Teenie (2 page)

About time, geez.

I didn’t have any spots, luckily. I brushed my teeth after every single meal, even if I just ate a mint.

Those things hurt like hell, all that adjusting and tweaking, and more adjusting, not to mention having to keep myself from eating certain foods. I wolfed down like three pieces of corn for dinner tonight.

“Martine!!!”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Get off dat computer and go and read a book!”

My dad needs to come up with some new sayings. He knows I’ve read just about every book in this house. “Okay, Daddy. I’m just finishing up my homework. I’ll be off in ten minutes.”

What the hell kind of name is Beresford? How could my grandmother do that to my father? Well, how could my grandfather’s mother do that to my grandfather? My dad is a Third: Beresford Amadeus Lashley III, born and raised in Barbados, now the proudest Bajan in all of America. Barbados is nice and all, but I can’t take them mosquitoes and I can’t understand what my cousins are saying half the time. My family there uses curse words for the smallest things. Don’t let them get angry, because they’re liable to lob some serious vulgarity, the harshest being “God blind yah.” That’s deep.

Beresford has a bunch of theories as to why it’s so warm in the beginning of March. He’s looking into buying land in the Midwest because he’s convinced that it will be beachfront property in the not too distant future.

I’ve never worn that thing before. Honestly, I can’t believe I even bought it.

“Martine!!! You ain’t hear what I tell you? Come off dee friggin’ computa now!!! You burnin’ up all dee current! You ain’t got to pay the bill, so you ain’t care!”

The Bajan accent is coming out kind of strong now, a telltale sign that he’s getting pissed off. The way he gets sometimes it’s hard to tell he’s been living in this country for over twenty years. I’m burning up all the current? Good Lord, give me a break. For some reason, he seems to think that we’re going to run out of electricity soon. His new excuse for being such a cheapskate is that we’re trying to go green. I’d better get off before he has a stroke.

Big Daddy is some college kid that Cherise met on Facebook. She’s never seen him face to face, but he looks good, judging from the pictures on his profile page. He gets her whatever she wants, sends her jewelry, clothes, money. I tell her to be careful, because I think Big Daddy’s gonna want something in return one day. Still, sometimes I get a little jealous. Why can’t I have a Big Daddy in my life?

“Martine!!!!!!”

“Daddy, I already logged off, okay?”

It’s a no-win situation with Beresford. He complained that I was running up his phone bill, so he made up a two-minute rule. The man would bust out a stopwatch and start a countdown when ten seconds were left. When I asked him for a cell phone, he looked at me like I had an eye on my forehead. Then I started using Instant Messenger. Now he complains about me being on the computer too much, saying, “You gine burn holes in yah retina starin’ at dat idiot box.”

He never seems to complain when I type up a work memo for him. Watching him try to type is so funny. He might as well use his feet. It’s so pitiful that I almost feel like I have to help him. I type close to eighty words a minute, thanks to staring at the idiot box. I do get something out of helping him. He’s a compliance officer with the Securities and Exchange Commission, so I get to learn some cool new words, like “capitulate.” If I spend any more time trying to figure out my dad and his quirky ways, I’ll end up in a mental institution. It’s getting kind of late anyway. I better start braiding my hair. I wanna make sure I look hot tomorrow.

A
s far back as I can remember, every morning my mother has woken me up by singing softly over my bed. Don’t even ask me to try and sing the way she does. I think that stuff skips a generation or something. It’s usually a Bob Marley song, most often “Three Little Birds.” Glory Lashley’s name should be up in lights, but three young children put an end to those dreams.

She’s been a nurse at Maimonides Hospital since my twin brothers, Bakari and Solwazi, were born. Lucky for them they’re twins, or we’d be talking about Beresford IV. My dad didn’t think it would be fair if one had the “privilege” to be his namesake and the other didn’t. That’s why my name is Martine. It was his grandmother’s name, and since he missed out with the boys, he made sure to leave some kind of mark on me.

It must’ve meant a lot to my father to be able to name me after his grandmother. She was a big part of his life. I’m not complaining, because Martine’s not a bad name or anything. It’s different, so I guess that’s kind of cool, and it’s better than the alternatives. If not for my older sister, God rest her soul, my name might have been Beresforda. My brothers warned me never to talk about her in front of Mommy and Daddy. The one time I did slip up and talk about her, Beresford started tearing up.

