. “Rose-Meta House of Beauty Biggest Negro Salon in the World.”

  Then me. “Rose-Meta opposes the idea that kinky hair is inferior. Her philosophy is that there is beauty in everyone,” I read. There’s a quote right next to a photo of a hairdresser pressing a woman’s long, thick black hair—hair like mine. I read the rest of it. “No Negro hair is ‘bad,’ all Negro hair is attractive.”

  “Look at those curls!” Suesetta says. We look at the picture on the right side of the page. A woman has some pink rollers in her hair and a sea of curls hangs down to the sides of her face.

  Suesetta reads the next part. “The luxurious Harlem beauty salon offers pink champagne and is so popular people come all the way from the South, Chicago, and Detroit—”

  “See! I’m going one day,” I tell them. “Told you.”

  They smile at me, but not like they believe this dream of mine will ever come true. They smile at me like I sometimes smile at Shirley and Jimmie when their jokes aren’t funny but I have to be a good big sister and laugh anyway.

  Suesetta jumps off the bed, says, “Want to bake some cookies?” She walks into the hallway, down the stairs, and to the kitchen. Phyllis and I follow her. Phyllis is still holding the magazine and plops down once we get to the kitchen table. She does a lot more reading while Suesetta and I do the mixing and the placing of cookie dough on the baking trays and into the oven.

  We sit together at the table, waiting and waiting for the cookies to bake. Suesetta and Phyllis start talking about a girl I don’t know and I get lost following the gossip, so I pick up the magazine and turn the pages. I’m not really reading anything, just looking at the pictures. I stop at an ad that says, “Is Your Skin Dark, Dreadful, and Unattractive? So was mine.” The woman in the magazine has tan skin, like the inside of an almond, like Suesetta and Phyllis’s skin. She is holding a bottle with a label on it that reads, “Miss Emma’s Bleaching Cream: For a Lovelier, Lighter Complexion.” At the corner of the page there’s a picture of the same woman before she used the cream. Her skin is brown, not tan.

  I flip back to the spread about Miss Rose-Meta and her beauty salon in Harlem. I look at all the women sitting in the chair getting their hair straightened, curled, cut, and pinned up. All of them are tan.

  I’m so distracted that I don’t realize Phyllis is talking to me. “Betty, you hear me? Next Sunday we’re going to style each other’s hair, okay? We can each take turns being Miss Rose-Meta.”

  I close the magazine. “Okay.”

  The front door opens and Suesetta’s family comes in, Uncle Clyde in the front with the rest of his family following behind him. Aunt Nina is holding baby Allen, who is a ball of sleep cuddled up against her chest.

  Kay joins us in the kitchen and I’m not sure if she really wants to or not, but I guess being with us is better than playing with her little sister. She sits next to me at the kitchen table and picks up the magazine, flipping through it while we talk.

  “Do you like living here?” I ask.

  Kay pauses and takes a moment before answering. “Sure, I guess,” Kay says. “Except for how cold it gets.”

  “Do you miss Alabama?” I ask. I’m wondering if maybe, like me, she left behind people and places that she holds on to in her dreams at night.

  Kay says, “Of course. I miss my friends and my teachers. It’s nice here, but in the South there’s more country land than the
re are houses. Here, there are so many people and cars everywhere you turn. And the houses are so close to one another.”

  The timer dings, announcing that the cookies are ready.

  Suesetta opens the oven. “They smell sooo good.”

  Kay pours milk and we eat our chocolate chip cookies without waiting for them to cool.

  Our mouths are full and there’s no more talking for a while. Everyone is enjoying the cookies. I don’t bother to bring up the ad about a lighter, lovelier complexion. Don’t ask Suesetta or Phyllis or Kay if they noticed that none of the girls in the magazine are brown. Like me.

  Four

  The rest of November goes by extra slow because I’ve been on punishment the entire month. On top of getting a whipping, my consequence for leaving church to get candy was that besides doing my own chores, I have to do Shirley’s and Jimmie’s, too. The worst part of being on punishment isn’t the cleaning up and washing dishes and raking leaves, it’s not being able to go over to Suesetta’s house after church. I see Suesetta and Phyllis at school, though, so I guess it could be a whole lot worse.

