Like Vanessa, page 10
“Ain’t much, Nessy, but get yourself something nice.” Pop Pop leans back on the sofa, and within seconds he’s snoring again.
I place the pen in his hand, but he immediately drops it. His fingers are too weak to even grip the pen and write his name. I squeeze his hand around the pen and help him write his signature. When I kiss his forehead, his eyes open, revealing his pupils. They’re dilated, frightened, drowning in wartime memories, maybe drowning in his own dreams of his daughter, my mama. Then he smiles and goes right back to sleep.
Mrs. Walton, Please Stop Dancing!
The cool air is dancing with the rush of the Passaic River behind my building. Once upon a time I swam in that river. Back then it was so dang clear, you could see your feet at the bottom. Now it’s black, dirty, ugly, and a sad sight, at least in our part of town. Somewhere in some town on the other side of the river, the sun is shining and the water is sparkling like it did when I was a little girl.
Mrs. Walton pulls up in her fancy blue car with the radio blasting. The bass is booming, and the whole car is vibrating. The Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” is playing. Mrs. Walton greets me with a smile and an awkward, in-the-seat, body-jerking movement. Is she dancing? I wanna tell her so bad that you can’t play that white-girl music in the ’hood. If you pull up in the projects with a fancy car, you better be playing some New Edition, Whodini, or DJ Kool Herc.
“Ready for a fun day?” she yells over the noise as I hand her the permission slip.
I nod my head, and she pulls out, up the hill, past the projects, past the bodegas and the liquor stores with men sleeping on the cold asphalt, out of the ghetto and to the hustling, bustling scene of downtown. To Broad and Market Streets.
I’m used to seeing Mrs. Walton at school in her suits and heels. Her hair is always pinned up in a conservative bun. Every lash is always perfectly mascaraed. Both cheeks lightly rouged. Today is a different story. I ain’t never seen Mrs. Walton like this. She’s wearing jeans. Gray stonewashed Levi’s with a sharp crease down the middle, an olive-green Members Only jacket, and an argyle sweater. Her hair falls past her shoulders in loose waves, not a bobby pin in sight.
She’s not wearing any jewelry. She barely has on any makeup, yet her skin still looks like porcelain. Pecola from The Bluest Eye would worship the ground Mrs. Walton walks on. She’s everything that Pecola hoped to be. Blonde. Blue eyed. Beautiful.
I don’t say much during the car ride. What do you say to a teacher outside of school? What student hangs out with a teacher on a Saturday? Oh Lord, this is awkward.
We pull up to a parking lot where you have to pay to leave your car and guards watch it to make sure no riffraffs come in and try to jack it from you.
“I’m so excited. We’re gonna hook you up, girl!” Mrs. Walton pays for parking, and we head toward Bamberger’s.
From wall to wall, Bamberger’s is decked out for the holiday season. Extra-long silver ribbon hangs between all the columns. The stair railing is decorated in red, green, and silver tinsel. A huge Christmas tree stands right in the middle of the children’s department. Even though Thanksgiving was just two days ago, it seems like they got to Christmas fast.
The women’s department is huge. All the clothes are color coded. To the left are the winter whites: wool coats, mink hats, wool sweaters. I look at the price tag on a simple shirt, and it’s nineteen dollars! For a little shirt with barely any material? These people are buggin’.
“So, I know TJ is making your talent dress and evening gown for the pageant. How are they coming along?” Mrs. Walton says, combing through the racks.
“Everything looks really good so far. Both the dresses are a little big on me now. TJ has to take them in and add a few more sequins.”
“Great! I can’t wait to see them. Now you only need the essentials. Do you have a business-style outfit for the onstage interview? What about matching jewelry?”
“Um, no,” I mutter.
Mrs. Walton wrinkles up her nose. “What about shoes and pantyhose?”
“I guess I could wear the white patent-leather shoes from TJ’s school or borrow Tanisha’s, and I have two pair of pantyhose at home. One pair is running a little, but I can put some clear nail polish on the rip to keep it from tearing.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Walton huffs. “Let’s get you some new shoes, and a girl can never have enough pantyhose.”
