I added it to my stack, bought two ten-cent boxes of Lemonheads, and walked home. I didn’t even crack open Bop—I flipped through Sassy first, and by the time I finished reading the issue, I was mailing in the card for a subscription.
I felt like I was looking at a portal to another world. It was the first magazine I read that was for teenage girls but the content wasn’t exclusively about boys—it was written by and for young women. The models and writers were often one in the same, wearing dresses made out of pillowcases and documenting how they shaved their heads. It read like a letter from a big sister, or what I imagined a big sister would say to me as she made her way out of Warwick and into the world. There were pop culture references I didn’t immediately get, but the books and music they recommended sent me down a rabbit hole of discovery. Instead of the pandering, sugarcoated nonsense that passed as news in most teen mags, whenever I read Sassy I felt like I actually learned something about a part of the human experience, like what it was like to grow up on a reservation or live with an eating disorder. In a world full of things telling me that the existence of teenage girls was a frivolous annoyance, this was a magazine that took girls seriously.
And, most importantly, some of their models were Black. Girls like me, looking cool and comfortable.
It sparked something in me to see girls my own age doing things their own way. My world was so small—everyone looked the same, wanted the same things, talked the same way. Being Black kept me outside of the bubble; even though I had friends, they always pointed out things that were different about me as a source of some inherent freakiness, like the fact that I didn’t wash my hair every day or live with my mom.
Maybe I didn’t have to try so hard. Maybe it was okay, and even cool, that I couldn’t afford to buy brand-new clothes, instead relying on the thrift store and creativity. Maybe it was okay that I didn’t want to spend all day talking about boys and crushes, or try to look like all the perfect, pretty, rich white girls who surrounded me. The more I read about girls who lived in cities, on the street, or in the middle of nowhere, the less shame I felt about being different.
From the itchy Sears-covered comfort of my own bed, I read about ways to bring the inside out, ways to set myself free. If Sassy laid the fire, cable TV lit the match.
The only time I got to watch the big TV during the summer was when Uncle Bobby went out to buy cigarettes. Even though I had a small TV in my bedroom, the living room TV had the VCR. As soon as I heard the front door click shut, I raced downstairs and turned on HBO or MTV.
One day, I caught the end of a movie that looked promising because the high school exploded; I flipped through the TV Guide to find out what it was called and when it would be on next, and asked Grandma if I could borrow one of her soap opera tapes to record it. Then all I had to do was wait for a day when Uncle Bobby would leave the fucking house so I could watch it from the beginning.
I can’t tell you whether Heathers is objectively good. I can only say that within the span of four weeks I watched that movie so many times that I have every line of it memorized to this day. My town was filled with Heathers, and this was the first time I saw anything shine a light on the cruelty of popularity instead of venerating it. I already felt confident in my hatred of the cliquey, mean girls who ruled the middle school, but seeing that hatred reflected back to me was more validating than watching Darryl Strawberry hit a home run or finally learning how to slide.
Warwick took on a sheen of impermanence. I could go anywhere, be anyone. I didn’t want to be like my mom, to give my life over to men. I couldn’t conceive of a life that revolved around or even involved men. And I didn’t want to be like my classmates, either, to plan a life around college, marriage, and babies. I never hung a pillowcase over my hair and pretended it was a veil. Playing house was boring.
I could fill my life with art. I could travel. I could skip college or go to one that had more people like me there. That summer, I discovered that there was more than one path. Nothing that was happening around me had to dictate who I was or who I could become.
I could survive this town.
15.
Your mother is coming up tomorrow.” Grandma informed me of this earth-shattering news with the nonchalance of someone asking me for the time. We were sitting on the couch, watching the news. My guts started to bubble.
“So what? I don’t want to see her.”
I hadn’t physically been in the same room with Mom for almost two years. Or him.
“Is he coming with her?” I asked quietly, biting my thumbnail.
“The asshole? Probably. Get your hand out of your mouth.” Grandma couldn’t stand my nail-biting. “Such a nasty habit.”
She used to bite her nails and told me the same story every time she caught me biting mine: “You know how I stopped? I went on a date with your grandfather, and he held my hand. When he looked at my nails he said, ‘Ew!’ and I dropped my hand. I never bit my nails again.”
Nothing about this was in character for Grandma. “Why didn’t you punch him or dump him?” I wanted to know.
“I liked him.”
I thought about Luke and put my thumbnail back between my teeth. I would chew my fingers down to the knuckle if it kept men away from me.
* * *
—
I’d never seen this car before, some old mustard yellow thing. I was kneeling in front of one of the living room windows, peeking out from behind the curtain. Luke was hunched over the steering wheel. Mom got out of the passenger side, slammed the door, and opened the back door. Her hair was different, pulled back into a tight bun on top of her head.
Cory heard the door slam and came bounding down the stairs. “They’re here!” he said, running outside. He threw himself around Mom’s waist and curled his hands below her belly button, taking her by surprise. He was crying. She turned around and hugged him. How could he still love her this much? Luke got out of the car and unbuckled Luke Jr. from the seat behind him. The Baby was as tall as the side mirrors of the car now.
