Cornered (17 page)

“So . . . Tarell's your husband.”

I bust out laughing. “Hell no!”

“He's your father?”

I snort like a pig when she says that. My
father
?

Whitegirl frowns and tries again. “Your brother?”

“Girl, you somethin' else. I told you, I WORK for Tarell.”

“So he's your . . . uncle?”

I stare at her. She really is slow. I glance at the two-way mirror, then hiss, “Tarell's my pimp!”

The whitegirl glances at the mirror as well, and nods. She inches closer and whispers, “What's a pimp?”

I stare at her until I realize she's for real. “Girl, where you from?”

She shifts back over to her side of the couch and starts fussing with the doll. “Upstate,” she says in her mousy voice.

“Hunh. You go to school ‘upstate'?”

She shakes her head. “I was homeschooled by my mama.”

I just suck my teeth at that. “Seems like your mama forgot to teach you a thing or two 'bout men.”

That turns her cheeks pink—don't nobody like it when you talk about their mama. “My mother taught me how to be a faithful wife.”

“Wife? You're MARRIED?”

Suddenly the whitegirl panics and tries to clamp her hand over my mouth. “Sssshhhh! I wasn't supposed to say that.”

I fling her hand away and check to make sure my lip gloss
ain't all messed up. “How old are you?”

She looks over her shoulder like this is top secret information. “Sixteen.”

Same age as me. “And how long you been married?”

She sits up tall now like she's proud to be somebody's wife. “Our union was blessed three years ago.”Whitegirl pulls a chain out of her collar and shows me a thin gold band. No diamond—just a plain ring. No wonder she keeps it hidden inside her dress. I would too if my husband bought me some tacky old ring like that! “Damn,” I say, shaking my head.

She beams at me, then realizes I ain't exactly impressed. “Where I'm from,” she says, “it's customary for a girl to wed once God has touched her . . . inside. You know, once she gets her . . . ‘monthly friend.'”

Nothin' much surprises me, but this shit's freakin' me out. “Lemme get this straight. You're tellin' me that ‘upstate,' girls get married as soon as they get their period?”

She goes back to her “it's a secret” voice. “But only if the Prophet has selected a suitable husband for them.”

“‘The prophet'? What, like Moses and the Ten Commandments?”

She nods excitedly. “The Prophet is the holiest of men and the leader of our tribe.”

“And he tells you who to marry? That's fucked up. If I gotta get hitched, I'm a pick my own damn husband!”

Now it's her turn to look shocked. “Women aren't meant to question the will of God!”

I'm starting to feel like I'm in church or talkin' to a missionary or somethin'. “What you keep bringin' up God for? You just said your holy ‘prophet' was the one callin' the shots.”

“Yes, but only the Prophet knows God's will for us, His children.”

I just shake my head. This whitegirl definitely has some screws loose. “So who'd ‘the prophet' pick for you to marry?”

Her face turns pink again and she looks away. “A good man. An honorable man.”

“Honorable, huh? So where's he at?” I smile a little as she bites her lip and keeps her eyes away from mine. I remember when I first moved in with Tarell and Chynna figured it was her job to school me on life. “Lemme break some things down for you, Homespun. Men . . . are dogs. They eat all kinds of crap, sleep half the day, piss on every pole, and shit all over the place. They're dirty, dumb, and covered with fleas. But worst of all, they'll try and fuck anythin' that moves—it don't have to look good, just smell a little funky and there they go, howlin' and humpin' and pantin'. Men are dogs. And dogs . . . are disgusting.”

Her eyes get so wide they take up half of her face. “Back home, we have dogs—we keep them as pets. They're loyal, loving creatures!”

“That's 'cause you TRAINED 'em to be that way. Your dogs may not shit in the house, but deep down they're no different than all the other stray mutts. A dog may wear a collar 'round his neck—or a ring on his finger—but at the end of the
day, girl, ALL dogs are WILD.” I pause to let my words sink in. “Shit. Your man's probably sniffin' 'round some other bitch right now. . . .”

That strikes a nerve. Whitegirl jumps up like she's ready to fight for her man. The doll she was holding on her lap drops to the floor. “You don't know what you're talking about!”

“Really? I think I been around the block a few more times 'n you. . . .”

“That may be. But the Bible says the righteous man shall be rewarded with many wives. It's not a sin! It's not!”

“Many wives? What the hell you talkin' 'bout?”

She starts pacin' again, her fingers clawin' at her neck like she's tryin' to get at the ring hidden under her ugly dress. Finally she thinks of a comeback. I know it's gonna be weak. “If all men are dogs, what about Tarell?”

“What about him?” I say calmly. I never lose
my
cool.

“You said he takes good care of you. Is he a dog?”

I just shrug. “Like I said, Homespun. I WORK for Tarell. It's in his interest to take care of me and keep me lookin' good. He's got to protect his investment.”

She don't know what to say to that. She shifts from foot to foot and asks, “What exactly do you DO for Tarell?”

I cut my eyes at her and try to figure out whether or not she can handle the truth. Sometimes folks play dumb just to get all up in your business. “He's my pimp. I'm his 'ho.”

“‘Hoe'?”

“Yeah, 'ho—'
ho
!” She scrunches her eyebrows together
like she's trying real hard to understand. Stupid people get on my nerves. “WHORE. Get it? Tarell's my pimp, and I'm his whore. One of 'em, anyway.”

“Does Tarell have many . . . hoes?”

“Five of us are regulars. The others come and go.”

“And men—pay you to . . . to . . .”

“Suck 'n fuck.” I say it straight, with no shame, and watch her prissy face burn up again. “That's right. I get paid to do what you do for free. 'Cept my customers don't pay me, they pay Tarell. I get to keep my tips, though.”

