Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl (17 page)

It’s almost time for me to wrap up “math study hall” and head to Ms. Viola’s. But the great thing is, when I get back, there won’t be much time for her little baby-tending chores. I’m so happy to have come up with this idea that will give me breathing room at least a few times a week.

After peeing for like three minutes, I stand and am
getting ready to flush the toilet when the bathroom door comes flying open. I quickly bend over to pull up my uniform pants, but I make the mistake of looking up at the door as I do this. Bad move. Because my eyes catch sight of my number-two potential husband, Curvy Miller, and I become frozen in my awkward position with my pants around my ankles and my oh-so-unsexy white cotton panties around my knees.

This has just surpassed every disaster I have ever experienced—and there have been plenty—to become the number-one, all-time greatest catastrophe in the history of my being. It’s the
Titanic
sinking and the atom bomb exploding and the
Hindenburg
crashing all rolled into one. Everything inside me is boiling and percolating and moving at warp speed, but I can’t seem to do a simple thing like pull up my nasty gray polyester uniform pants!

“Sorry about that,” Curvy says as he withdraws a puffy Cheez Doodle from a bag and pops it into his mouth. His eyes are focused on my bony legs. “But you didn’t lock the door.”

I hear something come from my throat, but I’m not so sure it’s from the English language. It sounds like a screech.

“You need help with your pants?” he asks as he steps in and closes the door behind him.

What is he doing? Why the hell is he coming toward me? I guess his movement snaps me out of my stupor, because I somehow manage to yank pants and panties up in one swift motion, then quickly flush the toilet.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble as I fidget with my vest.

“What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, what’s up?” he asks as he crunches on another Cheez Doodle and acts as if we’re hanging out someplace normal, like Keisha’s kitchen, and not in the bathroom, where he just caught me hunched over half-naked. I mumble something I don’t even understand as Curvy extends the bag toward me.

“Oh no. I haven’t washed my hands,” I say.

I walk over to the sink and he do-si-dos to the other side of me, closer to the toilet. I’m looking at him through the mirror and he’s looking back at me. I notice how red his eyes are. It’s as if he’s part lab mouse.

“So you’re friends with Kevin’s sister?” he asks.

“Yup.”

“That’s good.”

I quickly dab my hands on a towel, hardly even drying them. I just need to flee.

“Well, I’ll get out of here so you can use …” But before I can finish the sentence, Curvy has moved back over to the door, quick as lightning, and is leaning against it crunching on his Cheez Doodles. The tips of the fingers on his right hand are all orange. He holds the bag out to me again, but I say no. I never did like the puffy ones, only the crunchy.

“Your hair’s different,” he says.

“You noticed? Well, it was longer, but … Well, it was longer.…” I have to tell myself to slow down, to not stumble over my words. “It was longer, but I had to get it cut.”

He shakes his head, and all of a sudden, I’m wondering how ugly I must look to him, especially compared to the girls he’s always looking at. Girls like Charlene Simpson. And I’m feeling small and skinny and bald and I’m wondering what I’m doing in Keisha’s bathroom with him and why he just keeps crunching those snacks and looking at me all weird.

“I didn’t even think you knew who I was.”

“Of course I do. You’re Keisha’s friend. So who all’s in the room with you and Keisha?”

“Just us. And Nicole.”

“What kind of trouble are you guys getting into?”

“Nothing. Talking, you know, flipping through magazines.”

“Is that all?” he asks as he steps in closer to me and makes a sniffling noise.

“You can smell it?” I ask. He nods. “I can smell you too.” He smiles and watches me some more.

“Well, I should probably get back.…” But I stop speaking when I see his face coming toward mine. I’m not sure what’s going on here. Maybe there’s some schmutz on my nose and he’s going to remove it. But before I can even formulate a full thought, his mouth is attaching to mine and swallowing the lower half of my face. And his lips are all soft and wet and Cheez Doodley. And then I feel his tongue. And my eyes open wide and I look up. The ceiling lights above my head seem to be going around in circles.

“Just relax,” he says as he backs off a little. “You never been kissed before?”

And I just stare at him, because I have been kissed. In my dreams. By Michael Jackson. But it didn’t feel anything like this. Michael never used his tongue. And he didn’t taste like a bag of cheese snacks. He just put his soft
Thriller
lips on mine and pressed real hard, then smiled, started pop-locking, and yelled out “Hee-hee!”

Curvy comes for my mouth again. Only, this time, he puts his tongue in even deeper and it feels like a wet, wiggly fish. Maybe like an eel would feel, if I went mad and decided to stuff one into my mouth. And then I feel a hand on the left side of my chest, only, since nothing womanly has really developed there yet, I’m wondering if he’s just trying to check my heartbeat.

“I want you to give me your hand,” he says as he removes his mouth from mine and steps back.

“What for?”

“Because I want you to feel something.”

“What?”

His eyes shift downward. I can’t believe this is actually happening. In the space of five minutes, I’ve gone from being stuck just past home base to rounding first. And now I’m quickly approaching second—or is it third? I’m excited and scared, all at the same time.

Curvy reaches behind his back and clicks the lock on the door.

“Give me your hand,” he whispers. I do, and he places it against his chest. Then he starts moving it downward.

“How far are we going with this?” I ask.

“As far as we can.”

“Curvy,” I say as he adds kissing my neck to the routine.

“Hmm?”

“Are you drunk?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Is that the only reason you’re doing this?”

“Hmm, nope.”

And as I feel my hand being pulled lower and lower, my words start coming out machine-gun-fire fast.

“You know, uh, my aunt Nola had this talk with me when I turned thirteen. And she said that unless you’re in love with someone, you shouldn’t … you know. I mean, if that’s what you were thinking about doing … with me.”