Mrs. Walton grabs me by the hand and leads me to the dressing room. I feel a pair of eyes hawking me. It’s an old lady with so many creases on her face, I lose count. She’s probably trying to figure out what the heck I’m doing here. I feel like telling her that I’m wondering the same darn thing.
Next thing I know, Mrs. Walton’s chatting it up with this woman, and they start bringing me all kinds of things to try on: a white wool sweater with black polka dots and a blush-pink, knee-length skirt; a cranberry-colored sweater dress with a black shoulder wrap; a green, pink, and blue striped silk blouse with pearl buttons and a matching blue silk skirt.
When I try on the first outfit, Mrs. Walton tells me to come out and stand on the pedestal in front of the mirrors. The sweater is itchy and tight. I reluctantly walk out to the mirrors and realize I have an audience.
Three salesladies. Two customers. And Mrs. Walton.
Great.
“Vanessa is my most talented student. She’s going to be in her school’s first-ever beauty pageant.” Mrs. Walton beams with pride. The rest of the ladies size me up. I bet my bottom dollar that when they hear the word pageant, they don’t quite picture a girl who looks like me.
One of the salesladies clears her throat and says, “Pageant, huh? Well, what’s your talent?”
At this point I want to run away because I know what’s coming next.
“Vanessa is a singer. She’s got a gift from the good Lord himself,” Mrs. Walton chimes in. “Go on, Vanessa, sing a little something.”
I give Mrs. Walton the stare of death. Shouldn’t she know by now that I hate being put on the spot?
“The pageant is coming up real soon. And you’re going to have to sing in front of a bunch of people you don’t know, plus a panel of judges.”
Sing? Here? Now? In the four corners of the music room, there’s only me and Mrs. Walton and gospel music rattling through my bones. I sing my heart out because no one is there to hear me. I sing because there is no one around to judge. But this is different. Foreign. Terrifying.
Mrs. Walton’s voice rings loud and clear inside my head. If I can’t sing here in front of this small number of people, what in the world will I do when there’s three hundred people in the audience? A volcano erupts in my stomach, and I look at the floor, willing it to open up and swallow me whole. Water rises slowly into my eyes. I can’t do it. I look at Mrs. Walton and shake my head.
But the next thing I know, Mrs. Walton places her hand in mine and begins the first line of “Amazing Grace,” so sweet, so pure. Her stare is magnetic. It’s her way of reminding me to look past the nerves and let go. I gulp in a large dose of oxygen and join her in harmony. There’s something about this song that pulls me away from it all. The fear. The doubt. It all melts away, and it feels, well, amazing.
Together we sing the first verse in a low key, just as we’ve practiced. She says that B-flat major is my sweet spot and gives me the most room to transition from my chest to my head voice when I climb up to the high F at the end.
When we finish the verse, she lets me continue the song alone and steps away from my shadow. When I sing the last line, I open my eyes and realize the original crowd of six has turned into a mini-audience of about forty gathered around me.
They clap and whistle loudly. I smile nervously, half happy that I did it, half embarrassed that I almost didn’t. Mrs. Walton hugs me so tight, she lifts me off the pedestal, and for a second I think we’ll go tumbling to the floor.
A short, bald white man steps forth from the audience. He is dressed up in a crisp navy suit with brown suede elbow pads and dark-brown penny loafers. He extends his hand forward to shake my hand. His handshake is firm and darn near crippling.
“Wow, Fernanda, sobrinha. You no kidding when you say this girl has talent!” the man says to Mrs. Walton in a thick Portuguese accent.
I stand there smiling weakly, looking dumbfounded.
“When have I ever lied to you, Tio Ronaldo?” Mrs. Walton kisses the old man on each cheek.
“Vanessa, I’d like for you to meet my uncle, Ronaldo da Silva. He’s the general manager here and is in charge of the Bamberger’s Community Outreach Program,” Mrs. Walton says, holding my shoulders with a death grip.
“My niece calling me for weeks bragging about you, how lovely you sing. When she asking me to have store sponsor part of your pageant wardrobe, I telling her to bring you here. And now I see for myself that she no lying. I think we have winner here, eh? What do you say, everybody?” Mr. da Silva turns around and rallies everyone to start clapping all over again.
