Into White (9 page)

Mr. Barnhouse was a staple in Edgewood culture. Old, white-headed, monotone, and utterly predictable; teaching the same material year after year. The cell cycle project, and A through D bubble quizzes. About a decade back, some senior made up a Barnhouse bubble quiz cheat song using penis mnemonics for all eight twenty-five-question tests. The first quiz mnemonics were
Big Cokes
(only he didn't say cokes)
Big Cokes Ass Cokes Big Ducks
(only he didn't say ducks)
Ducks Cokes Ducks Big Ass Cokes And Ducks All Cokes And All Ducks And Asses Are A
+
.
Needless to say, all Barnhouse biology students since then scored straight As. Excluding Toya, who didn't do well in any subject. I'd always considered myself a smart girl—school just wasn't made for people like me.

One day when Mom let me stay home from school, I half watched
The View
where Whoopi Goldberg said structured education wasn't for her, either. Instead, her awesome mother let her spend those hours at the library learning on her own. I think that's a testament to high school simply not being for everyone, especially offbeat black girls like Whoopi and me. I'd take eight hours in the library any day if it meant avoiding these wannabe bozos. Of course, Katarina was now the reigning queen of wannabe bozos, but what the hell, right?

During bio, my wondering how Alex's day was going was pushed aside by thoughts of Josh. He'd spoken to me once while I was still Toya. It could be considered a conversation, because he said something, and I said something back, and then he said something in response to what I said. I'll never forget the tingles I felt. I'd looked behind me to make sure no one cooler was standing there—there'd been only me. He stared into my eyes, smiled slightly, and asked for the honey mustard. Yeah, it sounds stupid now, but back then it
meant
something.

After bio, I went to the choir room to accept Mr. Holder's phantom invitation to join show choir. I'd met him before as a member of girls' choir, which fell dead last in the hierarchy of Edgewood choral groups. Girls' choir was like show choir's less attractive, less talented, mousy-brown little sister; or the gloomy girl who carries the flag at the tail end of the Christmas parade.

The door to the choir room was cracked open, and Mr. Holder sat behind the shiny grand piano, rumbling off Rach 3 like it was “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” His eyes were closed, and he was completely lost in his art, so I watched. The man was a master.

“Oh dear God, have I died and gone to the heavenly heavens?” Mr. Holder opened his eyes and jumped up, sending the bench to the ground with a loud crash.

I jumped, too, since Mr. Holder hadn't spoken two words to me as Toya. “I didn't mean to disturb you.…”

He cupped his palm around my chin. “Feel absolutely free to disturb me anytime, you lovely thing.” He grabbed my hands and forced two twirls. “Dare I say, little madam, you are the most beautiful vision I've seen to grace these halls in years—maybe decades.” I felt my cheeks flame. “Would you do me the honor of joining my magnificent chorus?”

“Do you want me to try out?” I asked.

He winked. “Ahhh, why yes, of course. General tryouts are next Tuesday, but I don't see any reason why we can't go ahead and get them done right now.” He plopped back down on the piano bench and pressed a single note. “Give me an ahhhhhhhhh.”

“Ahhhhhhhhh.”

“Brilliant! You're hired!”

“Excuse me, sir, but you've only just met me. Why would I qualify for show choir without trying out?”

“See! This is why I like you.” He slipped his arm around my shoulder and led me into his office. “You're beautiful, humble, and inquisitive. Have a seat.”

I sat on the white leather couch near the rear of his office. He sat next to me and grabbed my hand. “Can I share the key to success with you? Young … what's your name?”

“Katarina.”

“Ha! Perfect, yes, Katarina. The key to success in Montgomery, Alabama, is the perfect balance of aesthetic beauty and genuine talent. Visualize this: the most dynamic group of singers, hitting every note to masterful perfection. Close your eyes. Tell me, what do you see?”

“Uhhh…”

“I'll give you a hint, they're up there with the good Lord Almighty,” he said.

“Clouds?”

“Starts with an ‘A,' and ends with ‘gels.'”

“Oh … angels.”

“Ha! What are they wearing?” He shot to his feet. “No, no, keep your eyes shut. Tell me.”

“I don't know, robes.”

“What color is their hair?” I could feel him pacing now.

“All of them?” I replied.

“All of them.”