Grandma was sitting on the couch, looking out the window. “Can you believe this shit?” she said, rising to get a closer look. “She has another goddamn baby in that car.” Sure enough, after Mom released Cory’s grip, she reached into the car and pulled out a carrier. A small, puffy face peered out from under the soft blanket wrapped around it. Mom was all smiles.
I burst into tears. “I don’t want to meet it!” Beyond my immediate fury was a chasm of pain. She left us here and had more kids. She loved him enough to have another kid. He was never going away.
Grandma stubbed out her cigarette. “Oh, stop being such a pain in the ass. It’s a baby,” she said with a scowl, adding under her breath, “That girl doesn’t know her ass from her elbow; she has no business having another baby.”
Mom was still hugging Cory with one hand, maneuvering the carrier with the other. “Dani,” she called blindly into the house, “come out and meet your little brother!” As she started walking toward the front porch, I ran to the couch and crossed my arms over my chest. My head was down when she walked in the front door, but I heard the carrier bang against the doorframe as she came in.
“Hi, Robin,” Grandma said plainly.
“Hi, Ma,” she said. She sounded exhausted. “This is Christian!”
Grandma started smiling and cooing at the baby swaddled in the car seat. Babies were her soft spot; every time I told her I didn’t ever want to give birth to one, she drifted off to a more gentle place and talked about how much she loved raising her babies. It was a weakness in her that I resented. Get your shit together, I thought. We’re supposed to hate Mom the same.
I was still rooted to the couch, so Mom came over and hugged me. The familiarity of her arms around me made me feel like I had just been punched in the chest. I couldn’t breathe; my cry was caught in my throat.
“What’s the matter, Dani?”
Mom said, rubbing my back. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.”
I inhaled, still pressed against her chest. “I missed you!” Each word came out staccato, followed by a forceful, chest-crushing sob. I pulled myself away from her and threw my hands to my face. Still sitting, I curled down, trying to press myself through the couch, into the ground, wanting to disappear. I was mad at myself for crying, for admitting to myself how much I still needed her.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Mom said sweetly. “Here, have a tissue. Luke, hand me the tissues.”
With all the crying, I didn’t register that Luke was in the room. Suddenly, his hand was under my chin, holding a green box of Grand Union–brand tissues.
“Hi, Dani.”
Grandma was in the armchair, leaning forward to make noises at the new baby, still in the carrier on the floor in front of her. Cory was jumping up and down in place, unable to contain his excitement. I’d never told anyone what happened. If Grandma knew, would she even let him in the house? Look at her, forgetting her hatred so quickly. I was alone.
I couldn’t look at him. What was I before him? I barely remembered. Me before him, sleeping through the night, my body and brain waking up at the same time instead of being pinned to the bed, paralyzed. I hadn’t known that someone could touch me in any way that wasn’t full of love. I hadn’t wanted to sink into the earth or disappear like a dried-out dandelion being blown apart.
I took a tissue to catch the snot dripping toward my lap like a slow faucet.
“Say thank you,” Mom said.
“Thank you,” I said to my lap, unable to stop the knee-jerk reaction to Mom’s invective. She taught me this. How to be kind, passive. He used that kindness to hurt me, to shame me into silence.
He was here, always here. Taking her further and further away from me, even when we were in the same room. Somewhere along the way, I had done something wrong. But what was it? What makes a mother leave? What makes a mother leave and have more kids?
She knew, I thought. The bruises I was afraid to explain. Walking into her bedroom and finding me next to him while he snored, facedown and naked next to me. Her ultimate punishment was leaving me behind, to get me away from him so she could have him all to herself. New kids to replace her old, rotten one. She didn’t love me. How could she? I was ugly, too big, too loud. Every day she wasn’t here with us, she was choosing him.
Hating him didn’t matter. I hated myself more.
16.
My great-granddad’s real name was John Lacey, but everyone called him Showboat. Usually when members of my family came in from the city to visit, it was a loud, raucous, all-day event filled with food, card games, and shit-talking people who had the nerve to not be there. Showboat always showed up alone—and only once a year—to help Grandma with her taxes. He had deep, watery brown eyes and a light, raspy voice. His gray mustache always threatened to poke me in the eye when he kissed me on the cheek. He came from an era when men didn’t leave the house without putting on a suit, so his presence instantly felt old-fashioned to me. He moved slowly and with intent. He reminded me of the dude who sat on a mushroom and smoked in the Alice in Wonderland cartoon. There was something gentle about him that made me feel at ease. He never removed his jacket during the entire visit, no matter how long it took for them to finish. He was never that comfortable.
Showboat and Grandma didn’t act like fathers and daughters I’d seen in TV or the movies. There were none of the grand gestures of reuniting—no tears, no stories, no remember-whens.
“Hi, Pudge,” he said as Grandma closed the door, moving from the foyer into the living room. Grandma gave him a quick hug and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t smile, laugh, or react to the fact that he called her Pudge. She hadn’t spent all night frying chicken, and he didn’t walk in with a bowl of black-eyed peas. As far as family visits went, this was already a much more somber affair.
