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Practice makes perfect, I guess, and we be getting plenty of practice these days. Mr. Ward had to switch Open Mike from once a month to once a week ’cause so many people be wanting to read their work.
    I b’lieve there’s more to this thing than Mr. Ward planned on. But he’s cool. He keeps rolling with it.

Tanisha Scott
    If Tyrone calls me “caramel cutie” one more time, I’ll scream. I turn to cut my eyes at him and find Judianne staring at me again. Even after I turn away, I can feel her eyes stroking the back of my head. I’m so sick of people making a big deal over my “good hair.”
    I caught her pawing my hair just last week. I reached back and grabbed a finger before she had a chance to pull away. I spun around, more aggravated than angry, and said, “Look, it’s just hair. It’s not magic, so don’t go rubbing it for good luck. Trust me, it hasn’t brought me any.” Raynard stifled a laugh. You never know when that boy is paying attention. Of course, Judianne made out like she didn’t know what I was talking about, swearing up and down she hadn’t touched a single hair on my head. But I’d seen that hungry look in her eyes, like I had something she wanted. It was the same look my cousin Faith always gives me just before she says “I sure wish I had good hair like yours” or “I wish I was light like you,” followed by “then boys would like me better ” Which isn’t true, if you ask me. But try telling that to my cousin. Or to Judianne. If she doesn’t quit bugging me, I’m gonna ask Mr. Ward to change my seat.
    She’s why I chopped all my hair off last year. Well, people like her.
    My mother freaked when she saw me. My bangs were cut straight across my brow and the sides were sort of squared at the neck. I looked like a clown minus the red nose. It was the best I could do on my own. And it looked better than that time I washed it in detergent to kink it up so I could have an Afro like my cousins. Anyway, Mom hated it so much, she finally forked over money for a visit to a hair salon to have it cut professionally.
    Served her right. I’d begged her to let me cut it off before. “But your hair is so beautiful,” she’d say. “Why would you want to cut it?”
    My mind flashed to the school cafeteria that afternoon. I’d walked past a group of would-be girlfriends who sucked their teeth at me and said my name like it was curdled milk they couldn’t wait to spit out. “Here come Miss High-Yella, thinkin’ she’s all that, with her so-called ‘good hair,’ ” said one. “Far’s I’m concerned, she ain’t nothin‘,” said another. “Less than nothin’,” said a third. I shook off the memory.
    “Look, Mom,” I said. “You don’t understand.” But she wasn’t listening.
    “Most girls you know would kill to have your hair,” she said.
    “That’s just it, Mom. They hate me for it and they hate my skin. I can’t do anything about my skin, okay, but my hair I can fix.” I lost the argument, of course. Then, three weeks later, I cut it anyway.
    It’s growing back now and I’ve decided to let it. I mean, it’s not like I can win, you know? I’ve tried dressing down in T-shirts and baggy pants, with no makeup, and it’s still either “Come here, pretty mama” from cocky boys like Wesley who I have absolutely no use for, or getting grief from girls I used to want as friends. I even thought about getting brown contact lenses once, to cover up my green eyes, but my friend Sterling talked me out of it. He’s light-skinned too, so he knows where I’m coming from. He said he used to twist himself into a pretzel over it until he realized God loves him just the way he is. Besides, he told me, if I did start wearing colored contacts, those girls would only say I was trying to be something I’m not, and he’s right. So I give up. Let ’em say what they want. I am not a skin color or a hank of wavy hair. I am a person, and if they don’t get that, it’s their