The Kindest Lie(59)
Midnight’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, but I know I can do it. I can be like Corey. He gets good grades and he plays Little League. Mr. Cunningham said it’s important to be well-rounded.”
Daddy frowned and immediately Midnight knew he’d said the wrong thing. “I’ve told you before that I don’t like you hanging around that kid so much. No need to go over to Hill Top or Grundy to find friends. Plenty of good kids right here in Pratt.”
“But why?” Midnight said.
“I’m your father, I don’t need a reason. But I have plenty. I heard that Corey kid was causing trouble at the gas station today. I also understand there were some low-life thugs hanging around. I don’t want you mixed up in that. When Lena first mentioned you going to Louisiana, I didn’t like the idea so much. But if you can’t keep your nose clean, that’s where you’re headed.” Daddy yanked his shovel from the snow mound and began the walk back to his truck.
Helplessness settled so deep in Midnight’s bones, he barely felt the cold anymore. Desperation buzzed around him, and he frantically searched for a way to control what seemed to be out of his hands.
He kicked the dustpan as hard as he could, making it skitter across the road. And then he ran to catch up with his father.
Twenty
Ruth
Ruth hadn’t seen her high school best friend since twelfth grade. Even though it had been a long time, she believed their bond withstood all those years of separation. The year Ruth had the baby, Mama kept her quarantined in the house and pretty much made her walk away from all her friendships, including the one with Natasha. But now, with Mama stonewalling her, she needed to talk to Natasha, the one person who kept it real no matter what.
In one of her attempts at a put-down, Mama had casually mentioned that Natasha had stayed in Ganton and did hair at A Cut Above, a salon where you could get sew-ins, twists, braids, rod sets, relaxers, as well as fish dinners from a gaunt, well-dressed man in penny loafers.
“Get your fried catfish right here.” Ruth heard him before she saw him, his voice potent with strong lung capacity, reminding her of those vendors who hawked ice-cold beer at baseball games. With all the years that had gone by, she couldn’t believe he had remained there giving the same sales pitch. He and those smelly fish dinners hadn’t crossed her mind in forever, but his presence—consistent and familiar—made her smile.
The moment she walked in she smelled hair sizzling in the jaws of a flat iron like bacon frying in a skillet, and she noticed one stylist braiding with the precision of someone crocheting an afghan. The scent of singed hair from an old-school press-and-curl filled the air.
At a workstation in the far corner by a window, Natasha brushed loose hair from the nape of her client’s neck and then curled a few stray locks in the front. Perhaps she felt Ruth’s eyes on her. When she looked up and spotted Ruth, her face lit up with a smile and then just as fast went dark, transforming into an impenetrable mask.
Ruth gripped the straps of her purse, pressing the bag to her chest like a security blanket. An awkward discomfort descended upon her as she stood in the middle of the salon looking lost.
Natasha had intentionally turned away from her, but why? With trepidation, Ruth walked slowly to the stylist chair where her old friend spritzed holding spray that tickled Ruth’s nostrils.
“It’s me, girl. Surprise?” Ruth said, adding an upward inflection to her words, turning them into a question.
“Ruth. I didn’t know you were in town.” Natasha’s tone stayed neutral, drained of any emotion, good or bad. In spite of her friend’s indifference, her voice still sounded the same, as if it had been dipped in warm brandy. She kept her eyes on her client through the mirror, brushing gel onto the woman’s edges.
Sensing her visit might have been a mistake, Ruth backed away a few steps and said, “I know you weren’t expecting me and I see you’re busy. I don’t want to take you away from your customers.”
Finally, turning to look at her, Natasha said, “I’ve got twenty minutes before my next client. I need to mix her color anyway. Come with me.”
After bidding her client farewell, she led Ruth into a narrow supply closet.
“Sit here.” Natasha pointed to a stack of brown boxes labeled shea butter oil, and Ruth bristled at the command but obeyed. Jars and bottles of leave-in conditioners, shampoos, and detangling lotions lined the walls.
Natasha pulled off her decorative scarf and shook her head, waves of sandy-brown hair falling like a river. It was all hers, not because she had a receipt as proof of purchase, but because it grew from her head like that. In the early grades, all the girls swore Natasha must have had more than just Black blood in her. She had to have been part Indian, they surmised, with her golden-brown skin and dark eyes dotted with flecks of bronze.
At recess, Natasha’s body glistened from the Vaseline her mom used to coat her skin, guaranteeing Natasha wouldn’t be one of those ashy kids people whispered about.
“What is it? I can tell you’re angry with me,” Ruth said.
Natasha, with her back to Ruth, squeezed a tube of orange hair color and let the liquid flow into a plastic bowl of purple dye, the mixture turning a deep russet when she stirred it.
“You don’t get it, do you? Everything is still all about you.”