Free Life Is Funny by E. R. Frank Page A

stop myself, “my mom’s going to take us all out to celebrate.” Nobody misses a beat.
    â€œCool,” China goes.
    â€œI’m ordering steak,” Ebony goes.
    Ms. Giles unscrews a mayonnaise jar and says, “‘Hope, caught under the jar’s rim, crawls like a golden fly.’”
    â€œMom!” Ebony moans, reaching up into the freezer to grab some ice.
    â€œWhat does she mean?” I ask.
    â€œDream on,” China translates for me, and then Ebony’s mom grabs Ebony’s wrist.
    â€œWhat is this?”
    â€œNothing,” Ebony says, pulling away.
    Her mother glares at me and China. “What is that?”
    China shrugs, while I blush. Sometimes I hate being white.
    â€œCat scratch,” Ebony says, smooth as a pearl.
    â€œThen why is Grace’s face so red?”
    â€œI’m hot,” I say quickly. I try to catch a glimpse of that wrist to make sure it still has only two scratches. Ebony’s covering it up with her palm.
    â€œYou. Children. Are not starting that tattoo nonsense in this house,” Ms. Giles says, pointing three fingers hard at all of us. “Do you understand me!”
    Then she glances over at the kitchen clock and grabs her coat.
    â€œI mean it,” she warns, smacking Ebony’s head lightly with her palm on the way out.
    A few minutes after she leaves, when Ebony’s taking a chomp out of her sandwich, I see four more scratches. Fine and thin, like dark hairs. I kick China, who glances over to check things out for herself. Ebony notices us looking and shakes her head at China.
    â€œDon’t you dare tell her,” she says.
    â€œYou promised,” China accuses.
    â€œYou going to be a bitch?” Ebony asks.
    â€œShe’s being a friend, bitch,” I snap.
    â€œBoth of y’all can leave then,” Ebony says. She says it quiet.
    â€œI’m not going anywhere,” China goes.
    â€œMy call isn’t until three-thirty,” I remind Ebony.
    â€œLeave,” Ebony orders us.
    We sit there through every last crumb, and nobody remembers to wish me luck when it’s time to go.
    *  *  *
    In the waiting area my mother puts on a good show. She keeps her arm around my shoulders and plays with my hair. She wants people to think we’re really close.
    â€œIt’s our first call,” she gushes to the receptionist. I want to kill her.
    There are about three million other girls there, all in white shirts except a few, who look completely embarrassed. One of them is slinking out the door when my mother and I get there. They all have long brown hair and are really pretty. A lot of them wear makeup. A lot of them are alone and look bored. One of them has a miniature television set. She’s watching Sally Jessy Raphael. She has the volume up pretty loud. All of them stare at me when I walk in.
    â€œI was just wondering what the product is,” my mother says to the receptionist.
    The receptionist shrugs. “Got me.”
    â€œYou’d think they’d let us know what the product is,” my mother says, looking around at some of the other mothers for support. Nobody bothers.
    We wait and wait and wait. Sometimes a girl disappears down this long hallway and is gone for fifteen minutes. Other times a girl is back practically before she even left. By the time they call my name, there are only three or four of us left.
    My mother walks fast. I have to work hard to keep up with her. The audition room isn’t any big deal. It has wide windows and a wooden desk, and there are five people sitting in folding chairs along the wall. A man with a goatee like Walker’s takes one look at me, stands up, and says, “She’s the one.”
    It’s just like in the movies. I can’t believe it. The others are nodding.
    â€œWhat’s the product?” my mother asks.
    â€œDon’t you need me to walk or turn or anything?” I say. I know I should