Into White (2 page)

To Dad's credit, we could likely afford more food variety, but last year, Mom lost
Taste of Home
magazine's black-eyed pea recipe contest, and she'd become obsessed with perfecting it. She used us as her built-in test kitchen. I liked black-eyed peas, but after a few dozen days in a row, they became nauseating. Mostly, Alex and I fended for ourselves in the food department. Hallelujah for the McDonald's dollar menu.

“Toya, I see your door is cracked up there. I know you hear me!” yelled Mom. “I can't be late again, girl. Your daddy's car keeps breaking down on the way to work and making me late. Come on!”

“She's exaggerating, honey,” Dad bellowed, attempting to save face. “My car is just fine. Your mother insists on filling her up with regular gas instead of supreme. The Fiat is a classic! Classics deserve nothing less than supreme.”

“Man, you crazy! Who in this house has an extra dollar a gallon to pay for your piece of junk to drink gourmet gasoline?”

I honest to God love my parents, but I'd rather die a double-dead, horrible death than turn out anything like them. I've had a bone to pick with those two since I spoke my first word:
Toya
. How was I supposed to pass for anything but black with a name like Latoya? I asked my mom once if I could change it. I got the paperwork and everything. She told me the name meant the “victorious one” and said no, but when I Googled Latoya, I didn't find any victoriousness, only black women looking like
Damn, why did they have to name me Latoya?

“Lord have mercy, Toya! Don't make me come up there!” Mom yelled.

It was time. Time to expose Jesus's blessings and reveal myself. My breathing quickened, and sweaty thighs stuck together at the thought of showing my new white self to my old black family. Peeking through my bedroom door, I saw them all congregated at the bottom of the stairs. Dad spilled coffee and didn't even bother to clean it up. Mom's thumbs fixated on a stubborn blackhead on Alex's bottom lip. “Mom! Stop!” He scrunched his face up, but he loved it. My clueless group of misfits was about to see God's greatest miracle since Lazarus; maybe better. This was my moment, and I went for it.

 

PRESENTING: ME, BUT WHITE

They studied me like a Sudoku puzzle. No one spoke.

Mom broke the silence. “You're such a beautiful girl; I don't know why you wear those ridiculous ribbons on your head. Some girls don't need all of that extra.”

“You look pretty, darling.” Dad spilled another tablespoon of coffee and swore loudly.

Mom opened her mouth to scold Dad, but Alex interrupted. “We'll knock 'em dead, little sister! You and me, we're gonna be popular. Starting today. Did you do your History homework?” My big brother's biggest desire was to be popular. Second biggest was to make me as smart as him—an uphill battle if there ever was one.

I ran back to the bathroom mirror.

“Where are you going?” Mom shouted after me.

I looked white to me. Was I losing my mind? No, those tendencies didn't develop until your early twenties; I was still a teenager. They came on earlier if you smoked weed, and I wasn't awesome enough to be offered weed, so I had a full four years before the voices started. In a panic, I ran back to the top of the stairs.

“Do I look different to any of you?” I stroked my delicate blond braid with the tips of my fingers.

Dad took a swig of his coffee and choked on the grounds. So gross. “More beautiful every day, my Toya,” he coughed.

“Are you feeling okay? You and Alex can take another day if you need to. There's plenty black-eyeds in the fridge.” Mom smiled. She had no problem keeping us home for “sick” days. I was usually more than happy to comply.

“Mom, no! We've missed so much school so far, and we still have two months to go. We're going to get kicked out if we keep that up, especially Toya.” Alex jerked away from Mom's thumbs.

“Don't exaggerate, Alex!” Mom retorted. “I don't trust that attendance lady of yours. Montgomery white folks older than sixty-five just don't do right. Too much interaction with bigots ain't good for a young person's self-esteem. That's the reason I wish I could homeschool you two in the first place.” Mom glared at Dad.

When he caught her stink-eye, coffee shot through his nose. “What?” he asked, plugging his nostril with his knuckle. “You know we can't afford for you to stay home.”