Both Mrs. Walton and I are cheesin’ like two schoolgirls, though I’m sure the red in her cheeks is much more visible than mine.
In the crowd I hear a lady say, “You know they recently crowned a black girl for the first time at the Miss America pageant.”
As people leave, they wish me luck in the pageant. Mr. da Silva leaves and returns with a store-credit check in the amount of two hundred dollars. I blink my eyes to make sure I read it correctly.
“I’ll be waiting for autographed picture of you in your pageant tiara. I make lot of copies and hang around the store, yes?” He smiles. “And Fernanda, dinner next Sunday, eh? Good luck to you, Vanessa.”
Mrs. Walton blows him a kiss. Then this man—or should I say angel—simply walks away. Who has that kind of money to dish out based on me singing one little song?
That Mrs. Walton is full of surprises. We take the check and get everything I need for the pageant, plus a little more. The salesladies and Mrs. Walton decide I should wear the green, pink, and blue striped silk blouse with pearl buttons and matching blue silk skirt for the interview portion of the pageant. It has the best fit and makes me look real fly. Mrs. Walton picks out a bad-to-the-bone pair of blue patent-leather heels to match and some tan-colored sheer pantyhose. A pair of pearl clip-ons tops it off. Next the ladies pick out a rhinestone earring, necklace, and bracelet set to wear with the evening gown that TJ is making. Last they have me try on a pair of formal shoes that I can wear with my talent dress and evening gown. They look like glass, like the ones Cinderella wears, straight out of a fairy tale.
Mrs. Walton says I should also get some clothes for school, especially a new pair of jeans. The way I been dressing these days, I don’t argue with her. We pick out two fly pairs of Guess jeans—one blue stonewash and one gray acid wash. Finally I’ll have something that’s name brand. Then Mrs. Walton picks out some shirts: a red silk blouse with black buttons, an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, and an argyle polo shirt.
Next up is makeup. We head to the Fashion Fair counter. Mrs. Walton tells me that it was the first makeup product made for black women. “Will your family be okay if we get you some makeup for the pageant? It’s just to help you glow more onstage.”
I want to blurt out that not only would TJ be okay with the makeup part, he’ll probably be stealing it as soon as I get home. I’m sure Pop Pop won’t mind. He knows that the Miss America girls have to wear makeup for the pageant. Daddy, on the other hand, is a different story. But since he’s not coming to the pageant, he’ll never have to know.
“Vanessa, I have to run to the ladies’ room. Do you need to go too?”
“No, I’m good. I’ll just wait for you here.”
“Okay, be right back. In the meantime, pick out some things you like. Maybe this young lady can help you.” Mrs. Walton points to a pretty black girl behind the counter and scurries off.
The girl scans me over suspiciously as I look at all the makeup options. Even though I’m not looking directly at her, I can tell what she’s thinking. I need one of everything.
“So you’re the big commotion in the store today,” she says when she finally speaks.
I lift my eyes to meet hers. Her eyes are almost as black as my skin. “I don’t know. I guess.” My voice is shy, awkward.
She’s dressed to the nines. Makeup flawless. She can’t be much older than nineteen. She starts going on and on about the type of makeup colors I’ll need for my complexion. Nutmeg-colored blush. Amber-toned lipstick because red tones are too drastic for a pageant. Black mascara to thicken my lashes.
Everything goes in one ear and out the other because something else steals my attention: an advertisement featuring a black woman in “before” and “after” pictures. In the “before” picture, her skin is chestnut brown. She’s wearing a frown on her face something fierce. In the “after” picture, she’s at least two shades lighter, and she looks happy. A crowd of men is gathered around her, offering her roses. The slogan reads: Wonderful things happen when your complexion is clear, bright, Sol-Glo light.
Maybe this is what I need. The ad says results guaranteed in two weeks. Just in time for the pageant. I look at the price tag. Five bucks. Pop Pop only gave me three dollars. I wouldn’t even fix my mouth to ask Mrs. Walton to get it for me. I don’t feel like hearing one of her “you’re beautiful the way you are” speeches.