“Jesus wouldn't let all of his angels have the same hair,” I said, quite sure of myself. Jesus would want variety in his angels.

“And just when was the last time you spoke to Jesus?” he chuckled.

“Uhhhh…,” I said, squinting through one eye.

He interrupted. “Close 'em!”

I tried to envision my version of heaven, but there wasn't a complete picture there. Only fragments of my everyday life—Hampton chasing off Alabama Power, Dad taking an afternoon walk, Mom tucking a flower in her crown, Alex and Toya conquering Colossus. I knew that Mr. Holder expected an idyllic wonderland with naked pink-cheeked cherubs shooting arrows at fluffy rain clouds, but when I closed my eyes, I saw the inhabitants of the empty castle.

“The answer is platinum blond,” he bellowed. “Are there any fat ones? No. Any with bad teeth? None. Any with psoriasis?”

“What's pso—”

“Never mind.” He sat beside me again. “I think you get the point now. I don't give two puppy poots if you can sing or not. I just need you front row center.” He held his hands in front of him, thumbs together, framing me. “You're perfect. Would you be my Dolly P.?” He bent to his knee.

I couldn't help smiling. He would make for a classic cartoon character as the brazen, overly dramatic, chubby music teacher. “I will,” I said, even though I had no idea what he meant by Dolly P.

 

FUDGE!

Lunch period drew nearer. Since Alex's lunch was a half hour before mine, I always ate lunch alone as Toya, which is every teenager's worst nightmare. I'd pre-line my pockets with napkins, stuff chicken fingers in when nobody was looking, and eat in a bathroom stall. Mostly, it worked fine until someone pooped. The mother of all appetite stealers—someone pushing a turd when you're trying to eat a pecan brownie. But now I had the twins. They were bitches, but their company beat eating in the bathroom. I spotted them at the Chosen Table.

The table was located underneath a wall-sized mural of our mascot, the Trojans. The advanced art class had painted the wall as a final project a few years ago. It was breathtaking—three beefy white men wearing long red robes, breastplates, and broom helmets. They guarded the lunchroom, holding on to bronze shields and swords, but the majority of their attention was reserved for the Chosen Table. One of the three Trojans pointed his sausage-sized index finger at the only booth-style table in the lunchroom. It had become an unwritten rule that only the popular kids sat there, and I was on my way. I quickly snaked around the other tables.

“Hi, guys.” I bent forward to kiss the air and squished into the crimson booth. “I just got a secret invite into show choir.”

“Omigosh, Kat, you're the total package now,” said Amera.

“Show choir at Edgewood isn't for dorks and losers like at your old school, probably. Only the hottest of the hot get invited into ours,” said Amelia, examining her nails.

“Tryouts are a total sham. Amelia and I got invited to skip girls' choir and join show freshman year.…”

“Yeah, we split the front-row-center spot every season,” said Amelia.

“Because we're the hottest,” Amera added. “Where will Mr. Holder put you, I wonder?”

Sensing confrontation, my stomach clenched and let out a hungry noise. “Those chicken fingers look delish. Either of you want anything?” I stood, noticing their empty trays.

They looked at each other, then back at me. “You can't eat chicken fingers.” One creepy monotone voice came out of both of them.

“Why not?” I attempted to hide my disappointment. “What's wrong with the chicken fingers?”

“Have a seat, Kitty-Kat.” Wow, they never even asked if they could rename me Kat, and now this.

“Don't take this the wrong way or anything.…”

“But people are talking.…”

“They say you're hot and everything, but…”

“You're kind of…”

“Fat,” they said the final word together.
Fat.
There's a word I had never been called before—to my knowledge.

“I'm a size six,” I said slowly, to make sure they understood.

They laughed like I'd made a joke. “Six is fat, Kat,” said Amera. “And we can't hang with fat people. You want to aim for two or less.”

“I'm double zero,” boasted Amelia.

“Show-off!” Amera said. “I'm a regular zero.”

“Anyway.” Amelia turned her attention back to me. “If you eat, which you probably shouldn't, eat lettuce or something like that.”