As a child, our mother experienced unimaginable racism in the Montgomery education system. Mom was the only black kid in her graduating class, and she was terrorized for it—locker vandalized on a weekly basis, gym clothes frequently stolen, and enough racial slurs to last a lifetime. As a result, she'd dreamed of homeschooling Alex and me since KinderCare. The year before we moved to the empty castle, she typed up a full curriculum and everything. I can't remember most of it, but I do recall her plans to teach from the Bible twice daily. Homeschooling would have been her way of shielding us from Montgomery's notorious prejudice. The empty castle squashed her dreams, and I think that was the real reason she hated it.

“It's not the attendance lady. I've been counting myself, Mom,” answered Alex. “And can we please eat something other than black-eyed peas for a change?”

“Absolutely not!” she said, giddy with excitement. “The grand prize is three thousand dollars and a family trip to the Cayman Islands. We eat the black-eyeds until the recipe is perfect.”

Dad took another swig of his coffee and looked away.

I began the slow, sad walk down the steps, made my way out the door, and realized that I'd forgotten my book bag. “Warm up the car, I'll be right there. And Alex, you dropped something.”

“Oh!” He swooped up a partially opened letter lying by his left Converse tennis shoe. “Thanks, sis.”

I marched my heavy feet upstairs. The door creaked open, and there was Jesus standing in the middle of my bedroom. I'm not sure how, but I knew it was him.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied. He was much more personable than you'd think for the Son of God. He reminded me of a cool English teacher.

“Your family cannot see.”

“Oh, great idea. That way they can't disown me or make me move out. I get it. You are so smart, Jesus!” I gave him a Jesus-worthy hug, but when I pulled back to look him over, he wasn't smiling. A single bead of sweat crept down his temple. “What's wrong?”

“I've always been quite fond of you, Toya. Have a seat.”

“My mom is going to get me if I make her late again,” I told him.

He laughed. “Let me worry about your mother.”

A few seconds passed before either of us spoke again. I wasn't nervous or anxious like I am when I meet new people, but I wasn't geeking out like the Woman at the Well, either. Was I blowing my opportunity?

“Jesus, am I blowing my opportunity right now?” I asked.

He shifted toward me. “You could never do that.”

“Do you do this a lot? You know, hang out with people in their rooms? Turn people white when they ask?”

“No.”

There was another long pause. He looked to be in deep thought, so I remained silent.

“Toya, listen to me. We chose you for a reason. You are a very special girl.” His brow furrowed. “To be honest, my father does not believe that I should be here right now. Nonetheless, I have walked this earth as a human. I understand ridicule. Pain.” Another bead of sweat crept down his temple, and he looked so deep into my eyes that I had to look away.

“Look at me,” he said.

I lifted my hand to shield my eyes. “Your eyes are too bright.”

He let out a little laugh. “Yeah, I can't always control that.” He grabbed a pair of Dollar Tree sunglasses from my nightstand. “Here.”

“Much better, thanks.” His eyes were pewter gray like a sheet of freshly waxed metal. More than his face, his skin, his clothes, his hair, those eyes branded themselves into my memory.

“You're welcome. Now listen: With the exception of your immediate family, everyone will see in you what you wish for them to see. If you need me, feel free to call me. If things get tricky, don't hesitate to ask. We are giving you the opportunity to be whoever you would like to be. But please.” Tiny veins reddened the blindingly white whites of his eyes, and a hefty tear fell to the carpet. “Don't lose yourself.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I love you, baby girl.”

And he was gone.

 

A BRAND-NEW TOYA

“You look better. I was beginning to think you were depressed,” Mom said. “Thank God.”

Thank God
was right. I'd been washed clean of that dirty skin and bad hair. From that moment on, I was going to rule that school. It was the first day of the rest of my life, a brand-new Toya. Oh yeah, I probably needed to think of another name.

We packed into Dad's 1967 Fiat. Along with the empty castle, that car was Dad's way of proving his worth to the white people. It was a cherry-red convertible, dazzling new on the outside and a broke-down piece of crap under the hood. He'd bought it from a jackleg car salesman for way more than it was worth. When he turned the ignition, the air-conditioner vents kicked four puffs of black smoke into our faces.

“I put up an air freshener for you, Toya.” Dad flicked the green pine tree dangling from the crooked rearview.

