| A'ja, 21 |
Every Sunday, like clockwork, my younger sister Nichelle would wedge her way between my legs and subject herself to at least an hour and a half of me finessing her hair to some style she discovered on the Internet. Each time she pulled her shoulders to her ears or her head back, I knew she was wincing with her eyes shut tight as I ran the wide tooth comb's teeth through each knot and tangled in her black hair.
"Just a few more," I said, unconsciously clenching my teeth together as I battled with her 4c hair — a mixture of tiny coils wrapped around each for dear life. Didn't they know I was trying to help? I was one of the good guys.
"You said that last time!" She said, crossing her arms against her chest. "I feel like I've been sitting here what feels like my whole life." Her silky black bonnet was in hand, awaiting the moment to be slipped on and begin protecting her braided crown.
"Doesn't make it any less true!" I said, leaning over to kiss her forehead.
At thirteen years old, her hair was more than she could handle, but for some reason, she was under the impression I could tame the wildness of the 'fro. Manipulating, abusing, and yanking hair was supposedly my specialty; I enjoyed nothing more in life than the laborious act of doing one's hair. In reality, like Nichelle, I couldn't stand it. Hence, the briads, the sew-ins, and the wigs. If it weren't for them, my hair would remain in a knotted mess atop my head, kind of like a bird's nest.
Since I was graduating in a couple of months, I knew I had to savor these moments with my siblings. It wouldn't be like this forever. These moments were the best time for her to talk and for me to listen. I was too distracted in equally parting the hair and perfecting her braids to choose my words wisely — as I usually do. I was a thinker. It's not my fault. You'd ask me a question; I'd think, think, think, and think some more. By the time I answered, you would have forgotten what you asked or wanted to know in the first place.
Part of it was intentional.
Nichelle raised the Blue Magic hair pomade higher for me to reach in and get a scoop without extraneous effort. "You know I'm starting to miss Terrence." Like a ballet dancer caught off guard, my nimble fingers missed a beat. I didn't say a word.
"He was cute, you know?" Nichelle said, knowing I wouldn't respond.
But she knew I felt the same — everyone did. His dimples that first drew me in. If you were to ask Terrance, he'd say it was my eyes that got him. I remember him comparing them to stars," Once you start looking at them, you can't stop cause you're in awe," he said. That was sometime after he confessed he loved me.
Where was she going with this?
Whenever Nichelle was smiling, the pitch of her voice increased by at least notches. "And his cooking, it was better than noodles and spaghetti all the time." Mom was never the best cook, but she managed to get by. Takeout was a staple in our home. Although Dad could cook, his work hours only allowed him to assume weekend cooking duties. I sighed, remembering the first time I had eaten a delicious homemade meal in years. "Not that your cooking or Mom's cooking is bad. It kept us alive. Beggars can't be choosers, right?"
"I wonder if Marnie even remembers us; we should call her one of these days," She suggested. My heart sank at the sound of a name I hadn't uttered in weeks. Marnie was only a year older than Nichelle but was practically another sister to us. Her maturity was alluring. Her creativity was intoxicating. And her wit was that of her brother's. "We could have a girls' night or something... Our girls' nights were legendary. There were the pillow fights, ice cream, and the sappy romance movies with the happy endings." And they would always end with me giving the Girls' advice on life. I hadn't lived long, but I knew a thing or two that was worth passing on.
A tiny curl broke from its attachment to her scalp and glided its way onto her shirt, growing the colony of hair coils forming on her tank.
"Terrance wasn't like the guys on television or the ones in movies... or the streets." That was a given. He wouldn't have caught and held on to my attention if he had been. We were all wary at first. Nearly six feet and seven inches tall, he towered over us all and dreamed of becoming a chef and opening his own restaurant one day. It was like he was too good to be true.
But he wasn't.
He was good, and he was true.
She leaned down a bit, causing me to strain my back and lean forward so she could pick at the black nail polish that was chipping away. When she gently tilted her head back up, I leaned back against the cushion. The nail polish had been there since the funeral; She should take it off one of these days. I don't think they were meant to stay on as long as they had.
Thinking about Terrance made Nichelle happy; talking about him kept him alive. But for me, it wasn't as straightforward. How do I explain that the mere mention of his name makes my world feel like it's crumbling into unidentifiable fragments all over again?
"He was supposed to come to my graduation and walk me down the aisle," she blurted out as if revealing a game-changing secret. It wasn't. She and I had no secrets. Never did and never will.
"Me too." I finally uttered in a soft whisper-like voice. And there was the irony. Instead of him walking me down the aisle, I had to walk him down one.
"You're done," I said louder, clearing my throat of sorrow, sadness, and suffering in the process.