“You have a job yet?” Showboat asked me as he eased himself onto a chair at the kitchen table. He was wearing a gray suit and had already put his brown hat on the coatrack in the closet.
“No!” I laughed. “I’m only twelve.”
“Plenty old enough for a job in my day,” he said with a wink. “Your job is to keep doing good in school.”
“Who’s Pudge?” I asked, indignant.
Cory was nowhere to be found; he might bounce in later, but we weren’t lined up for inspection and forced to be in the house as everyone arrived. I stayed around because I was curious; before this visit, I’d only met Showboat once, and at the time, I hadn’t even known he was Grandma’s dad.
“Pudge,” he said, turning his glossy eyes to me, “is your grandmother. Been calling her that since she was a little thing.”
“Why?”
“Because I was fat,” Grandma said, stubbing out the cigarette she’d left burning in the ashtray on the coffee table. She pointed at Showboat. “Coffee?”
“Thank you.” He looked after her as she walked into the kitchen, then turned to me and winked again. “She really was pudgy.” He puffed out his cheeks, his eyes wide. I was delighted to learn new information about someone I thought I’d already known everything about.
“What were your friends like at my age?” I snuck in questions about Grandma’s childhood whenever I could. Her stories were always wild and funny and brought New York City to life.
“We just did our own thing,” she said, her eyes never leaving the screen. “Jumped rooftops, played caps in the alley, that sort of thing.”
Everything about Child Grandma astounded me. She had always been exactly this tough, talking casually about the constant threat of danger that passed for fun when she was my age. It was like learning about the Civil War from a soldier who had lost a leg on the battlefield.
Showboat and Sweetie Pie were divorced, and had been since Grandma and her sister, my great-aunt Connie, were little. Showboat was a retired IRS accountant; when Grandma got her first ever tax-paying job at the convent, she called him for help. Granddad was never around for the visit; he was paid cash under the table at the bar where he worked, so a former IRS accountant digging through his annual earnings was about as useful to him as a mop made entirely of dicks. Calling Showboat made sense, but it was simultaneously a display of Grandma’s frugality and vindictiveness to ask her estranged father to sit in a room with her all day rather than pay someone local a few bucks.
“Go play outside—we’re busy,” Grandma said, coming into the kitchen with her ashtray, shooing me away with her free hand. I was hunched over the table on my elbows, my knees digging into the cushioned seat of a kitchen chair. Papers were spread out on the table.
“It’s cold out!” I knew this wouldn’t be a realistic excuse for staying inside, but I was curious.
“Then go upstairs and read a book. Just be quiet, for god’s sake. This is grown-up time.”
Showboat winked at me again and clicked open his briefcase as I hopped off the chair and walked away, dejected. “Okay, Pudge, what have you got for me?”
* * *
—
The next year when Showboat came up, I was determined to find out what the hell they were doing. By the time they came into the kitchen, I was already sitting at the table.
“We’re just doing my taxes, Dani,” Grandma sighed. They were in the same spots at the kitchen table where they sat the year before.
“Why?”
“You have to, it’s the law.”
“Why?”
“Income tax helps pay for things that towns and cities need to help people,” Showboat said. I bristled at the Sesame Street explanation. I wanted to know all the important things about being a grown-up, not the kid version.
“I know.”
“Oh, you do?” Showboat’s eyebrows were raised.
I quickly skirted past my lie. “Yeah, but how do you do it? The taxes.”
>
“Well, first you have to have a job.”
“I could babysit now, but I can’t get my working papers until I’m fourteen.” It was shockingly true that most girls my age started babysitting when we were twelve or thirteen. Parents weighed the hefty responsibility of children against the expectations of a preteen who didn’t know about minimum-wage laws, and took the cheap route every time.
“Okay, let’s do your taxes based on babysitting, then. Here, pull your chair over.” He motioned to the spot next to him and scooted over a little to make room.
“We don’t have time for this,” Grandma said. I knew this voice, the tight one she used just before she got really angry. Bruce Banner about to turn into the Incredible Hulk.
“It’ll be quick. We’re just having fun.” Showboat moved some papers around the table. Grandma stubbed out her cigarette and walked out of the room.
“Call me when you’re done.”
Showboat pointed his gold pen at a box on the form. “This says annual earnings. What do you think that means?”
I thought about it. “Money for one year?”
“Very good! So how much money did you make this year? Just any old number.”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“You didn’t work very hard, then,” he joked. He wrote “$5,000” in the box.
We worked through the form together, using fractions and subtraction to calculate my made-up tax on my made-up income. “How much money does Grandma make?” I asked cautiously. We never openly discussed how much money my grandparents earned—we just fought about how much they didn’t have when it came to buying stuff I wanted.
“More than five thousand dollars.”
“One hundred thousand dollars?”
Showboat laughed. “Less than one hundred thousand dollars.” He looked at me. “You have everything you need, right?”
I thought about it, then nodded.
The Ugly Cry Page 15
