Free Unbeweaveable by Katrina Spencer Page B

Renee.”
    â€œOh yes, of course. I know that, I was just saying that you didn’t need to rush. I’ll support you in any way I can.”
    â€œI’m getting unemployment—”
    â€œBut that doesn’t pay much, I’m sure. Don’t worry, while you’re here, let little sis take care of you,” she said, patting my hand.
    â€œThanks,” I said. I slipped my hand away and started twirling my straw around in my water. Getting support from Renee was the last thing I wanted right now, but I was so low, I had to take what I could get.
    â€œSo I haven’t heard from you since Peter’s funeral last year. What else has been going on in your life?”
    â€œWhy are you so interested in what’s going on in my life?”
    â€œI just wanted to know—I mean…I haven’t seen you in forever. Every time I call you or ask to visit you, you’re always so busy. What has you so busy that you can’t see your baby sister?”
    â€œWork mostly. Just going out and doing things—”
    â€œYou and Norma are still friends, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    She nodded. “She wrote to me a couple of times after Peter died. I’ll never forget that.”
    â€œShe wrote to you?”
    â€œYes. What’s wrong with that?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. Our waitress reappeared with plates of food, and I stared at the huge omelet before me that was stuffed with bacon and sausage and covered in cheddar cheese.
    â€œExcuse me. This doesn’t look like an egg white omelet.”
    â€œIt ain’t one. That’s just a plain ‘ole omelet. If you wanted to eat healthy you came to the wrong place.” She walked off while I stared at the massive omelet on my plate.
    â€œI can’t eat all this.”
    Renee was dousing her French toast with maple syrup. “Why not?”
    â€œThis isn’t what I ordered.”
    â€œJust relax, Mariah. Eat what you can and then just bag the rest for later.”
    I sighed and dug into my omelet, grease turning my lips shiny as wet gloss.
    â€œGood, huh?”
    I nodded as I took another huge bite, forgetting about calories and what it would do to my hips and my ulcer. I just kept eating until, several minutes later, it was gone.
    I sat back in the booth, feeling stuffed and satisfied.
    â€œI forgot how good the food is here.”
    â€œYou forgot about a lot of things. Let’s hope you start remembering.”

Greasy
    I remember being eight years old and Beverly combing our hair in the morning, getting us ready for school. It took all of five minutes to do Renee’s hair, just a quick brush and her waves fell into a long ponytail that swished behind her like a horse’s mane. She gave my hair the same attention, even though my hair needed much more time. With Beverly’s hair being so straight, she wasn’t accustomed to dealing with hair like mine; she and Renee shared the same texture. So dealing with my short ethnic hair was a challenge that Beverly was not up to taking.
    I would watch in horror as short, curly hairs landed without a sound on my white t-shirt as she brushed my inch-long hair in a ponytail. Keeping my hair in a ponytail required the skill of a magician—in minutes my hair would sprout free from the rubber band, my edges sticking out like porcupine quills, the rubber band only holding the hair in the center of my head.
    You can imagine the friends I made with my hair looking like Cealy from The Color Purple . I was the only black girl in the entire private school of Westmont Elementary. Well, take that back, there were two other black girls there, but their hair would shine, and be almost as straight as their white counterparts. Curious, I asked one of the girls what they used on their hair.
    â€œYour hair is nappy. You need a perm.”
    â€œAnd some grease,” the other one chimed in. “That’s why your hair is sticking up all over