shower.
“Comb your hair,” she says, picking lint out my ’fro. “That’s the style? Well, I don’t like it.” She hands me her deodorant and says to put some on in front of her so she can see me do it. “You’re changing out them clothes. Right in front of me.” She sits at the kitchen table and tells me to slow down. “Stuffing food in your mouth like you haven’t eaten in months, when late last night you ate everything in sight.”
My mother and me sit and talk for a while. I’m high, but I can still tell she’s having a good day. She’s wearing her favorite dress—the light green one with the pink flowers. And she’s got her hair fixed nice, and lipstick on too. “You look pretty.”
She spoons eggs into my mouth. “The closer we get to Jason’s birthday, the worse things get here.” She wipes my mouth with her napkin. “But I can’t let the whole house fall apart.” She breaks off bacon and sticks it in my mouth. “I gotta get back to who I was before: a good mother, a good wife.”
My father walks into the room with his uniform on. He’s just a security guard—nobody important— but he walks so straight and tall, and his clothes are so neat and pressed, you’d think he was leaving home to run the world or something. “How come your eyes are red?”
I lie. “I ain’t sleep good.”
He sniffs my shirt. “You been smoking weed again? In my house?”
My mother leans over and smells me too. She tells my dad that they have to do something about me. He says he tried two weeks ago when he made me clean up the lot. “You called it abuse. Happy now?”
She walks over to the stove and cracks six eggs in a hot pan. “It was abuse.” She comes over to me and rubs my cheek. “He should be back in therapy. I’ll call somebody today. Anybody.” Her lips kiss my cheek. “We need help.”
When the eggs are done, she goes and puts a cake sticker on the calendar. Jason’s birthday is in two weeks. She rubs the shiny paper like it’s his face she’s touching.
My dad sits down. He says that our neighbor, Miss Lucille, saw me talking with Ace. He sells weed. Killed a few people too.
I jump up out my seat. “I wasn’t with no Ace!” I reach across the table and get more bacon. “Can’t I just eat without y’all bothering me?” I grab four pieces of bacon, stick ’em in between a buttered biscuit, and shove half the sandwich in my mouth. Butter drips down my lips like blood.
My father pulls me up from the table by my collar. Biscuit mixed with bacon falls out my mouth and onto the kitchen table. “I told you if I ever found out you was smoking in my house . . .”
I laugh. I don’t mean to, but I do.
My mother acts like she’s just figuring everything out. “That boy’s high.”
My father pulls off his thick black belt and starts whupping me. My mother don’t stop him. She covers her mouth and bites down on her fingers like she’s watching a scary movie.
When you getting beat, you gotta keep moving. So I’m running in circles. Jumping up and down. Ducking when the black strap swings at my head. Laughing because he’s hitting hisself right along with me. Then the belt buckle hits me in the lip. And while my father is apologizing to my mother, and I am holding my busted lip, I say, “That ain’t hurt.”
My mother tells me to keep my big mouth shut. I don’t know why I keep talking, but I do. I tell my dad I’m calling Child Welfare. I sit down in the chair. Put my feet on the table and pick up that book he’s always reading now. “What kind of mess you reading?”
Right then my dad tackles me. He knocks me to the floor. Drags me by one arm through the living and dining rooms and over to the front door. He opens it wide. Picks me up by my shirt and pants and throws me onto the front porch.
Weed makes you do stuff you shouldn’t do, like get your dad so mad he don’t care no more that you’re scared to touch the porch with your baby finger, let alone put your
“Comb your hair,” she says, picking lint out my ’fro. “That’s the style? Well, I don’t like it.” She hands me her deodorant and says to put some on in front of her so she can see me do it. “You’re changing out them clothes. Right in front of me.” She sits at the kitchen table and tells me to slow down. “Stuffing food in your mouth like you haven’t eaten in months, when late last night you ate everything in sight.”
My mother and me sit and talk for a while. I’m high, but I can still tell she’s having a good day. She’s wearing her favorite dress—the light green one with the pink flowers. And she’s got her hair fixed nice, and lipstick on too. “You look pretty.”
She spoons eggs into my mouth. “The closer we get to Jason’s birthday, the worse things get here.” She wipes my mouth with her napkin. “But I can’t let the whole house fall apart.” She breaks off bacon and sticks it in my mouth. “I gotta get back to who I was before: a good mother, a good wife.”
My father walks into the room with his uniform on. He’s just a security guard—nobody important— but he walks so straight and tall, and his clothes are so neat and pressed, you’d think he was leaving home to run the world or something. “How come your eyes are red?”
I lie. “I ain’t sleep good.”
He sniffs my shirt. “You been smoking weed again? In my house?”
My mother leans over and smells me too. She tells my dad that they have to do something about me. He says he tried two weeks ago when he made me clean up the lot. “You called it abuse. Happy now?”
She walks over to the stove and cracks six eggs in a hot pan. “It was abuse.” She comes over to me and rubs my cheek. “He should be back in therapy. I’ll call somebody today. Anybody.” Her lips kiss my cheek. “We need help.”
When the eggs are done, she goes and puts a cake sticker on the calendar. Jason’s birthday is in two weeks. She rubs the shiny paper like it’s his face she’s touching.
My dad sits down. He says that our neighbor, Miss Lucille, saw me talking with Ace. He sells weed. Killed a few people too.
I jump up out my seat. “I wasn’t with no Ace!” I reach across the table and get more bacon. “Can’t I just eat without y’all bothering me?” I grab four pieces of bacon, stick ’em in between a buttered biscuit, and shove half the sandwich in my mouth. Butter drips down my lips like blood.
My father pulls me up from the table by my collar. Biscuit mixed with bacon falls out my mouth and onto the kitchen table. “I told you if I ever found out you was smoking in my house . . .”
I laugh. I don’t mean to, but I do.
My mother acts like she’s just figuring everything out. “That boy’s high.”
My father pulls off his thick black belt and starts whupping me. My mother don’t stop him. She covers her mouth and bites down on her fingers like she’s watching a scary movie.
When you getting beat, you gotta keep moving. So I’m running in circles. Jumping up and down. Ducking when the black strap swings at my head. Laughing because he’s hitting hisself right along with me. Then the belt buckle hits me in the lip. And while my father is apologizing to my mother, and I am holding my busted lip, I say, “That ain’t hurt.”
My mother tells me to keep my big mouth shut. I don’t know why I keep talking, but I do. I tell my dad I’m calling Child Welfare. I sit down in the chair. Put my feet on the table and pick up that book he’s always reading now. “What kind of mess you reading?”
Right then my dad tackles me. He knocks me to the floor. Drags me by one arm through the living and dining rooms and over to the front door. He opens it wide. Picks me up by my shirt and pants and throws me onto the front porch.
Weed makes you do stuff you shouldn’t do, like get your dad so mad he don’t care no more that you’re scared to touch the porch with your baby finger, let alone put your
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