There's nothing here in Alabama, not for miles and miles. Nothing but the run-down house that sits on the yellowing grass awkwardly with its white paint peeling off, showing the soggy wood underneath, and the dirt kicked up onto the bottom foot or so of space on the grey concrete foundation.
I never knew when mama would get home; I never knew where she was. Usually when she got home from Millingford County School for Blacks, I buried my nose in a book or did my homework until dinner. After that, I just waiting. Waited for the cruel words to come. Waited for the beatings, the chores.
I tugged at my plain white tank top, the very same one Julie Farrell had made fun of just today in P.E. class. I never was fashionable of had pretty things. Mama couldn't care less about clothes for me or even a bra, and it was high-time I needed one.
I turned on the television in the family room to see president Eisenhower making a speech about nuclear testing. The clock above the bookshelf read 4:30. If mama was on time for once, she'd be home by 5:15. I had to fix supper.
My papa left two years ago, six days after my twelfth birthday. I don't know where he is or if I'll ever see him again. All I know is that after he left, mama really snapped.
I poured tomato sauce into a pan on the stove and lit the burner. The red juice splattered onto my top. "Oh no," I whispered to myself. I would be beaten that night.