“But . . . if you do all the—work—why does Tarell get all the money?”

That's a question it don't pay to ask. It's like they say, “Pimps up, 'hos down.” I dig in my purse for a tube of mascara and take my time thinkin' up an explanation. “Overhead, Homespun. That's the cost of doin' business on your back. Tarell breaks me off a little change now and then, but it's not like I need a whole lotta dough. I mean, I don't pay rent or nothin'. I get three meals a day, and there's always a little dust on hand if I need to clear my head.” I put the mascara away and check the mirror for clumps. “Shit. 'Fore I met Tarell, I was sleepin' on the street.”

“The street?! But . . . why? What about your family?”

“What about 'em?”

“Did they know where you were?”

“My mama's the one put me out! Said I was ‘too fast.' Hunh. Couldn't move fast enough to keep away from her
grab-ass boyfriend. Nigga thought he could get two for the price of one. . . .”

“Your own mother turned you out of the house?”

I feel my cheeks get hot but know she can't see what I'm feeling inside. Black don't crack, and it also don't advertise. “I guess shit like that don't happen ‘upstate,' huh?”

“Well . . . it did happen once. Polly Jenner, she wouldn't submit to her initiation, so the Prophet made her leave.”

“Initiation? What's that?”

“Once a girl has been touched by God, the Prophet takes her to the holy bed inside the temple and he—he—”

“Oh, I get it. Tarell did the same thing to me. He breaks you in, nice and easy, so you ain't too scared or too tight. So, this Polly girl—she wouldn't give it up, huh? And 'cause of that, she had to leave home?”

“Polly was driven out of the tribe. She left us with nothing more than the clothes on her back. That was five years ago, and no one has seen her since.” Whitegirl stops and holds her hand over her heart. “She was my best friend.”

I wanna say,
Yeah, right. If she was your best friend, she woulda taken you with her instead of leavin' you behind.
Instead I give her the once over and say, “Maybe your friend's at the mall buyin' herself some new clothes. All a y'all dress like that?”

She smoothes out her ugly dress but tries to act all righteous. “Yes. Vanity is a sin! Women ought not to tempt men with their beauty. . . .”

“I'm tellin' you, Homespun—dogs don't care how you look.”

“Then why do you wear so much makeup?”

I wet my middle finger and slick my eyebrows. Be time for another waxin' 'fore too long. “I do this for ME—'cause it makes ME feel good. Shit. I'm fine as hell! Don't need no trick to tell me that.” I take a good hard look at this whitegirl. I stare so long and so hard that she blushes and turns away. “You could look cute, too, if you fixed yourself up.”

“Really?” She touches her drab hair and plain face, then turns to look in the two-way glass.

“Sure. You just need to ditch that dress, maybe cut your hair and add some highlights—and definitely get your eyebrows done.”

She looks at me then in my slinky black dress, and I
know
she wishes she could look fine like me. I pretend not to notice, though. She comes over real casual like but I just keep on admiring the view in my compact mirror. I'm so busy tryin' not to notice her that I don't see her reachin' for the gold in my ear. I pull back and slap her hand away. “What the hell?”

She pulls back and holds her hand close to her chest so it don't reach out and touch me again. “Sorry,” she says softly.

I don't know why, but I'm startin' to feel sorry for this girl. “Lemme guess—‘the prophet' don't allow no jewelry neither.” She shakes her head, clearly disappointed. I suck my teeth and proudly finger the gold in my ears. “You got outhouses up there? I saw on TV once how some folks don't have cars or electricity or toilets or nothin.'”

Her chin goes up when I say that, and she gets all huffy
with me. “Our compound has every modern amenity. We have indoor plumbing, cars, microwaves. . . .”

“You got any computers up there?”

She shakes her head. “Only the Prophet.”

“So you never been on the Internet?” She shakes her head, not so high and mighty now. “How 'bout TV? You got cable?”

She shakes her head again. “We watch DVDs sometimes—but only those which the Prophet has approved.”

“That prophet's got you locked down, girl. ‘Upstate' sounds like prison to me.”

“Our simple life frees us from temptation. In our tribe, we devote ourselves to serving God and loving one another.”

“Uh huh. I bet there's a whole lotta lovin' goin' on up there. Folks must be bored outta their minds!”

“There's no time to get bored. Caring for children is a full-time job.”

“Yeah, but you only got one kid to take care of.” She frowns and puts her hand over her belly but says nothin'. “Know what I think? I think you need to break outta that ‘tribe.'”

Whitegirl bites her lip and turns back to the two-way mirror. She pulls her long braid over her shoulder and starts to set her hair free. I watch her for a second, then stand up and go over to stand beside her. I don't know why, but I help her spread out her long hair, and then I show her how to arrange it so she looks sixteen and not sixty. “See? It looks good, right?”

She nods and smiles at her image in the mirror. Then she turns and smiles at me. I can't remember the last time someone
smiled at me like that—someone my own age, someone who hasn't just paid me to do something nasty for them. I want to smile back, but instead I take up my purse and fish out some lip gloss. “Hold still,” I say. The whitegirl stands beside me like a statue while I apply the gloss. “Now pout. Good. Now do this.” I roll my lips together and make a smacking sound. She tries to mimic me, then giggles and touches her lips. We look at each other in the two-way glass. “You're a hottie, girl! All you need now is a divorce.”

She stares at her reflection, but after a few seconds her smile starts to fade. “Is Tarell coming to get you?”

I flop back onto the sofa. “Naw. I gotta wait till my aunt shows up.”

“Are you going to live with her now?”

“Hell, no! But CPS will only release you to a family member. Tarell slips my aunt a few bills, and she bails me out. Then I go back to work.” I shrug. “Least that's what happened last time. Who's comin' for you?”