Fee clutches Brennen’s shoulder and escorts her to the door.
When Fee turns back around I could swear I catch a grimace on her face, like she’s in pain. My eyes follow every step she takes as she strolls back to the stove.
“What’s the matter?”
Her sauce is simmering with a vapor of steam rising from the pot. She leans over, whiffs. “Nothin’.” She avoids looking at me.
“Then why did you get that look on your face?”
“What look you talkin’ about?”
“The way you knitted your brows and squeezed your eyes.”
“I was thinkin’ ’bout that tiny girl and wonderin’ what she thinks is pretty about bein’ string-bean skinny. I bet she don’t weigh but a hundred pounds.”
“Looks like you’re hiding something to me.”
“I ain’t hidin’ nothin’. Must be your imagination.”
Imagination my foot. She forgets I know her better than anyone else in the world, including her three sons. I narrow dubious eyes her way as Carli Cone knocks on the door with another breakfast order.
FIFTEEN
MISS PEARL
It’s close to ten o’clock by the time I make my way up to the second floor. Same as every morning, I head down the hall emptying trash cans the girls have left outside their doors. If I see a liquor bottle, a wine bottle, or even a beer can in the trash I’m supposed to report it. But I’d never do that. That’s their business, not mine. Besides, I’m not the housemother. Not officially, anyway. If a sister were to get caught she would have to go up before the Standards Committee and risk getting kicked out of the sorority for good.
“Good morning, Miss Pearl,” most every girl says, when seeing me in the hall—wearing towel wraps and in a big hurry to get in and out of the bathroom. Every now and then I pass a girl who keeps her head down. I try not to let that bother me. I know what kind of family she comes from and that’s what she’s been taught. What bothers me is when I get to the toilet and find it backed up, seeing that the contents are not from number two, but vomit instead. All these girls pressured to stay thin,thatbreaks my heart.
As I empty the last wastebasket into my trash bag, Allie Blakley from Laurel, Mississippi, eyes me in the hall. She’s got her hair twisted up in a big towel, furry slippers on her feet, and a silk bathrobe wrapped tightly aroundher. We’ve not run into each other a single time since school started. I watch her eyes blink. “When did you do that to your hair?” she asks, like it’s something strange.
“Over the summer. Do you like it?” I flip a long piece off my shoulder with two fingers.
“I love it. Can I touch it?”
“Go ahead.” Allie cautiously runs her hand across my hair like it’s a zoo animal. “It won’t bite,” I say, laughing.
“How do y’all do that?” she asks. “Do you go to a salon?”
“Mmm-hmm. I can’t do this myself.”
“Didn’t you do your own box braids?”
“Yes I did. But that’s fairly simple. This has to be done right or it looks fake.”
She grabs me by the hand and pulls me inside her room. “I want Kerry to see you. Kerry,” she calls in a high-pitched voice. “Look at Miss Pearl.”
Kerry has the same reaction. Only she doesn’t ask for permission to touch it, she jumps up from her makeup mirror and runs over to me, patting my head down. Sometimes these girls forget their manners something awful. “It feels so real,” she says.
“Itisreal,” I tell her.
“It’s real hair? Like real extensions?”
“Of course it’s real hair,” I say with a chuckle. “What else would it be?” White girls are so funny when it comes to a chocolate sister’s hair.
“You look so pretty,” they both say at the same time, almost surprised. Like this was the first time they had seen me for who I really am. I know they don’t mean any harm. Sometimes people say things and the words tumble out all wrong.
“Were they expensive?” Kerry asks.