“Like what you see?”
“Um, yeah. But does it really work as good as it says?”
“Of course it does. It worked for me.” She runs her fingers across her honey-coated face, then leans in and whispers, “I used to be a lot darker. Started using this stuff, fixed up my wardrobe, my complexion cleared up, and I got me a fancy gig right here in the finest department store downtown. You wanna have a shot at the pageant, right? You and I both know what type of girls they look for. This might be your ticket.”
She sounds like a dang commercial. But she got me thinking. Suddenly I’m picturing myself with lighter, clearer skin, onstage in my pageant gown, ready to win it all.
“I’d love to get it, but…”
“It’s expensive, I know. No worries,” she says, touching me on the shoulder. “I’ll give you a few free samples with your makeup. You do want these, right?” She points to what she’s picked out.
In the distance I hear Mrs. Walton’s signature click-clack strut as she makes her way toward the counter.
“Do me a favor and put the samples in a separate bag,” I whisper softly so Mrs. Walton won’t hear.
She winks at me and does as she’s told, slipping the bag in my hand so I can stuff it in my coat pocket real quick.
“All set with makeup, Vanessa?” Mrs. Walton walks up to me, out of breath.
“Sure thing.”
The makeup girl throws me a wink and a smile and mouths, “Good luck.”
When Mrs. Walton and I get to the register, our items ring up but don’t even hit the full two hundred. Everything adds up to 135 dollars.
“Obrigado! Thank goodness, we’re under budget! Now that’s what I call clearance-rack magic,” Mrs. Walton squeals. “Let’s pick out one more thing. Ooh, how about that dress?”
Mrs. Walton darts from the register and stops in front of a mannequin dressed in an ivory princess-style gown. The bodice is covered in lace with pearls woven in between the seams, and the bottom flares out and brushes the floor.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.
“Yeah, all ninety-nine dollars of it,” I reply. “Plus I already have a gown for the pageant. I told you that.” This feeling starts building up inside. Does she think TJ won’t make a dress that’s good enough?
“Yes, yes! TJ is making your dream dress, but who says you can’t have a backup one? I say we get the dress anyway. If nothing else, you’ll have it for something in the future. Maybe the eighth-grade social?”
I’ve been so busy practicing for the pageant that I forgot that there’s a social at the end of the school year. All the eighth graders get decked out for this event. It’s the party to attend before graduation.
Before I even have a chance to respond, Mrs. Walton waltzes to the register, dress in hand, and adds it to the rest of my order. With the addition of the dress, the new total is 234 dollars.
She pulls the remaining balance out of her wallet like it’s no big deal. Thirty-four dollars. That’s enough to cover the light bill. Or groceries for the week. A decent Thanksgiving meal, even. But I don’t say nothing. I just shut my mouth and take my blessing.
Feeding Our Souls
By the time we’re done with all that shopping, all I can think about is that bleaching cream in my pocket and how I can’t wait to get home and try it. But my stomach is screaming, and my feet are throbbing inside my combat boots.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Mrs. Walton says. “What would you like?”
“Oh, I don’t care. The lunch counter at Woolworth’s is good enough. I think they have specials on Saturdays.”
“Woolworth’s? They don’t serve meals fit for a pageant queen. Let me take you to my favorite spot.”
We round the corner of Broad and Market and head down toward Halsey Street. The sun is out something fierce, but that doesn’t stop the cold air from constantly smacking us backward. We fight our way through the bustling streets and land in front of Je’s Restaurant.
“Um, Mrs. Walton, this is a soul-food joint. I’m not sure if this is what you were looking for.”
“Oh, yes. This place is my favorite. The collard greens are to die for!”
Mrs. Walton throws her hands in the air like she’s praising the Lord, and I swear my jaw drops past my shoulders.
Soon as we walk in, two waitresses double-team hug Mrs. Walton. And they strike up a conversation like they been waiting for her. It’s like Mrs. Walton is family up in here.
“Fernanda’s here, y’all! Get those pots ready!” one waitress says.
“That’s right, Janet!” Mrs. Walton high fives her.