  Today, my home economics teacher is teaching us how to sew aprons. So far in Mrs. Collins’s class, we’ve learned about the different components that make a sewing machine work and how to use it. “For the next few weeks,” she says, “you’ll learn stitching techniques. How to hem, how to sew a band, and how to make pockets,” she tells us.

  Phyllis raises her hand. “Why do we have to learn how to sew?”

  Mrs. Collins smiles and picks up a thin piece of fabric from her desk and holds it up. “Why? To be able to design something with your mind and your hands is a powerful skill to have. It’s your own creation. Who wouldn’t want to know how to do that?”

  Phyllis sits back in her seat, looking perplexed by Mrs. Collins. But I lean forward.

  * * *

  After school, I go home and do my homework right away. Mrs. Malloy is coming to pick me up for choir rehearsal. It’s the only non-school activity I’ve been able to do all month, and only because it’s church-related. When Mrs. Malloy comes for me, she sends Suesetta to the door. Ollie Mae tells me, “Your punishment ends tomorrow and not a moment sooner. I want you to come straight home after rehearsal, Betty Dean.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I promise.

  She closes the door.

  When rehearsal is over, I go straight downstairs to find Mrs. Malloy. She is in the church office with Mrs. Peck. “We’re ready,” I tell her.

  “Okay, sweetheart. We’re finishing up these packets. Just give me a few more minutes,” she says. “In fact, if you and Suesetta help us we can finish sooner.” She picks up a stack of flyers with one hand and registration forms with the other. “Here, staple a registration form to each flyer,” she tells me. She calls up to Suesetta and gives her a different stack of papers and a handful of envelopes. “These are letters to send to our other chapters,” Mrs. Malloy says. “You can stuff the envelopes.”

  “Other cities have a Housewives’ League, too?” Suesetta asks.

  Mrs. Peck tells us, “Yes, we’re all over the nation and still growing strong, ladies.”

  Mrs. Malloy looks at me and says, “You know, there are junior members all over the nation, too.”

  “Yes, Suesetta told me,” I tell her.

  Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Malloy have looks on their faces like they expect me to say more. I look at Suesetta, who won’t look up no matter how hard I stare at her. I’m not joining if she’s not joining, and since she isn’t saying anything, I just keep quiet.

  Mrs. Peck smiles at Mrs. Malloy and it feels like they just passed a secret to each other. “Let us know if you have any questions about joining, Betty,” Mrs. Malloy says.

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

  Then Mrs. Malloy checks her watch and says, “My, it’s later than I thought. I better get you girls home. You have school tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The whole way home, Suesetta and I talk about what we want for Christmas and what we’re going to buy as gifts for our family and friends. Suesetta has a long list—something for her parents, for Aunt Nina and Uncle Clyde, for baby Allen, Bernice, and Kay.

  I ask her, “Where are you going to get enough money to buy all those gifts?”

  “I get an allowance for doing chores,” Suesetta says.

  “You get paid to do housework?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “No. Ollie Mae would never pay us for cleaning up,” I tell her. “Never.”

  “Well, how are you going to have money to buy gifts?”

  “We usually pull names and Arthur gives each of us enough to get one person in the family something special. That way everybody has a gift under the tree.”

  We stop at a red light. I don’t know what time it is and am starting to fear that Ollie Mae will be upset that I am getting home later than usual. I think about Suesetta’s family and how she’ll have enough money to buy something for everyone and how she had enough money to get candy without having to use her offering. And I wonder what I can do to have my own money so I don’t always have to ask Ollie Mae for it.

  The light changes and we drive two more blocks, passing Mr. Malloy’s shoe repair store. There’s a sign in the window that says HELP WANTED. I doubt Mr. Malloy would hire a sixth grader, but it won’t hurt to ask. Not that I know anything about fixing shoes, but the sign says HELP, so maybe I wouldn’t have to know that much. I lean forward to make sure Mrs. Malloy can hear me and ask, “What kind of help does Mr. Malloy need at his store?”

