Chapter Five

 

Kimba

 

 

It’s been two weeks since my cousin came to town unannounced and showed out in Mrs. Clay’s class right through my white pants. Ezra came over that night to get his windbreaker. There was a time when he would have barreled up the stairs and barely knocked before barging into my room. That night I faked cramps, asked Kayla to take his windbreaker down to him and say I’d see him later. She looked at me strangely. It was the first time Ezra had ever come over when I’d refused to see him. Maybe growing up means growing apart. And maybe it’s other people meaning more to you than the ones who used to mean the most.

Like Hannah.

Jeremy is kind of taking me to the dance. Technically, Daddy isn’t having it, so Kayla’s driving me, Mona and Ezra to the dance, and I’ll meet Jeremy there.

“Your hair looks good,” I tell Mona in my bedroom while we get ready.

She peers into the mirror and pats her new asymmetrical haircut. “Ya think so?”

“Better than mine.” I blow out a long breath, rustling the frizzy bangs hanging past my eyebrows. I should have waited to get it done. I got a fresh relaxer yesterday, and even slept with my head hanging off the bed to preserve the curls our hairdresser put in, but they’re still kind of smushy. They have frizzed and retracted with the humidity.

 

“Maybe Kayla can help?” Mona asks, but doubt colors her voice. We both know Kayla can’t be bothered half the time.

I wish Mama was here to do it, but she and Daddy are at an event with the mayor. As usual.

“Worth a shot,” I say and hope Kayla’s in a good mood.

I walk up the hall to Kayla’s room. Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” floats through the door. Kayla still records the Quiet Storm from the radio to a cassette tape. She’s probably listening to one of her mixes. I bang on the door.

“Who is it?” she asks over the music.

I roll my eyes. She knows who it is. Our parents aren’t here and only the good Lord knows where Keith is. You can bet Friday’s paycheck it involves some fast tail girls and a six-pack. He’s got no business messing with either, which only makes them both more appealing.

“It’s Whitney Houston. Who do you think it is? Can I come in, Zee?”

The door flies open unexpectedly and I stumble forward, head first.

“What do you want?” Kayla asks, arms folded under her breasts barely contained in a skimpy tank top. “Is it time to go already? I thought the dance doesn’t start ’til seven.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I take my life into my hands and sidestep her, entering her inner sanctum. “I was hoping you could help me with my hair?”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing in assessment. Anita Baker serenades us while I wait, tensed and ready for rejection, until she finally shrugs.

“Meet me in the bathroom.”

Thirty minutes later, not only has she restored my curls to their former glory, but she’s even applied a little makeup for Mona and me. Mama still doesn’t like me wearing makeup yet, but one night won’t hurt.

“This red looks good on you, Tru,” Kayla says. She pops her lips at me. “Do like that.”

I imitate her lip pop and glance in the mirror.

“Wow.” My eyes, fringed with mascara-lengthened lashes and lined with black pencil, look bigger. Darker. Older.

“Right?” Kayla leans back, studying her handiwork. “You gonna kiss it all off tonight?”

Even though I know a blush wouldn’t show through my skin, I’m still glad for the color she applied to my cheeks.

“Um, I dunno.” I shrug. “Maybe.”

“I bet Jeremy will want to,” Mona sing-songs. “He’s kissed a lot of girls in our class, and they all say he’s great at it.”

“You’ve kissed a guy before, right?” Kayla asks, staring at her reflection in the mirror and combing her eyebrows.

“Not exactly,” I mumble, rubbing my lips together. The glossy color feels sticky now and I’d love to wipe it off.

“Shit.” Kayla goes still, her hand pausing mid-air, her eyes shifting to me. “You never been kissed, Tru?”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, defensive. “Lots of girls in eighth grade haven’t.”

“Have you, Mona?” Kayla asks.

“Yeah, last year.” Mona slides an apologetic look my way and shrugs. “Sorry.”

“So this Jeremy will want to kiss you,” Kayla says. “Let me show you the basics.”

My sister instructs me on French kissing using her hand, doing weird things with her tongue, moaning and closing her eyes in fake rapture. I just stare at her, confused and slightly alarmed and probably traumatized.

Fast tail.

The doorbell saves me from more fake French kisses.

“That’s probably Ez,” I say. “Lemme go put my dress on.”

I leave the bathroom and dash to my bedroom.

“I always thought Ezra would be her first boyfriend,” I hear Kayla telling Mona.

A scene plays in technicolor through my memory. Ezra and me in his backyard when we were six years old. He’d been to a wedding the week before and decided we should get married. Being Ezra, he had memorized all aspects of a Jewish wedding, and we reenacted them under his elm tree. When we got to the part where the groom could kiss the bride, he pecked me on the lips and we both giggled. My heart aches a little for that day. We’re only thirteen and I know there is a lot more innocence to lose, but somehow, I, too, thought we’d save all our firsts for each other. I blink back hot tears thinking of him kissing Hannah tonight with her freckles and long, curly hair. I run a careful finger under my eyes so I won’t mess up Kayla’s hard work and head downstairs.

“Forget you, Ezra Stern.”