“And how’s your daddy doing, Fernanda?” the other waitress asks.
I place the pen in his hand, but he immediately drops it. His fingers are too weak to even grip the pen and write his name. I squeeze his hand around the pen and help him write his signature. When I kiss his forehead, his eyes open, revealing his pupils. They’re dilated, frightened, drowning in wartime memories, maybe drowning in his own dreams of his daughter, my mama. Then he smiles and goes right back to sleep.
Mrs. Walton, Please Stop Dancing!
The cool air is dancing with the rush of the Passaic River behind my building. Once upon a time I swam in that river. Back then it was so dang clear, you could see your feet at the bottom. Now it’s black, dirty, ugly, and a sad sight, at least in our part of town. Somewhere in some town on the other side of the river, the sun is shining and the water is sparkling like it did when I was a little girl.
Mrs. Walton pulls up in her fancy blue car with the radio blasting. The bass is booming, and the whole car is vibrating. The Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” is playing. Mrs. Walton greets me with a smile and an awkward, in-the-seat, body-jerking movement. Is she dancing? I wanna tell her so bad that you can’t play that white-girl music in the ’hood. If you pull up in the projects with a fancy car, you better be playing some New Edition, Whodini, or DJ Kool Herc.
“Ready for a fun day?” she yells over the noise as I hand her the permission slip.
I nod my head, and she pulls out, up the hill, past the projects, past the bodegas and the liquor stores with men sleeping on the cold asphalt, out of the ghetto and to the hustling, bustling scene of downtown. To Broad and Market Streets.
I’m used to seeing Mrs. Walton at school in her suits and heels. Her hair is always pinned up in a conservative bun. Every lash is always perfectly mascaraed. Both cheeks lightly rouged. Today is a different story. I ain’t never seen Mrs. Walton like this. She’s wearing jeans. Gray stonewashed Levi’s with a sharp crease down the middle, an olive-green Members Only jacket, and an argyle sweater. Her hair falls past her shoulders in loose waves, not a bobby pin in sight.
She’s not wearing any jewelry. She barely has on any makeup, yet her skin still looks like porcelain. Pecola from The Bluest Eye would worship the ground Mrs. Walton walks on. She’s everything that Pecola hoped to be. Blonde. Blue eyed. Beautiful.
I don’t say much during the car ride. What do you say to a teacher outside of school? What student hangs out with a teacher on a Saturday? Oh Lord, this is awkward.
We pull up to a parking lot where you have to pay to leave your car and guards watch it to make sure no riffraffs come in and try to jack it from you.
“I’m so excited. We’re gonna hook you up, girl!” Mrs. Walton pays for parking, and we head toward Bamberger’s.
From wall to wall, Bamberger’s is decked out for the holiday season. Extra-long silver ribbon hangs between all the columns. The stair railing is decorated in red, green, and silver tinsel. A huge Christmas tree stands right in the middle of the children’s department. Even though Thanksgiving was just two days ago, it seems like they got to Christmas fast.
The women’s department is huge. All the clothes are color coded. To the left are the winter whites: wool coats, mink hats, wool sweaters. I look at the price tag on a simple shirt, and it’s nineteen dollars! For a little shirt with barely any material? These people are buggin’.
“So, I know TJ is making your talent dress and evening gown for the pageant. How are they coming along?” Mrs. Walton says, combing through the racks.
“Everything looks really good so far. Both the dresses are a little big on me now. TJ has to take them in and add a few more sequins.”
“Great! I can’t wait to see them. Now you only need the essentials. Do you have a business-style outfit for the onstage interview? What about matching jewelry?”
“Um, no,” I mutter.
Mrs. Walton wrinkles up her nose. “What about shoes and pantyhose?”
“I guess I could wear the white patent-leather shoes from TJ’s school or borrow Tanisha’s, and I have two pair of pantyhose at home. One pair is running a little, but I can put some clear nail polish on the rip to keep it from tearing.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Walton huffs. “Let’s get you some new shoes, and a girl can never have enough pantyhose.”
