Third Girl from the Left (6 page)

Sheila sat up, her eyes slightly glazed, and wrapped a towel around her head. “Your turn,” she said. When Angela was done, they regarded each other, towel-headed. “You really want to go to the barbershop looking like this?” said Sheila. “You know how those guys in there are gonna be, all checking us out and talking about us. And we'll have to wait with our hair looking all crazy.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“I used to cut my brother's hair all the time and I still have my old clippers. I wasn't thinking at first. I can do yours and then if we prop up the mirror I can tell you how to cut mine.”

“I don't know, Sheil.”

“Oh, you'll be fine. Here. Off with your towel.” Sheila snatched the towel off Angela's head. Her hair stood up all over, frizzy and wild. “Come on, Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, let's get to work.” They both laughed and Sheila went to find her clippers. Angela watched her friend's retreating back and rubbed her fingers together, remembering the spirals of hair under her hands.

Sheila emerged from the bedroom, holding clippers and a pair of barber scissors. “I can't believe I forgot all this stuff. Come on, Sheena, sit down.”

Angela sat obediently. “We need a little music for this operation,” Sheila said. She put the Supremes on the stereo, loud, and started combing out Angela's hair and dancing around. Then she got out the clippers, plugged them in and started cutting. Angela jumped as the first large clump of hair fell into her lap. “Don't worry, Angie. I know what I'm doing. And don't jump—that'll get you messed up for sure.” From then on, Angela sat like a child chastised by her mother. Her hair fell around her. Finally she had to close her eyes. She remembered her mother's screams on the phone when they talked after she moved out here. What would she say now? After about half an hour, working first with the clippers and then, quick and sure, with small barber shears, Sheila said, “There. I do believe you're an African queen.” She held up a mirror. Angela's eyes widened. She barely recognized herself. She had never looked more . . . well, OK . . . she had never looked more astonishing. Her eyes were large and luminous, the midlength hair soft and inviting. It made her neck look longer still. She did indeed look regal. “We gotta go over to Melrose and get your ears pierced and get you some earrings, girl. You gonna be knockin' 'em dead in no time.”

“Oh, Sheil, I can't believe it.”

“Believe it. Diahann Carroll is dead.”

Angela was very nervous cutting her friend's hair, but Sheila was a patient instructor. She too looked gorgeous when they were done, her darker skin a contrast to Angela's honey coloring. “We have
got
to go to the store,” they shrieked, almost in unison as they looked at themselves in the mirror. They did a fast, sloppy job of sweeping up their old hair, tossed it in the trash and headed over to Melrose. Two African queens out for an afternoon's shopping. Who would stand in their way?

 

They came back just moments before dark, exhausted and laden with bags of new clothing they could not possibly afford. “So much for next month's rent.” Angela laughed, shoving her hip into the door. Her earlobes ached a little from her new gold posts. Sheila was wearing new black-and-white-striped hoop earrings. They dropped their bags inside the door and collapsed on the ugly gold sofa. They both started laughing for no discernible reason, their legs entangled, their heads at opposite ends of the sofa. “You look good, Sheil,” said Angela.

“So do you, girl.”

Silence fell between them. A police car's siren wailed in the distance. They stared at each other for a long moment. Angela was the first to speak. “You really do look beautiful.”

Sheila shifted her feet a little, rubbing them against Angela's thighs. Angela didn't move away. Sheila crawled around awkwardly and brought her legs in line with Angela's so that they were head to head. Their faces were very close. Sheila touched an earring experimentally. “Do those hurt?”

“No. Not if you don't mess with them.” Angela's breath was coming a little faster, and she was utterly confused. She knew only that she didn't want to stop, just like back under the bleachers with Bobby, whatever this was. Sheila's hand slid to the side of Angela's face and she shifted around, straddling her now. Angela moved her hips a little and spread her legs. Sheila smiled. “So this is all right?”

“Yeah.” Angela paused. “Well . . . what? Is what all right?”

