house contained odd things, like an extensive collection of old used toothbrushes and all of her dead husband’s shoes.
In Johnbrown’s absence, it was Sheila who mustered the “brave” smiles. Also, even after she healed and stopped taking pain pills she often stared into the distance, reminding Kenya of Brother Camden and his loose eye. It occurred to Kenya sometime after everything happened that she wouldn’t even mind seeing Brother Camden now.
On the other hand, the thought of Cindalou and her dumb fruity smell made Kenya’s stomach lurch. One sweltering afternoon, Kenya walked past the room where her mother slept and heard ragged crying. Until then, her mother hadn’t cried, or at least Kenya hadn’t heard it. Now the sounds she made seemed to hurt. Kenya went into her own room, with its ugly series of Harlequin pictures and its scratchy afghan, made by Grandmama’s mother. She took out a notebook and pen and wrote: CINDALOU MATTHEWS .
Then she went into the backyard by the ugly pink rosebush, made sure no one was watching, took out one of Grandmama’s cheap lighters, and burned the paper, watching it blacken and curl.
* * *
Just before the school year started, Sheila and Kenya moved into a place of their own in the town right next to Grandmama’s. Sheila did the house hunting on her own, so by the time Kenya laid eyes on the large apartment building of yellow-brown brick, it was her home. A well-maintained sign that reminded Kenya of fifties sitcom credits advertised it in cursive as the Ardmore Arms . At the desk in the entryway, which smelled of bad breath, there was a fat white guard, who watched Sheila struggle with a box so she could sign in. He greeted her only when she finally said a starched “Hello.” This was how they would interact until Kenya and Sheila moved out nearly a year later.
The apartment, with its yellowed-ivory walls and beige carpets, was the kind of place that Kenya had heard Sheila call “charmless” in the past. “Here we are,” Sheila said in a flat voice the first time they entered. Kenya recalled books she’d read where families had to move and mothers and fathers pleaded with reluctant children to admire the new backyard swing or their brand-new blue bedroom. Sheila said nothing of the sort; she never asked whether Kenya liked it or not. So Kenya never mentioned how intrigued she was by the sensation of wall-to-wall carpeting underfoot, or how much she enjoyed having boardless windows. At a certain time of day, the apartment, including her chalk-yellow bedroom, would flood with light and things would seem okay. In the beginning, at least.
While Grandmama’s initial plan had been to send Kenya to the best local public school, she also insisted that Kenya take the test for the fancy private one down the road. So before she even set foot in the local junior high, Kenya was accepted to the Barrett School for Girls, with a decent scholarship. This was all provided she would repeat fifth grade, as was standard for all entrants from the city school system.
Completely unmoved by Kenya’s indignation about being held back, Grandmama was insistent. “Of course you’ll go there! My mother used to wash the floors and clean the bathrooms for those filthy— little girls .” Grandmama’s parents had been of the generation that was middle class on the weekends, at their churches and social clubs, but cleaned floors and swallowed bitterness during the week. “Now you’re going there,” she said, coughing, which she sometimes did until her eyes watered, and clapping her hands. “ You’ll show them. ”
“How to become a filthy little girl?” Kenya asked.
“What a little colored girl can do!”
While Grandmama plotted her revenge, Sheila offered up a faint smile. She didn’t even try to catch Kenya’s eye the way she used to when Grandmama said colored . When Kenya whined about repeating the grade, Sheila shrugged.
“Maybe starting last year all over
In Johnbrown’s absence, it was Sheila who mustered the “brave” smiles. Also, even after she healed and stopped taking pain pills she often stared into the distance, reminding Kenya of Brother Camden and his loose eye. It occurred to Kenya sometime after everything happened that she wouldn’t even mind seeing Brother Camden now.
On the other hand, the thought of Cindalou and her dumb fruity smell made Kenya’s stomach lurch. One sweltering afternoon, Kenya walked past the room where her mother slept and heard ragged crying. Until then, her mother hadn’t cried, or at least Kenya hadn’t heard it. Now the sounds she made seemed to hurt. Kenya went into her own room, with its ugly series of Harlequin pictures and its scratchy afghan, made by Grandmama’s mother. She took out a notebook and pen and wrote: CINDALOU MATTHEWS .
Then she went into the backyard by the ugly pink rosebush, made sure no one was watching, took out one of Grandmama’s cheap lighters, and burned the paper, watching it blacken and curl.
* * *
Just before the school year started, Sheila and Kenya moved into a place of their own in the town right next to Grandmama’s. Sheila did the house hunting on her own, so by the time Kenya laid eyes on the large apartment building of yellow-brown brick, it was her home. A well-maintained sign that reminded Kenya of fifties sitcom credits advertised it in cursive as the Ardmore Arms . At the desk in the entryway, which smelled of bad breath, there was a fat white guard, who watched Sheila struggle with a box so she could sign in. He greeted her only when she finally said a starched “Hello.” This was how they would interact until Kenya and Sheila moved out nearly a year later.
The apartment, with its yellowed-ivory walls and beige carpets, was the kind of place that Kenya had heard Sheila call “charmless” in the past. “Here we are,” Sheila said in a flat voice the first time they entered. Kenya recalled books she’d read where families had to move and mothers and fathers pleaded with reluctant children to admire the new backyard swing or their brand-new blue bedroom. Sheila said nothing of the sort; she never asked whether Kenya liked it or not. So Kenya never mentioned how intrigued she was by the sensation of wall-to-wall carpeting underfoot, or how much she enjoyed having boardless windows. At a certain time of day, the apartment, including her chalk-yellow bedroom, would flood with light and things would seem okay. In the beginning, at least.
While Grandmama’s initial plan had been to send Kenya to the best local public school, she also insisted that Kenya take the test for the fancy private one down the road. So before she even set foot in the local junior high, Kenya was accepted to the Barrett School for Girls, with a decent scholarship. This was all provided she would repeat fifth grade, as was standard for all entrants from the city school system.
Completely unmoved by Kenya’s indignation about being held back, Grandmama was insistent. “Of course you’ll go there! My mother used to wash the floors and clean the bathrooms for those filthy— little girls .” Grandmama’s parents had been of the generation that was middle class on the weekends, at their churches and social clubs, but cleaned floors and swallowed bitterness during the week. “Now you’re going there,” she said, coughing, which she sometimes did until her eyes watered, and clapping her hands. “ You’ll show them. ”
“How to become a filthy little girl?” Kenya asked.
“What a little colored girl can do!”
While Grandmama plotted her revenge, Sheila offered up a faint smile. She didn’t even try to catch Kenya’s eye the way she used to when Grandmama said colored . When Kenya whined about repeating the grade, Sheila shrugged.
“Maybe starting last year all over
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