Mrs. Walton grabs me by the hand and leads me to the dressing room. I feel a pair of eyes hawking me. It’s an old lady with so many creases on her face, I lose count. She’s probably trying to figure out what the heck I’m doing here. I feel like telling her that I’m wondering the same darn thing.
Next thing I know, Mrs. Walton’s chatting it up with this woman, and they start bringing me all kinds of things to try on: a white wool sweater with black polka dots and a blush-pink, knee-length skirt; a cranberry-colored sweater dress with a black shoulder wrap; a green, pink, and blue striped silk blouse with pearl buttons and a matching blue silk skirt.
When I try on the first outfit, Mrs. Walton tells me to come out and stand on the pedestal in front of the mirrors. The sweater is itchy and tight. I reluctantly walk out to the mirrors and realize I have an audience.
Three salesladies. Two customers. And Mrs. Walton.
Great.
“Vanessa is my most talented student. She’s going to be in her school’s first-ever beauty pageant.” Mrs. Walton beams with pride. The rest of the ladies size me up. I bet my bottom dollar that when they hear the word pageant, they don’t quite picture a girl who looks like me.
One of the salesladies clears her throat and says, “Pageant, huh? Well, what’s your talent?”
At this point I want to run away because I know what’s coming next.
“Vanessa is a singer. She’s got a gift from the good Lord himself,” Mrs. Walton chimes in. “Go on, Vanessa, sing a little something.”
I give Mrs. Walton the stare of death. Shouldn’t she know by now that I hate being put on the spot?
“The pageant is coming up real soon. And you’re going to have to sing in front of a bunch of people you don’t know, plus a panel of judges.”
Sing? Here? Now? In the four corners of the music room, there’s only me and Mrs. Walton and gospel music rattling through my bones. I sing my heart out because no one is there to hear me. I sing because there is no one around to judge. But this is different. Foreign. Terrifying.
Mrs. Walton’s voice rings loud and clear inside my head. If I can’t sing here in front of this small number of people, what in the world will I do when there’s three hundred people in the audience? A volcano erupts in my stomach, and I look at the floor, willing it to open up and swallow me whole. Water rises slowly into my eyes. I can’t do it. I look at Mrs. Walton and shake my head.
But the next thing I know, Mrs. Walton places her hand in mine and begins the first line of “Amazing Grace,” so sweet, so pure. Her stare is magnetic. It’s her way of reminding me to look past the nerves and let go. I gulp in a large dose of oxygen and join her in harmony. There’s something about this song that pulls me away from it all. The fear. The doubt. It all melts away, and it feels, well, amazing.
Together we sing the first verse in a low key, just as we’ve practiced. She says that B-flat major is my sweet spot and gives me the most room to transition from my chest to my head voice when I climb up to the high F at the end.
When we finish the verse, she lets me continue the song alone and steps away from my shadow. When I sing the last line, I open my eyes and realize the original crowd of six has turned into a mini-audience of about forty gathered around me.
They clap and whistle loudly. I smile nervously, half happy that I did it, half embarrassed that I almost didn’t. Mrs. Walton hugs me so tight, she lifts me off the pedestal, and for a second I think we’ll go tumbling to the floor.
A short, bald white man steps forth from the audience. He is dressed up in a crisp navy suit with brown suede elbow pads and dark-brown penny loafers. He extends his hand forward to shake my hand. His handshake is firm and darn near crippling.
“Wow, Fernanda, sobrinha. You no kidding when you say this girl has talent!” the man says to Mrs. Walton in a thick Portuguese accent.
I stand there smiling weakly, looking dumbfounded.
“When have I ever lied to you, Tio Ronaldo?” Mrs. Walton kisses the old man on each cheek.
“Vanessa, I’d like for you to meet my uncle, Ronaldo da Silva. He’s the general manager here and is in charge of the Bamberger’s Community Outreach Program,” Mrs. Walton says, holding my shoulders with a death grip.
“My niece calling me for weeks bragging about you, how lovely you sing. When she asking me to have store sponsor part of your pageant wardrobe, I telling her to bring you here. And now I see for myself that she no lying. I think we have winner here, eh? What do you say, everybody?” Mr. da Silva turns around and rallies everyone to start clapping all over again.
