Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(67)

26


CHIAMAKA

Saturday


I’m seated in between Mom’s legs getting my hair cornrowed while we watch Girlfriends reruns and I eat ice cream, occasionally lifting my spoon up to her when I feel generous.

I love getting my hair plaited; it’s relaxing—and somewhat painful, but in a good way.

“How was school this week?” Mom asks casually, like it’s a casual question to ask.

I think of the figure outside our door. The envelope stuffed through the mail slot. My body, exposed. Aces getting closer and closer and closer. I haven’t opened my curtains all day, scared of who might be lurking outside in the shadows.

“Great,” I say.

“High school feels a lot slower than it is, but trust me: It’ll all be worth it when you’re at college—whether that be Yale, or Stanford, or NYU, it doesn’t matter.” Mom always loves to stress the fact that the college I go to doesn’t matter—but why would she and Dad send me to private schools all my life, get me the best of everything, and then expect me to give them mediocrity in return?

“And college is way more fun, less stressful; flies by like that.” She snaps her fingers.

People are always telling me this about college, that it’ll be better than high school. Given the way the last three weeks of school have been, anything could be better than high school at this point.

“I’m scared I won’t get into college at all.”

“Don’t be silly—you have the grades, the attitude, the extracurriculars,” she tells me, finishing up now.

All of that made me feel safe last year, when Aces didn’t exist.

Now I’m a thief, a liar, a murderer …

I look down at my knees, blinking back the tears.

“Done,” Mom says, sighing loudly. I get up, knees clicking and aching from the long sit as I walk over to my full-length mirror.

In the reflection is a girl who looks like me, only different. Normal me has her hair whipped into straightness, a full face of makeup five days out of seven, and the look of eternal confidence. Now I stare at myself, like I always do, confused by this thing my hair can do. It can go into this style and change me completely. I’m no longer Chi, but Chiamaka, daughter of a Nigerian mother who loves the hair on my head more than I ever could.

“Thanks, Mom, it’s great.” And I mean it. I love having my hair like this. But I never go outside like this, ever. It’s too risky. I’d rather straighten than get prodded and stared at, stroked like an animal and questioned. Like Jamie looking at me yesterday as if I were some science experiment he’s intrigued by.

I want to stand out for being the smartest and the best, not because my hair frizzes and fascinates.

Mom appears behind me in the mirror and I turn to face her. She smiles at me, like she’s so proud. If only she knew all the things I’ve done. Who I really am.

“Did I ever tell you the meaning of your name?” Mom asks.

I shake my head. I’ve never really given it much thought.

Mom’s eyes look sad. “Well, I named you after my mother. Like you, she was smart and beautiful, knew what she wanted—and what she didn’t.” Her smile widens. “Chiamaka means ‘God is beautiful,’ and Adebayo, from my father, means ‘she who came in a joyful time.’”

Mom never talks about her family; I’ve never even met them or been to Nigeria. But I know Mom loves them. Sometimes she’ll cook something and say, This was my mom’s favorite, or she’ll tell me about her childhood and the busyness of Lagos—where she grew up: Think New York is busy? Lagos is truly the city that never rests. But she never goes into detail, just gives me glimpses of her life before she married Dad. I’m always left feeling unsatisfied, like I’d dreamed of eating a meal after being starved for a year, got to have a bite, and then had it quickly snatched away before I could sate my hunger.

I sometimes wonder if Mom’s family was as disappointed in her for marrying Dad as Dad’s family was when he married Mom. I wonder if they ever met me, whether they’d hate me for just existing, like Dad’s family does.

“Did your parents ever get to meet Dad?” I ask, treading carefully, wanting to get as much as I can out of her before she snatches it away for good.

Mom shakes her head.

“Although, like your dad and I, my parents came from different worlds. While they were both Nigerian, they were from different tribes. My mother was Igbo and my father was Yoruba. I felt lucky growing up to have that mix of such rich cultures, and I wanted you to feel that too. I wanted you to see your name and feel the richness of where you’re from. I wanted you to know that when I call your name, Chiamaka, I’m saying My daughter is beautiful and smart, and she brings me so much joy.” Her eyes are glassy as she takes my face into her hands and kisses my forehead.

I smile, feeling teary, but not because I’m sad. I never thought to be proud of my name like that before, or knew that it had some special meaning.

“I have to go and get ready for work now,” she says, wiping her eyes and pulling away.

I wish Mom would stay and tell me more. I wish she’d work less and spend longer telling me all about the world she grew up in, who she was before me. But instead I watch her move away.

“I love you,” I tell her before she goes, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I don’t say it often, so I don’t blame her for looking so shocked.