Kari and Wazi (those demons) are four years older than I am. They’re freshmen at the University of Maryland, and I’m glad they’re gone. I don’t miss their loud mouths and smelly gym shoes. They also have a habit of farting without any sort of warning, the silent, violent joints that can clear a room full of people. I don’t know what they eat, but whatever it is has to be rotten. My dad calls them toxic boxies, and he’s right, because the stink that comes out of their butts has to be some kind of industrial waste.

After waking me with her sweet voice (Anita Baker ain’t got nothing on my mom), my mother kisses my forehead and heads downstairs to fix Beresford his breakfast. She does this after working the graveyard shift, but just like my morning melodies, my father’s tea and food are always waiting for him on the kitchen table, along with the morning paper.

My parents have this weird but romantic relationship. Because they work opposite schedules, him during the day and her at night, they only see each other for about thirty minutes in the morning and evening. When Beresford’s waking up and she’s coming in from work, they sit on the couch and talk
about each other’s day. When he’s coming in and she’s on her way to work, he’ll get her a flower or some candy. The worst part is how they hug and kiss each other like they’ve been apart for years. It makes me want to puke.

I love my mother, but I couldn’t be her. How she deals with my dad at all, let alone kisses him, is something I’ll never understand. One week she was sick, and my father didn’t know what to do with himself. Damn near burned down the house making tea. How the hell can you almost burn the house down boiling water? The firemen and police asked the same question. That black spot on the wall behind the stove won’t go away, no matter how many coats of paint Beresford puts over it.

I try not to bring that incident up too much. I don’t need to hear him start flipping out, calling me lazy and whatnot. He tried to say it was my fault because I wouldn’t get up and make it for him. Okay, buddy, try again.

My father is old-school, always making comments about men and women having different roles and how women are supposed to carry themselves a certain way, some crap like that. That’s why I have to make sure he’s long gone this morning before I even think about putting on my Wade outfit. He would flip if he saw how tight it is. I’ll have to rush home from school too, make sure he doesn’t catch me hoochied out. I’ve never dressed like this, and I am not about to get caught.

I’ll stay in the shower until he leaves. That won’t seem unusual, because I take long showers at least twice a day, more in the summer. Of course Beresford complains that I’ve got the water meter spinning. He never stops complaining, ever.

My mother always tells me, “Cut your showers down a little bit and you won’t have to hear him get upset.”

She and I both know that even if I cut the showers down, Beresford would find something else to beef about. He’d probably say something about me not washing myself properly.

The long showers—I have to blame my brothers for that one. They traumatized me as a little girl. They would tell me that my shoes would smell just like theirs, that I would pass gas just like they do. I’m very particular about my hygiene. I just can’t risk it.

I get out of the shower in time to hear Beresford belching like an ox and singing some old Calypso tune in the kitchen. With the example he sets, it’s no wonder my brothers are two pigs.

I think that’s the chorus of whatever song he’s singing. That means he’s finished with his tea and about to leave for work. Now I can start getting dressed. I have the outfit laid out on the bed. My braids are tight. I slept with a head wrap on, resting my face against my hand so one side wouldn’t get messed up.

The texture of my hair is so weird, a mixture of about five, six different nationalities. I get West African (slaves in Barbados [Dad] and Grenada [Mom]) from both parents, Irish
and Carib Indian from my dad, and Portuguese and Syrian from my mother. I’ll be lucky if these braids last the day.

Whenever I look in the mirror, I can see little traces of my ancestors. My bronze complexion, like my hair, is probably from the mixture. My full lips show my West African heritage, and my straight, narrow nose has Western Europe all over it. When it comes to my green eyes, well, I haven’t been able to pinpoint that one yet. I really don’t like the way I look because I look so … different and mixed up.

My mother has always told us to be proud of our unique lineage and made a point to tell us about our ancestry. She says it’s important, something about if you don’t know where you come from, you won’t know where you’re going. Well, I know if I don’t get going, I am gonna be late for school. It’s time to put the dress on.

I look pretty damn good, if I must say so myself. The dress fits me well, a little snugger than when I first bought it, but I guess that’s a good thing. I didn’t think they made clothes small enough to be tight on me. My booty is definitely looking perky in this thing. I have on my silver hoop earrings, the ones with the studs, and a pair of white Pumas. I don’t want to go overboard with the makeup, so just a little dab of lipstick. I call Cherise and tell her to meet me in the subway. I think I’m ready, maybe.