Both Mrs. Walton and I are cheesin’ like two schoolgirls, though I’m sure the red in her cheeks is much more visible than mine.
In the crowd I hear a lady say, “You know they recently crowned a black girl for the first time at the Miss America pageant.”
As people leave, they wish me luck in the pageant. Mr. da Silva leaves and returns with a store-credit check in the amount of two hundred dollars. I blink my eyes to make sure I read it correctly.
“I’ll be waiting for autographed picture of you in your pageant tiara. I make lot of copies and hang around the store, yes?” He smiles. “And Fernanda, dinner next Sunday, eh? Good luck to you, Vanessa.”
Mrs. Walton blows him a kiss. Then this man—or should I say angel—simply walks away. Who has that kind of money to dish out based on me singing one little song?
That Mrs. Walton is full of surprises. We take the check and get everything I need for the pageant, plus a little more. The salesladies and Mrs. Walton decide I should wear the green, pink, and blue striped silk blouse with pearl buttons and matching blue silk skirt for the interview portion of the pageant. It has the best fit and makes me look real fly. Mrs. Walton picks out a bad-to-the-bone pair of blue patent-leather heels to match and some tan-colored sheer pantyhose. A pair of pearl clip-ons tops it off. Next the ladies pick out a rhinestone earring, necklace, and bracelet set to wear with the evening gown that TJ is making. Last they have me try on a pair of formal shoes that I can wear with my talent dress and evening gown. They look like glass, like the ones Cinderella wears, straight out of a fairy tale.
Mrs. Walton says I should also get some clothes for school, especially a new pair of jeans. The way I been dressing these days, I don’t argue with her. We pick out two fly pairs of Guess jeans—one blue stonewash and one gray acid wash. Finally I’ll have something that’s name brand. Then Mrs. Walton picks out some shirts: a red silk blouse with black buttons, an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, and an argyle polo shirt.
Next up is makeup. We head to the Fashion Fair counter. Mrs. Walton tells me that it was the first makeup product made for black women. “Will your family be okay if we get you some makeup for the pageant? It’s just to help you glow more onstage.”
I want to blurt out that not only would TJ be okay with the makeup part, he’ll probably be stealing it as soon as I get home. I’m sure Pop Pop won’t mind. He knows that the Miss America girls have to wear makeup for the pageant. Daddy, on the other hand, is a different story. But since he’s not coming to the pageant, he’ll never have to know.
“Vanessa, I have to run to the ladies’ room. Do you need to go too?”
“No, I’m good. I’ll just wait for you here.”
“Okay, be right back. In the meantime, pick out some things you like. Maybe this young lady can help you.” Mrs. Walton points to a pretty black girl behind the counter and scurries off.
The girl scans me over suspiciously as I look at all the makeup options. Even though I’m not looking directly at her, I can tell what she’s thinking. I need one of everything.
“So you’re the big commotion in the store today,” she says when she finally speaks.
I lift my eyes to meet hers. Her eyes are almost as black as my skin. “I don’t know. I guess.” My voice is shy, awkward.
She’s dressed to the nines. Makeup flawless. She can’t be much older than nineteen. She starts going on and on about the type of makeup colors I’ll need for my complexion. Nutmeg-colored blush. Amber-toned lipstick because red tones are too drastic for a pageant. Black mascara to thicken my lashes.
Everything goes in one ear and out the other because something else steals my attention: an advertisement featuring a black woman in “before” and “after” pictures. In the “before” picture, her skin is chestnut brown. She’s wearing a frown on her face something fierce. In the “after” picture, she’s at least two shades lighter, and she looks happy. A crowd of men is gathered around her, offering her roses. The slogan reads: Wonderful things happen when your complexion is clear, bright, Sol-Glo light.
Maybe this is what I need. The ad says results guaranteed in two weeks. Just in time for the pageant. I look at the price tag. Five bucks. Pop Pop only gave me three dollars. I wouldn’t even fix my mouth to ask Mrs. Walton to get it for me. I don’t feel like hearing one of her “you’re beautiful the way you are” speeches.
“Like what you see?”