“Lord have mercy. You old fool. Now it smells like pine-flavored gasoline, this piece of junk,” Mom hissed.

“Don't call me no fool, woman!” Dad's insults were never nearly as innovative as Mom's.

“Thanks, Dad,” I replied, and he flashed a half smile.

After the twelve-minute drive to school, we smelled like sizzling electrical wires and fuel, as usual. Deanté called Alex and me the Edgewood High Mechanics. “Y'all been working at the shop this morning? You smell like you been greasing engines.” Deanté's crew would convulse with laughter, slapping backs and stomping their feet. The whole school would stop to investigate their ruckus. How could such a small group make such an uproar? That's how I felt about the black race as a whole, really. Hovering at around twentyish percent of the population, they made such a large presence of themselves. It was so embarrassing.

Edgewood white people, on the other hand, valued perfection in all areas. Running around the block to shed extra fat and reading books to learn extra things. I knew Edgewood perfection all too well, since Monday through Friday I sat behind its generic sixteen-year-old form—blond, and a size two with see-through blue eyes and baby-pink lip gloss. Perfection got invited to prom by the captain of the football team freshman year and wore a corseted purple chiffon masterpiece topped with a tiara. Under the microscope, Perfection's hair was smooth and slim, just like her skin and body and her life. Deanté wouldn't dare make Perfection pinch the dent from his sneakers in the middle of a crowded hallway.

By the time we reached the school sign, my stomach was flipping somersaults, partly from my new whiteness, and partly from Dad's aggressive gear changes. I hated that car with a passion. At the entrance of the school, Dad missed second gear, stalled out, and gave a snaggletoothed grin. Mom had to let her seat up for Alex and me to squeeze through. When I rose, I could feel the eyes staring me down.

The kids at Edgewood vetted every new student from all sides—family fortune, prior academic accolades, and prestige. The last newbie had transferred from an Atlanta academy. A few weeks after his first day, the entire student body knew that he'd been expelled from his previous school for bringing a knife to campus. He was bullied relentlessly, dubbed the Ripper, and ultimately forced into homeschooling. I couldn't even remember his real name. He was, and always would be, the Ripper. That's when I realized I hadn't thought this thing through at all.

Alex elbowed me hard in the ribs. “What are you waiting for? They're all checking us out. I told you this would be the day; I can feel it.” Alex bolted ahead. He wore cobalt-blue Converses, faded black jeans, and a green T-shirt that read
Don't Be a Menace, Go to the Dentist.
Any other day, I would've thought he looked great, but that day, a tingle of embarrassment settled in the pit of my stomach.

Right there at the entrance, Mom started hollering at Dad. Alex and I whipped our heads around to find that Mom had a baseball-sized grease stain on the back of her skirt. They started fussing, so I leaped back to the car door. “Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad,” I whispered. “You guys can get going now.”

They paused their argument. “Bye, guys,” they said in unison before clanking off.

Alex darted toward the entrance while I hung back.

The first time Alex and I had walked into the double doors of Edgewood High, our shoulders were pressed together. We felt most comfortable that way. That day I could feel the shiver in his left arm, and I'm sure he could feel the same in my right. But now, all I wanted to do was ditch him and step into God's great purpose for my life. Jesus had visited me. Not as a burnt tree, or a gust of wind, or a bright light at the end of some tunnel. No. He showered his favor upon me, and everybody knows God's favor comes with great responsibility. I mean, Abraham was told to take Isaac to the top of the hill and stab him. All I had to do was give Alex a bit of breathing room.

“Come on, Toya,” Alex called to me. But none of them could see me as Toya.

I ran to Alex and whispered in his ear. “I have my period—I have to go to the girls' room.”

“Nasty.” He shook his head and sauntered into the school. I knew that would get rid of him—for whatever reason, guys were truly disgusted by periods.

“You new?” I didn't even have to turn around. I knew it was Deanté.

“No, Deanté … oh … uh, excuse me.” I felt his eyes beating down on me as I speed-walked to the closest girls' room. I couldn't help wondering how he would treat the white me. Did white people get a pass from Deanté's wrath? Or was he an equal-opportunity a-hole? Either way, in that moment, I wasn't prepared to deal with him.