So there was a downside to whiteness after all. Starvation. I had never tried starvation. Huge school lunches and whatever fast food Alex and I could scrounge up for dinner kept my stomach from snarling. To Dad's credit, he slipped us Nutty Buddies and Pecan Swirls to supplement the black-eyeds, so Alex and I had bedtime snacks. Amera and Amelia were walking skeletons. Shadowy around the eyes, sunken cheeks, gaunt even. Dancing at around ninety pounds, give or take.

The lingering black girl within did not approve of the twins' protruding collarbones and empty plates. In the black community, someone's Big Mama would've jacked their mouths open and forced sweet potato pie down their throats like baby birds. That's one thing I'd always appreciated about black women. They ate whatever the heck they wanted, and black men loved them for it. Before she died, my grandmother would host Sunday dinners of ham-hock-soaked collard greens with buttermilk cornbread cut into squares and stacked into mini mountains. Oxtails dripping with brown gravy seated on a bed of fluffy white rice. And, for the specialest of special occasions, chitterlings.

“How do you both stay so skinny?” I felt like I had to yell over my growling stomach.

“We have different methods. I enjoy food, so I eat it and just throw it back up again—” said Amelia.

Amera interrupted. “I think that's disgusting and it screws up your teeth. So I just watch what I eat.”

“By watch what she eats, she means leaves of lettuce and the occasional apple,” said Amelia.

They discussed their diseases like a sportscaster discussed golf. There were people out there with cancer, diabetes—real stuff that can't be cured—but their cure was four quarters away in a McDonald's drive-through. If they weren't so awful, I would've felt bad for them.

But I needed someone to sit with. Plus, I'd always wondered what it felt like to eat at the Chosen Table.

“Okay, I won't eat, then.” I folded my arms into a tight wad.

The next two periods came and went slow as Christmas. I counted stomach growls to pass the time. Fifty-two. One after the other after the other. Then dread set in. Yes, I was hungry, but that wasn't why—it was the thought of Alex and our quarter game. That game wasn't a game at all; it was our way of avoiding situations like these. Alex would be so disappointed that I'd stooped to this level for something as ridiculous as fitting in with the twins. In that moment, I reviled who I'd become.

*   *   *

After dressing out for swim, I took a seat on the bleachers next to the twins and shut my eyes.

“I heard that your stomach talked more in class than the teacher,” said Amelia.

“That's a good sign, you know. It means the fat is dying in your gut,” Amera added. What a stupid girl. “It will pass, Kitty-Kat, we promise.”

“And afterward, you'll be supermodel skinny for yearbook pics.”

My eyes eased open. “How much weight will I lose?” I asked. My evil aunt Evilyn already said I had chicken legs. She would surely label me a crack addict if I lost another ounce.

Amelia picked at her nails. “You could lose, like, ten pounds in a week. You can go from pudgy to super skinny. Just like us.”

“Whoa, check out Josh.” Amera pointed to the second lane of the pool. As he lifted himself from the water, every vein in his forearms bulged to lift the weight of his lean wet body. His hair stuck to his head until he shook it free into wavy blond chunks. His gaze found me.

ME.

The twins elbowed me hard in the ribs just like Alex used to do. I waved my fingers in the air and batted my new eyelashes. That moment made me think of my favorite movie in the world,
Sabrina
. It's about the dorky chauffeur's daughter's transition into a beautiful object of desire. Granted, the parallels were limited. Sabrina was still Sabrina when she became special—I had to become something else entirely. And Sabrina never abandoned her brother for starving doublemint racists; then again she didn't have a brother, so who knows what she would have done.

“Hello again.” He left his shirt off and drank down the attention. For the first time I realized nothing was less attractive than a guy who knew he was attractive. Plus, I was so hungry that Ian Somerhalder would've annoyed me in that moment. From far off, Josh looked like he'd been carved from ivory and placed at Edgewood High as a relic to show other guys what they were supposed to look like. Now that I saw him, I saw his eyes—the eyes of the arrogant, the pompous, and the ugly. Not physically ugly—uglier than that.

God had gifted me with an impeccable judge of character, and I knew then that my longtime crush was a jerk for sure. The twins were, too, but what the hell. I caught Josh's eyes darting to my boobs more than twice. It looked like the twins were right about boys and their passion for breasts. Strike three. Blame the hunger or my intuition; either way I knew in that moment that I was done with Josh. I leaned my head back and disregarded him. He could look at my chest all he wanted as long as I didn't have to look into those cold eyes.