“Um, yeah. But does it really work as good as it says?”
“Of course it does. It worked for me.” She runs her fingers across her honey-coated face, then leans in and whispers, “I used to be a lot darker. Started using this stuff, fixed up my wardrobe, my complexion cleared up, and I got me a fancy gig right here in the finest department store downtown. You wanna have a shot at the pageant, right? You and I both know what type of girls they look for. This might be your ticket.”
She sounds like a dang commercial. But she got me thinking. Suddenly I’m picturing myself with lighter, clearer skin, onstage in my pageant gown, ready to win it all.
“I’d love to get it, but…”
“It’s expensive, I know. No worries,” she says, touching me on the shoulder. “I’ll give you a few free samples with your makeup. You do want these, right?” She points to what she’s picked out.
In the distance I hear Mrs. Walton’s signature click-clack strut as she makes her way toward the counter.
“Do me a favor and put the samples in a separate bag,” I whisper softly so Mrs. Walton won’t hear.
She winks at me and does as she’s told, slipping the bag in my hand so I can stuff it in my coat pocket real quick.
“All set with makeup, Vanessa?” Mrs. Walton walks up to me, out of breath.
“Sure thing.”
The makeup girl throws me a wink and a smile and mouths, “Good luck.”
When Mrs. Walton and I get to the register, our items ring up but don’t even hit the full two hundred. Everything adds up to 135 dollars.
“Obrigado! Thank goodness, we’re under budget! Now that’s what I call clearance-rack magic,” Mrs. Walton squeals. “Let’s pick out one more thing. Ooh, how about that dress?”
Mrs. Walton darts from the register and stops in front of a mannequin dressed in an ivory princess-style gown. The bodice is covered in lace with pearls woven in between the seams, and the bottom flares out and brushes the floor.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.
“Yeah, all ninety-nine dollars of it,” I reply. “Plus I already have a gown for the pageant. I told you that.” This feeling starts building up inside. Does she think TJ won’t make a dress that’s good enough?
“Yes, yes! TJ is making your dream dress, but who says you can’t have a backup one? I say we get the dress anyway. If nothing else, you’ll have it for something in the future. Maybe the eighth-grade social?”
I’ve been so busy practicing for the pageant that I forgot that there’s a social at the end of the school year. All the eighth graders get decked out for this event. It’s the party to attend before graduation.
Before I even have a chance to respond, Mrs. Walton waltzes to the register, dress in hand, and adds it to the rest of my order. With the addition of the dress, the new total is 234 dollars.
She pulls the remaining balance out of her wallet like it’s no big deal. Thirty-four dollars. That’s enough to cover the light bill. Or groceries for the week. A decent Thanksgiving meal, even. But I don’t say nothing. I just shut my mouth and take my blessing.
Feeding Our Souls
By the time we’re done with all that shopping, all I can think about is that bleaching cream in my pocket and how I can’t wait to get home and try it. But my stomach is screaming, and my feet are throbbing inside my combat boots.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Mrs. Walton says. “What would you like?”
“Oh, I don’t care. The lunch counter at Woolworth’s is good enough. I think they have specials on Saturdays.”
“Woolworth’s? They don’t serve meals fit for a pageant queen. Let me take you to my favorite spot.”
We round the corner of Broad and Market and head down toward Halsey Street. The sun is out something fierce, but that doesn’t stop the cold air from constantly smacking us backward. We fight our way through the bustling streets and land in front of Je’s Restaurant.
“Um, Mrs. Walton, this is a soul-food joint. I’m not sure if this is what you were looking for.”
“Oh, yes. This place is my favorite. The collard greens are to die for!”
Mrs. Walton throws her hands in the air like she’s praising the Lord, and I swear my jaw drops past my shoulders.
Soon as we walk in, two waitresses double-team hug Mrs. Walton. And they strike up a conversation like they been waiting for her. It’s like Mrs. Walton is family up in here.
“Fernanda’s here, y’all! Get those pots ready!” one waitress says.
“That’s right, Janet!” Mrs. Walton high fives her.
“And how’s your daddy doing, Fernanda?” the other waitress asks.