Sheila smiled easily. “This.” She leaned in. They kissed, mouths open. Angela's mind jumped from sensation to sensation. She opened her mouth a little wider, concentrating on the feel of Sheila's tongue, her hands moving lightly across her breasts. She had a sudden odd flash of those blondes in the tub, but then she opened her eyes and it was Sheila, only her Sheila. It was all right. Sheila had saved her after all. And now here she was, saving her again. Once they got each other's clothes off, they both laughed for a minute. Angela was uncertain exactly how to proceed. But it didn't take long to figure it out.

They lay together on the slightly lumpy orange carpet afterward, staring at each other. The strangest thing was not feeling strange. Angela had never even heard of two women together like that. She was sure it wasn't allowed back home. But something that had been knotted in her all her life, just below her breastbone, had been untied. And now it was done. She was loose. A loose woman, what her mother always used to fear so. She took a deep breath. Sheila spoke first. “You OK?”

Angela stretched, slid her hand across to touch Sheila's cheek. “Yeah, I'm fine.” She pushed up on one elbow. “I've never done anything like that before, though.”

Sheila laughed. “You're awfully good at it.”

“Well—I had a good teacher.” Angela paused, drew a small circle on Sheila's stomach with her finger. “Have you done that . . . done what we did with other girls?”

“Once or twice. I'm not no dyke, though. I just do it for kicks . . . if I really like someone.”

Angela frowned. “What's a dyke?”

Sheila stretched. “A dyke is a big, mannish woman who hates men and only sleeps with other big mannish women. Not like us. We just do it for fun.” She looked at Angela intently. “Wanna do it again?”

Angela laughed. “Sure. Let's go to your bed this time, though.” She crawled over and kissed Sheila deeply. She had never felt less self-conscious in her life. “Let's go,” she said again, standing up and extending her hand. They went into the bedroom with their arms around each other, like girlfriends on the playground.

 

The next morning, Angela woke up in Sheila's bed. She felt wide open. Her eyes. Her heart. Her ears. Everything was wide open. She could hear every sound in Los Angeles.

She had an audition that afternoon before work. Sheila helped her get made-up, picked out her outfit—a Kelly green mini and high black boots—and gave her a big kiss as she sashayed out the door. “Go get famous.”

Angela smiled. “You know it.”

She walked into that audition room like the queen she was. Everyone turned to look at her. She laid her headshot down on the desk and took her seat with the others. After a long while, they called her name. She entered a small room where three white men sat at a table across from her. She said her name, read a few lines from the script they gave her. “Do you mind nudity?” they asked. “No, I like it,” she replied, laughing. They looked startled but then laughed too. “We'll get back to you, Miss Edwards,” they said. She left. That night at work, she made more in tips than she'd ever made, didn't bump into one single person with her tail. Everybody was talking about her and Sheila's hair, how terrific they looked. The next day, there was a call on her service. She had a callback for a part in
Big Doll House
, to be directed by Jack Hill. It was her first callback. She felt so good that day she didn't even care later that she didn't get the part. Things were changing. The work had begun. When she told Sheila about the callback, she said triumphantly, “The queens will not be denied!” Sheila laughed and took Angela's hand, throwing it up in the air like a prizefighter's. “No they won't. They certainly will not.”

W
HEN ANGELA BROKE UP WITH BOBBY WARE
, not long before she left for Los Angeles, people thought she'd gone right out of her mind. They'd been keeping company for nearly five years, and making love for about four and a half of them (though folks didn't know that). Neither of them knew much about the other's body when they started, but they were open and eager. Angela felt as if a great secret had been kept from her. All her mother's talk about being a lady. If ladies didn't get to know what this was like, then she plain didn't want to be one. On nights she wasn't with Bobby, she slid her own hands between her legs, thinking about all kinds of things, different people, figuring out different ways to conjure that feeling, sighing and moaning into her pillow. She could see why people didn't talk about it too much: the power of it seemed dangerous. It didn't feel
wrong
exactly—just risky. But she didn't want to stop.

