“You’re right.” He takes a moment, thinking. “Getting those braids out is a top priority. We can introduce you to the congregation next Sunday.”
“But that means Tiffany will be here all by herself, Dad,” Heaven points out. “We can’t leave her alone. That would suck.”
“Heaven, please. I know Pumpkin’s asleep, but we have to watch our words.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Heaven replies respectfully.
“Tiffany’s sixteen.” Anthony gives the same dismissive wave he gave to send a screaming Pumpkin off to bed early and hungry. “She can stay here alone. Now up. Let’s help Mom clear the table and clean so we can all get some sleep.”
“What does your hair look like, anyway? Your real hair?” London asks, holding back as everyone returns to the table while I put Little Buddy away in his case.
A little like Stewie. A little like Donald Trump. A little like a nightmare. “I dunno. Regular, I guess.”
“Can’t wait to see it.” London groans. “I hate my hair. I wish it was supercurly like Heaven and Nevaeh’s. It’s so boring the way it is.”
I look at her wavy black hair hanging almost to her waist. The kind of hair I used to close my eyes and pray for when I was a little kid and thought praying to an invisible man actually produced results. Mixed-girl hair. Soft and silky and good to the root.
Dear God, I’d pray. Please let me have pretty hair. Please make my hair long and nice. When I open my eyes, okay, God? Gonna count to three. I’ll have nice hair, right, God? Please, God. Please. But I’d open my eyes and my hair would still be a nappy mess.
“Your hair’s perfect,” I admit with a twinge of jealousy.
London shrugs as if yes, maybe it is, but also she couldn’t care less. Like amazing hair is about as normal to her as a toe.
“Too bad about church tomorrow. I always learn something new at church. Like a supervaluable life lesson. Sorry you can’t go.”
“It’s okay.” Because I will never be a Jehovah’s Witness, anyway. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “I guess you will.”
A year ago, Akeelah and I won tickets in a radio contest to a Zayn Malik concert. Neither one of us actually listens to Zayn, couldn’t name a song if we wanted to. But rather than sell the coveted seats, we decided to go. We’d planned to make fun of all the screaming ten-year-olds at Chicago’s United Center Stadium and take pictures of the ones sobbing uncontrollably. We were also going to start an Instagram page to upload the photos and call it @ZaynMalik_LostConsciousness. But here’s what ended up happening instead—some older girls sitting next to us smuggled in water bottles filled with vodka and Keelah and I got crazy, stupid drunk with them. The kind of drunk where your speech is slurred and you can’t walk straight. And then you get sick and vomit. A lot.
Not only was I grounded for weeks when Mom picked us up and watched us clumsily stumbling to the car, I discovered something much worse than throwing up all night hovered over a toilet. The day after throwing up all night hovered over a toilet. My hangover was so bad Mom had to rush me to Urgent Care for dehydration. But she wasn’t angry. Instead, she calmly explained (while I was clutching my stomach in the fetal position) that life has a special way of giving you exactly what you’ve earned.
But if Mom was right and life gives you what you earn, what on earth did I do to earn this? Because here I am alone, in a big new, cold house that is maybe not even mine, sitting on a towel on the hard floor, surrounded by piles of extension hair. Thirty braids taken down and about one hundred left to go.
Dear Life, please help me earn something better.
“Keelah? Did you hang up?”
“I’m still here. Googling.”
“What’d you find out?”
“Dude. Jehovah’s Witnesses believe some weird stuff.”
“Like?”
“Well, for starters, they believe only people God approves of get eternal life.”
“That leaves you out.”
“Please. You’ll be burning in hell right along with me.”
“Ahh, yes, the fiery pits of hell. Just down the road from Mount Doom.”
“Also, Christ is Michael the Archangel.”
I finish unraveling a new braid and toss it onto the floor with the rest. “What’s that mean?”
“Like I know? Tiff, why didn’t you Google your new dad before you flew a billion miles away to live with him?”
“I wanted to be surprised.”
“Well, surprise. You’ve just joined a cult.”
“It’s not a cult! Besides, I’m not joining their church.” I unravel another braid. “Hey. Can you Google Xavior Xavion for me?”
“Who is that? The cult leader? I saw a documentary once about a crazy man who made all his cult members drink poisoned Kool-Aid. Don’t drink any Kool-Aid at their church.”
“Keelah.” I toss the unraveled braid onto the floor. “Just see if he has a Facebook page. Xavior Xavion.”
A moment passes before Keelah says, “Got him. Is he related to you or something? He sorta looks like you.”
My head instantly aches. I grab it to dull the pain. “For real? You really think that?” The sound of the doorbell rings loudly, echoing throughout the house. I snatch my cell from the floor and take Keelah off speakerphone. “It’s the doorbell.”
“Oh. Call me back.”
“But my hair? What if it’s somebody important?”
The doorbell rings again.
“Girl, go answer the door! Throw your towel around your head and go. Call me back.” She hangs up.
I toss my cell onto the bed and stand to brush the hair from my Grateful Dead tank and yellow shorts. The doorbell rings again. I grab the towel from the floor and shake off more hair. Gonna have to find a vacuum before everybody gets home. I picture how Margaret would react if she saw her clean wood floors at this very moment. She’d politely tilt her head; her crazy eyes would get crazier. “Tiffany, sweetheart, my dear, my love,” she’d say with eerie calm. “We do not put fake extension hair on hardwood. That’s a bad image for Pumpkin.”
I wrap the towel around my head turban-style and quickly head downstairs.
“Who is it?” I peek through the tiny hole on the door in the foyer and see an eye staring back at me.
“Nevaeh? Heaven? Is that you?”
“No. Sorry. It’s... Can I help you?”
“I got a bunch of your mail by accident again. Can you open the door? Is that London? It’s Jo McKinney from across the street.”
I nervously unlock the door, slowly pulling it open to see a nice-looking black woman with supershort, perfectly styled hair. She’s dressed casually in yoga pants, a loose-fitting shirt that hangs off one shoulder and flip-flops.
“Who are you?” she asks warmly. “Look at that skin. You’re adorable.”
Her skin is dark brown like mine, but made up with lots of perfectly applied makeup: thick foundation, eye shadow, cheeks dusted with pale pink, long lashes and gloss heavily coated on top of her full lips.
“Thanks.” I fidget, uncomfortable.