Read Online Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl by Carolita Blythe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carolita Blythe
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more black strands come down as the clipping noise continues.
“Mama, what are you doing?”
“That gum was right in the middle of your head. Can’t just cut that out and leave the rest.”
“Don’t cut off all my hair!” I scream.
“You should have thought of that before you let some girl get in your head and do something like that to you. You should have thought about that before you let somebody come in here and take my property.… And don’t you try jerking your head away, because then you can’t blame me for where these scissors might land.”
And so I just close my eyes and scrunch my face up tight. I really don’t want any tears to fall. I try to steady my breathing, so I think of
The Wizard of Oz
—when Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion are running through that field of poppies. Only, I’m Dorothy and Michael Jackson is the Scarecrow, just like in
The Wiz
. But the other two characters are the actual ones from the original movie. And I think of how pretty everything looks and how calm. I think about us all falling asleep, and even though it’s the Wicked Witch’s doing, how peaceful and happy this pretty field of flowers makes us.
I hear this loud “Hmm,” and I realize Mama’s no longer cutting. She’s looking me over. I guess she’s satisfied, because she puts the scissors down and walks out of the bathroom.
“You clean things up in there, and then come clean this mess of an apartment,” she calls out over her shoulder.
I gather enough courage to look down into the white sink, which is now coated with the curly black patches of what was once my hair. Then I gather enough courage to look up into the mirror and see this sad little face that seems so unimportant without anything framing it.
And suddenly, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if that robber hadn’t run the other way. What would have happened if he had come into the kitchen and my rubber arms couldn’t hold that knife straight enough to defend myself? Would anybody really care? Maybe Daddy. Maybe Keisha. Maybe Uncle Paul. He’s the only one I’ve ever heard tell Mama she needs to lighten up on me. But who else, really? Not so sure Caroline and Gillian would. And I already know how Mama feels—that the only purpose I serve is to take up space and use up her energy and her hard-earned money. Maybe if I had died, I would have turned into one of those angels in heaven. That would be pretty cool, since you never see any black ones. Only little white ones. I mean, what’s the deal? Is heaven segregated? That’s hard to believe, especially since Dr. Martin Luther King is up there. But maybe it’s just taking him a while to get heaven in order. If I’d died, I could have helped integrate it, just like those nine students didto that school down in Arkansas way back when. See? I remember one thing at least from class. But then again, maybe I didn’t die because I wouldn’t be going to heaven. Maybe I didn’t die because I’m being given a chance to redeem myself.
The next morning
, I walk the block and a half down Clarkson Avenue to the B41 bus stop on Flatbush Avenue, like I do every morning before school. Only, I don’t stop there to wait with the other kids. I decide to take a detour onto Parkside Avenue. People headed to work are filing into the subway station. I move past them and over to Ocean Avenue, where the southern boundary of the park is. Then I move on to a building that’s become way too familiar over the past couple of days. This time, I don’t hesitate when I get to apartment 1H. It’s not that I’ve gained any extra courage over the last sixteen hours, it’s just that I can’t go through all the suspense again. If the knob doesn’t turn this time, then fine, I’ll know somebody’s been in there. If it does, well, I guess I’ll just have to deal with that. So I fix my hand right on that knob and I crank it. It turns. All the way around.
I’m hoping I
“Mama, what are you doing?”
“That gum was right in the middle of your head. Can’t just cut that out and leave the rest.”
“Don’t cut off all my hair!” I scream.
“You should have thought of that before you let some girl get in your head and do something like that to you. You should have thought about that before you let somebody come in here and take my property.… And don’t you try jerking your head away, because then you can’t blame me for where these scissors might land.”
And so I just close my eyes and scrunch my face up tight. I really don’t want any tears to fall. I try to steady my breathing, so I think of
The Wizard of Oz
—when Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion are running through that field of poppies. Only, I’m Dorothy and Michael Jackson is the Scarecrow, just like in
The Wiz
. But the other two characters are the actual ones from the original movie. And I think of how pretty everything looks and how calm. I think about us all falling asleep, and even though it’s the Wicked Witch’s doing, how peaceful and happy this pretty field of flowers makes us.
I hear this loud “Hmm,” and I realize Mama’s no longer cutting. She’s looking me over. I guess she’s satisfied, because she puts the scissors down and walks out of the bathroom.
“You clean things up in there, and then come clean this mess of an apartment,” she calls out over her shoulder.
I gather enough courage to look down into the white sink, which is now coated with the curly black patches of what was once my hair. Then I gather enough courage to look up into the mirror and see this sad little face that seems so unimportant without anything framing it.
And suddenly, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if that robber hadn’t run the other way. What would have happened if he had come into the kitchen and my rubber arms couldn’t hold that knife straight enough to defend myself? Would anybody really care? Maybe Daddy. Maybe Keisha. Maybe Uncle Paul. He’s the only one I’ve ever heard tell Mama she needs to lighten up on me. But who else, really? Not so sure Caroline and Gillian would. And I already know how Mama feels—that the only purpose I serve is to take up space and use up her energy and her hard-earned money. Maybe if I had died, I would have turned into one of those angels in heaven. That would be pretty cool, since you never see any black ones. Only little white ones. I mean, what’s the deal? Is heaven segregated? That’s hard to believe, especially since Dr. Martin Luther King is up there. But maybe it’s just taking him a while to get heaven in order. If I’d died, I could have helped integrate it, just like those nine students didto that school down in Arkansas way back when. See? I remember one thing at least from class. But then again, maybe I didn’t die because I wouldn’t be going to heaven. Maybe I didn’t die because I’m being given a chance to redeem myself.
The next morning
, I walk the block and a half down Clarkson Avenue to the B41 bus stop on Flatbush Avenue, like I do every morning before school. Only, I don’t stop there to wait with the other kids. I decide to take a detour onto Parkside Avenue. People headed to work are filing into the subway station. I move past them and over to Ocean Avenue, where the southern boundary of the park is. Then I move on to a building that’s become way too familiar over the past couple of days. This time, I don’t hesitate when I get to apartment 1H. It’s not that I’ve gained any extra courage over the last sixteen hours, it’s just that I can’t go through all the suspense again. If the knob doesn’t turn this time, then fine, I’ll know somebody’s been in there. If it does, well, I guess I’ll just have to deal with that. So I fix my hand right on that knob and I crank it. It turns. All the way around.
I’m hoping I
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