“Mama Carla gets that. I know she does,” I say.
“Mama Carla ain’t dumb.”
“She thinks I’m well qualified.”
Fee rears back. “Youarewell qualified—smart as a whip. But!” She whips that finger in the air, the way I’ve seen her do a thousand times. “You’ve got one major strike against you and we both know who that strike is. Lawd,” she shakes her head. “I don’t know if I need to be tellin’ you to go for it or to get out of harm’s way, ’fore you get hurt.”
“I don’t know either.”
“I do know one thing. That Lilith Whitless got a cold black heart. And nobody can convince me otherwise.”
***
The next day, Auntie seems okay. She’s back to her old self and if there’s something wrong with her, I don’t see it. She’s laughing and loving on everyone as usual. I know she’s better because she’s back to bossing poor ol’ Marvelle around. Sometimes I think she’s sweet on him. I know he is on her. I’ve seen him throwing his eyes her way when he thinks no one’s looking.
When he watches her cook there’s a tenderness about him, eagerly anticipating the first plate of the night, which always has his name on it. If there’ssomething she needs and it’s high up on the pantry shelf, he’s scrambled up his ladder before she has a chance to ask him for it.
Mr. Marvelle, he can get grumpy sometimes, but never around Aunt Fee. One time, when he asked her how she knew everything he’s doing, she said, “You see this big head I’ve got sittin’ on my shoulders? I’ve got two more eyes in back and they’re bigger than the ones in front. That’s how I know.”
THIRTY-THREE
CALI
“Look out, Sorority Row. Here comes Cali Watkins.” Jasmine’s got her arms crossed and she’s inspecting my first-day-of-Rush outfit. Still in her PJs and silk headscarf—the one that hides every hair on her head—she’s as cheeky as ever. “It didn’t take you long to look like the rest of these Martin girls.”
“Busted.” I peer down at my workout shorts, Nike tennis shoes, and extra-large Greek Day T-shirt. It’s seven fifteen on a mid-October Sunday morning and we have to be in the Grove by eight.
“What time does all this Rush hoopla finish, anyway?”
“Somewhere around or six or seven. I think.” Rush parties start at four the rest of the week. My last class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—Honors Spanish—doesn’t get out till three. I’ll have to be dressed and ready before I leave for class.
I turn back to the mirror on our door to finish applying my makeup. Specially for Rush week, I treated myself to a brand-new tube of L’Oréal mascara. The first day has me so jittery I’m surprised I’ve got a steady hand.
“Perfect timing. Carl gets back from Greenville around then. Wanna go to dinner with us?”
I sigh. “Damn. I’m already going with Ellie and a bunch of other girls to Volta. Why don’t y’all come, too?”
She puts her hands on her hips, pushes out her chest. “Are you kidding me?”
“Why would I kid about that?” I ask, looking at her through the reflection. Our entire conversation is taking place in the mirror. With her headscarf on—only her ears showing—the beauty of her face and skin is accentuated. It’s as smooth as brown velvet.
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t like all a y’all,” she says, even more Jasmine-like. “I don’t want my man in the middle of ten women. He might not make it out alive.” Her delivery—the cadence in her voice—cracks me up. Jasmine’s sense of humor has become one of my most favorite things about her.
“We won’t hurt Carl. We love Carl.”
“Yeah. And that’s the problem. His heart might give out.”
“That Carl loves one woman and one woman only,” I say, punctuating my words with my mascara wand.
“That may be. But that one woman is no dummy.”
We both laugh and I get back to my mascara. Ellie has taught me a new trick. “Sweep from the root,” she’s always saying. “It makes your lashes look super long.” There’s only problem with this execution—the dim light near the door.
As I’m sweeping—careful not to poke my eye out, a phrase Mamaw always uses—I notice Jasmine’s expression change. I could almost swear she’s a little blue. So I quickly finish and shove the mascara back in my drawer. Stepping toward her, I ask, “Are you sad you’re not going out for Recruitment?”
Jasmine opens her eyes as wide as they will go. “Cali. Be serious. Do I look like the type of woman who would want to join a bleached-blond sorority?”
“I have red hair,” I say with a wink.
