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“Hey, y’all, Genesis gotta pee outside!” Then she throws back her head and bursts out laughing. The other three start laughing too.
“Just admit your folks are bums.”
And now I’m left with, well, with this! I fall on my bed—which is OUTSIDE—and pray I don’t ever have to
making me wait out here while passing spectators stare stupidly, like maybe I don’t realize furniture is supposed to be inside a house.
we’ve ever been put out so neatly before.”
I slam the door, trapping the voices inside.
We say good-bye to Euclid Avenue, and hello to—where are we going now?
“Who’s drinking up all the milk? Ain’t nobody that thirsty!” That ended that—and I was no closer to looking like Mama.
Say your prayers first . . . on your knees, none of that praying in bed stuff, you
Maybe Grandma’ll talk nicely, no preaching. Maybe, just maybe.
peroxide to try to turn them pink like Mama’s. They’re still dark as plums.
development sectioned off with tall trees that stand like a row of police, guarding the place.
inside I’m screaming, Oh my gosh, this is so freakin’ fly!
We both laugh, taking turns mimicking his bougie interpretation, until Mama calls us silly.
“Stainless steel,” she says, checking out the refrigerator. We’ve never had a silver refrigerator before.
beaming big time—“remember how we used to dream about having a house like this?”
Shoot, a school like this probably will never have lead in their water fountains.
The hall’s crazy with kids. I’ve never seen so many white faces all in one place in my entire life. I search the crowd. It seems like forty kids shuffle pass before I finally find some kids who look like me. I smile. They look at me weird. So much for solidarity. I force myself into the current.
a girl with light brown skin breezes past smelling like Grandma’s Avon creams. Jasmine, maybe?
And apparently no one told Mrs. Hill that we don’t talk about slavery anymore, because she goes on like she’s proud to know her ancestors were picking cotton.