“I don’t think your aunt told you the whole story. You know how you fall in love with somebody?”

“You just do.”

“If that was the case, everyone would be in love with everyone else. You fall in love when you go all the way with somebody. See, that way, you two become a part of each other forever. That connection, that’s what love is about.”

I back away a little and look at him. My brain is spinning so fast.

“What about Charlene?”

“Charlene?”

“Yeah, the one you’re always hanging all over.”

“Just a friend. That’s how I am with all my friends. Now, why don’t you and me make that connection?” he whispers. He walks over to the toilet, puts the lid down, and sits.

“Why don’t you come over here,” he says as he pats his leg.

I’m kind of frozen in place as Mama’s one-sentence sex talk pops into my brain. Two months after my twelfth birthday, I got this red Hi-C fruit punch stain on my dress. Figured I must have sat in some at Uncle Paul’s. Only, I went to the bathroom and there was more Hi-C fruit punch in my panties than there was on my dress, and I couldn’t really figure it out, unless there was a tiny little Hi-C gremlin going around pouring juice in people’s underwear. Later, when I apologized for sitting in juice, Mama just laughed this weird laugh, lit up a cigarette, and stared at me for like ten minutes.

“You have your period now,” she said finally. “Screw around and get pregnant, I’m not taking care of it.” And that was that.

A door suddenly slams somewhere in the house, and I snap back to my senses.

“I have to go,” I say as I fumble with the lock.

“Wait, you just gonna leave me like this?” Curvy asks as he rushes over to me. His eyes are all squinty, and his Cheez Doodley breath is so warm. “Come on. You know how much I like you. And remember what I told you about how people fall in love.… Just a couple of minutes. Maybe I’ll end up falling in love with you.”

And I want to yell with joy at the top of my lungs. Because he actually likes me. Me with 1984’s most unattractive haircut and flat-as-a-board chest region. I go to give him a peck on the lips, only, with all the adrenaline coursing through me, I kind of head-butt him in the chin. But it doesn’t even matter.

Once I get the door open, I run out of the bathroom and back toward Keisha’s room. I can’t wait to tell her and Nicole what happened. To think, I could actually have a boyfriend. Take that, pretty and perfect Charlene.

*  *  *

“Did he actually tell you that you were his girlfriend? Did he ask you out to the movies or to lunch or to the park?” Keisha asks.

I’m sitting at the edge of her bed, looking at her like she’s got three heads. I finally have a truth that pertains to a guy, a truth that could soon put me in boyfriend territory too, but she doesn’t seem at all excited about my news. Quite the opposite.

“What does that have to do with anything? He didn’t have to. Did you hear what I told you?” I whisper.

“I heard you, but I’m telling you, Faye, I know how my brother and his friends talk, and all that doesn’t matter. Half the time they’re just horny little toads trying to feel up some girl just because they can or just because they want to get a little something. Sometimes they don’t even like her all that much. Sometimes it’s just because she’s always in their face.”

“Not me,” I say as I bounce up off the bed. “Besides, he’s the one who talked to
me
. He’s the one who didn’t want to let me leave. And why’d you have to say that, anyway? You don’t think he could really like me?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just saying, he’s always following old tight-sweater-wearing
Charlene around like a little puppy dog. He’s never once looked your way before. You guys have never even had a real conversation, so why would he just suddenly, you know.…”

“Go slumming?” I ask. She’s doing a pretty good job of killing my joy. I’m not used to having much joy in the first place, so when I get it, I try to hold on to it for as long as I can.

“Okay,” Keisha says. “Tell me what he said again, only this time, word for word.”

I sit back down on the bed, and Keisha and Nicole hover over me. I feel as if they’re detectives and I’m the criminal they’re interrogating.

“I told him I never even thought he knew who I was. And he said he did, that I was your friend.”

“At any time did he actually mention your name?” Keisha asks.

“No, but what does that matter? I didn’t mention his either.”

“Does he even know your name?” Nicole chimes in.

Great, I’m being tag-teamed.

“I’ve heard stories of people falling in love the moment they set eyes on each other, before they even say a word,” I argue.

“Yeah, but once they get the chance to actually talk, usually the first words out of their mouths are ‘What’s your name?’ Besides, it isn’t like this is the first time you all have ever seen each other. You’ve been going to the same school for four months now. And you know everything about him.
You know his first name, last name, nickname. You know where he lives. You probably even know his baseball stats.”

“Maybe he just wasn’t all that sure how to pronounce it and he didn’t want to mess it up,” I say.

“Your name is Faye. How’s he gonna mess that up—call you Fah?”

I give up trying to explain things, and Keisha and Nicole eventually start giggling and gossiping about their potential boyfriends again. I just shake my head and grab all my stuff in preparation for the train ride back to Ms. Viola’s. I don’t care what they say. Come tomorrow at school, they’ll see just how much Curvy Miller really likes me.

Yahweh. Jehovah. Jah
. God. Whoever it is that’s up there, would it be so difficult to allow me one little moment of joy? Today was supposed to have been the day I made Keisha and Nicole eat their words. Instead, it’s the day I came to realize I can never hang out at Keisha’s house ever again! So here I stand, in front of the only other place I could think to go after school, waiting for an eighty-year-old woman to answer her door.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” I say before the old lady can even get her door halfway open.

“Do I really want to hear this?” she asks.

“Yes, you do. Because it will benefit us both.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret this, but come in.”

She turns, leans on her cane, and starts walking toward the kitchen. I close the door behind me, put my bag down in the hall, and follow her. As she rests her cane against the wall and sits down at the table, I glance at the mound of broken glass, still in the same neat little pile on the floor two
weeks after the incident. I try to ignore it, and take a seat across from her.