  “Oh, just someone to log inventory and keep the storeroom and display shelves clean and organized.”

  I could do that. I don’t say more because there’s no point in asking before I get permission from Ollie Mae, but I sure hope he doesn’t find someone else before I get the chance.

  Mrs. Malloy pulls up to my house and parks. But she leaves the car running. “I’ll be right back,” she tells Suesetta. “Betty, I’d like to apologize to your mom for bringing you home after curfew and let her know you were helping me at the church.”

  I say goodbye to Suesetta, and when Mrs. Malloy and I get to my door, Ollie Mae opens it before I even knock. “You’re late,” she says.

  Mrs. Malloy apologizes before Ollie Mae can say anything else. In just a few sentences she’s erased the frown on Ollie Mae’s face and the two of them stand in the doorway talking about coupons and sales and Christmas shopping. Mrs. Malloy gives me a hug and a kiss on my forehead and leaves. I think maybe Mrs. Malloy has some kind of miracle-working power, because she just put out the fire that was in Ollie Mae’s eyes.

  Ollie Mae closes the door and says, “We already ate supper. I put a plate aside for you.”

  I go into the kitchen. The house is quiet, which means everyone else is already in bed.

  I hadn’t realized how hungry I am until I smell the fried chicken, string beans, macaroni and cheese, and homemade dinner rolls. Ollie Mae makes the best dinner rolls from scratch—sweet and buttery.

  I sit at the small kitchen table. Ollie Mae stands at the sink, washing dishes.

  Here we are, not talking. Just the sound of fork clanking against plate, water splashing against pot.

  “Mr. Malloy needs help at his shoe repair store,” I say.

  Ollie Mae doesn’t say anything. She just washes dishes, her back to me, the running water filling the silence. She rinses dishes, puts them in the rack to dry.

  “Just simple things like keeping track of inventory and making the shelves neat,” I explain.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I was thinking, with Christmas coming, maybe I could work there and earn money,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t spend it all on gifts, though. I would save some, too.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Ollie Mae says.

  Mrs. Malloy is definitely a miracle worker.

  “I was also thinking about joining the junior Housewives’ League. Well, if Suesetta joins. I don’t want to do it by myself,�
� I tell her.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “I think it would be fun to get all dressed up and go to the fancy fund-raising banquets. Sometimes really important people are at those events. I think it would be fun to—”

  “How do you think you’ll keep up with your schoolwork and chores if you’re at choir practice, the shoe store, and the Housewives’ League?” Ollie Mae asks.

  “I’ll manage. I won’t let it get in the way of my studies.”

  “Hmm,” Ollie Mae says. She rinses more dishes. “You sure are spending a lot of time with Mrs. Malloy. You really like her, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “What do you like about her?” Ollie Mae asks.

  I swallow my last bite of macaroni and cheese. I could go on and on about all the things I like about Mrs. Malloy. I like that when I’m talking to her, she looks me in the eyes and really listens. That she’d stop washing dishes, just for one moment, and ask me how my day was. I like that she’s doing something for our community and standing up for what’s right.

  But instead of listing the reasons, I just say, “Everything, I guess.”

  “Everything, huh?” Ollie Mae shuts the water off, turns, and faces me. She wipes her wet hands on her apron, looking at me long and hard with those apologizing eyes. The two of us sit in silence, both of us knowing I may never say that about her.

  Five

  Christmas is next week.

  I am at Suesetta’s house, sitting on her bed, waiting for Kay to get ready so we can all go shopping at J.L.’s. Kay is in front of the mirror, doing her hair and painting her face like we are going someplace other than a department store. “I hope I can find a cute pair of shoes today,” Kay says, even though there’s a row of shoes lined up against the wall, stretching from one end to the next, that all belong to her.

  Suesetta and I need to finish getting our Christmas gifts. I have something for everyone on my list except Shirley. We don’t normally shop at J.L.’s, but Kay saw an advertisement about a holiday sale at Toytown, so we are going to shop for Shirley and Bernice.