Louann was the only person Angela told. That was how it began to end. She brought it up one day as they walked home from secretarial school. Louann was going on and on about her boyfriend, Mitchell: “. . . he said he just wanted to slide one hand up under my bra for one minute, and I said, Oh no, mister, that's as far as we're gonna go and—”

“Lou, don't you want to?” Angela spoke without thinking.

“Don't I want to what?”

“Let him. Do it. You know.”

“I do not.” Louann hugged her books closer to her chest as though someone was going for her breasts right then and there.

“Never?” said Angela.

Louann smiled a little bit and lowered her books. “Well, sometimes.” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes it's nice. But you know . . . you just can't. He ain't never gonna buy the cow if he gets the milk for free.”

“Louann, sometimes you worse than my mama.” Angela skipped a few feet ahead and turned toward her friend, overtaken by a wild impishness. “I've done it. Been doing it. I like it too.”

Louann stopped dead. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

Louann clutched her books back to her chest. Her eyes widened. “Angie. Wow. I knew you was always kind of fast, but—”

“But what? Now we ain't friends?”

“No. That ain't it. But now you gonna have to marry him. Or something. How you gonna do the nasty with him like that and then just go on? What all would folks say?”

And in that moment, Angela saw. She'd lived in Greenwood all her life, but she'd let herself be blind. She remembered the firm, possessive way Bobby took her elbow when they went out, the confident way he looked at her when she came over to have dinner with his folks, the way he opened doors for her with a flourish. All things that had seemed nice when they'd just been having their own little secret. But now she had to think about what folks would say. He cared about that too. He would never let her go now that they'd been lovers for so long. And she knew. Knew like she knew her own name, that she could no more marry him than fly to the moon, no matter what he'd been thinking. She would have to stop. There was no way to do what he would want of her now. She felt a deep and sudden twisting in her stomach. And one word and one word only in her head: no. She and her friend stared at each other, shocked by what they knew.

 

She saw Bobby the next night. They had just made love, having grown adept at avoiding the bumpy parts of the car and finding the right parts of each other. They were snuggled together in the back seat under a stadium blanket, the windows cracked to let out the steam, the air snapping in bright and cold. Angela could hear her breath in her lungs and Bobby's heart beneath hers. The opening riff of “You Keep Me Hangin' On” buzzed in her head as she looked out the window at the stars. She was having trouble breathing.

“Bobby,” she finally said. “What do you wanna be doing in ten years?”

“What?”

“What do you wanna be doing in ten years?” Even though she'd asked him this before, she was hoping he'd surprise her.

He shifted up on one elbow, looking bemused. “You know. Living 'round here. My daddy's probably gonna retire soon and I'm going off to Howard for college and med school, but then I'm coming right back here. Be married too, I think.” Here he stopped and looked at her, but she didn't say anything. “I'd like to live right around from my parents so I can help out.”

Angie's head pounded. She liked Bobby a lot. He always made her laugh. And she loved the feel of his hands on her; that was always good. But now he'd told her. Now she knew. He wanted a life that would kill her. She couldn't do it. Why hadn't she seen it sooner? Bobby was looking at her, only love in his eyes. How could she break that good heart? “I can't, Bobby. I'm not even going to stay here. I'm gonna be an actress. In the movies.”

“What?”

“I'm not staying here. I . . . I'd better go.” She finished straightening her clothes and reached for the door. The truth. She owed him that. Even though she hadn't been totally sure what the truth was until the words came out of her mouth. She never did forget the look on his face as she climbed out of the car. Like something had hit him from behind. Or what it was like not to take his calls, to avoid him in the street. She carried those memories with her on the bus all the way to Los Angeles, a heavy weight. But they didn't stop her. She knew she couldn't stay.

Things that mattered to her were always like that. It was the same when she found herself with Sheila. She had been aware of the way Sheila's hips moved, the way she used her hands when she was talking, the elegance of her mouth before they were ever lovers, but until they kissed she didn't know she could want a woman this way. She didn't know she could feel this kind of satisfied with a woman. But now it was true. There was no hiding from it. She still liked men, she could still look appreciatively at a man or take pleasure in a man's touch. She thought she still might even be able to love a man. But Sheila was the fact of her. She couldn't deny it.