A Day Late and a Dollar Short Read Free

person to fool. I pay attention. Don't miss too much of nothing. But Charlotte is good at hiding a whole lot of stuff. She snuck and got married, and wasn't until another two months had passed when Suzie Mae come calling me saying, "You could send your daughter a wedding present or at least a package of diapers for the baby." What baby? Did I miss something? But I was not about to ask. I sent her a his-and-her set of beige towels from J. C. Penney, even though I didn't know nothing about the boy except hi s n ame was A1 and he was a truck driver whose people was from Baton Rouge, so I couldn't get no initials put on 'em. I bought a mint-green booty set for the baby, 'cause they say it's bad luck to plan so far ahead, and right after her honeymoon (they didn't go nowhere except to spend the night at the Holiday Inn two exits off the freeway from where they live), Charlotte woke up in the middle of the night in a puddle of blood. She was having terrible cramps and thought she was in labor, except later on she tells us that the baby hadn't moved in two or three days. The doctors had to induce labor, and the baby was stillborn-a boy. I asked if she wanted me to come there to be with her, and she told me no. Her husband would take care of her. And that he did.
    With so much going on, college slipped her mind altogether. She got that job at the post office and worked so much overtime I don't know when they found time to make anything except money, but somehow they managed to generate three more kids.
    Now, Tiffany-that's her oldest daughter-got those big gray eyes and that high-yellow skin and that wavy plantation hair from her daddy's side of the family-they Louisiana Creoles-which is why she walk around with her ass on her shoulders thinking she the finest thing this side of heaven. She is. Ain't big as a minute, and prettier than a chile is supposed to be. But folks been telling her for so long that sometimes I can't hardly stand her behind either. She thirteen going on twenty. Can have a nasty attitude. Just like her mama. Ask her to do something she don't wanna do and she'll roll them eyes at you like a grown woman. I threw a shoe at her the last time I was there and accidentally hit her in the eye, which is probably one more reason why me and her mama ain't speaking. The child stays in the mirror. Change her hairstyle at least two or three times before she leave for school, which is apparendy the reason she don't have no time left to do her homework. Every time I see her she washing and rolling a ponytail or cascade and putting it in the microwave to dry, which is why the whole upstairs smell like burnt hair. I told her, Being pretty and dumb won't get you nowhere in this day and age. There's millions of pretty girls in the world. You just one. Put something else with it.
    Now, Monique is on the verge of being sweet but something stops her.
    She supposed to have some kind of learning disorder they giving out to every other child who don't pay attention, but let one of those music videos come on BET and she'll drop whatever she doing and go into a trance. Know the words to every rap record and hippity-hop song that come on the radio. And can move her behind so smooth she look like a pint-size woman practicing what she gon' do to her man the next chance she get. But I give her this much credit. She can play the flute so sweet it make you close your eyes and see blue. She know how to read all the notes, too. She taught herself how to play the piano. But once she get up off that bench, she too grown. I bought some videos for both of 'em when I was visiting last year and just slap me for buying PG-13S. "Granny, don't you know that all the best movies are rated R?" she asked me. Monique had her hands on what one day might be hips. "If ain't 110 sex, blood, or don't nobody get killed, it's boring, huh, Tiff?" And Miss Thang put the glue down and started blowing on her Si . Yy Fancy Nails and said, "Yep." I couldn't say shit. At the