drugs and stealing and skipping school. Derek wasn’t, and yet he was still cool.
“I’m not going because Derek is going to be there, alright?” She finally consented, “but because I need to get pissy DRUNK!”
Missy laughed. “I’ll be there in ten!” Leslie hurried back to her bedroom and looked at her hair. Every black girl in school wanted long hair except her. She had cut her hair short into a boy cut long ago. And before the phone had rang, she had been experimenting with making a faux Mohawk the way she’d seen the punk kids wearing on MTV. Instead of combing it out she turned to and fro in her mirror and decided to keep it.
Living in a mostly black neighborhood, Leslie knew that others thought of her as the freak—and not just because she had spent several years as a mute. She wore all black; black eye shadow, black nail polish and proudly sported facial piercings and short hair with spiky bangs. Some kids in white neighborhoods dressed like this, but not in her neighborhood and not in her school. She quickly pulled off her dirty jeans for a pair of black ones that hid the dirt better.
She sniffed her armpits and then liberally rubbed on deodorant. She did brush her teeth but mainly because she’d had onions on her burger for dinner. Afterwards she put on black lipstick to match her heavy black mascara. She didn’t have time to put in all of her piercings but did get in her tragus and replaced her rook, her labret always stayed in below her lip unless Grandma made her remove it. She put in the septum because she knew Missy hated it and would call her ‘bone nose’; she was just putting in the lip ring when she heard Missy blow the horn.
She spritzed cologne on her neck and then hurried to Grandma’s room. She paused and took several deep breaths before she could enter. The room smelled of sickness. It was almost overwhelming to her. The television emitted the only light and for a moment her grandmother’s sleeping form looked lifeless.
Leslie felt a moment of panic before she noted the slight rise and fall of Grandma’s chest. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and looked at anything but her. She tipped over to the bedside table and picked up one of the many bottles of pain pills. She snuck four pills…Grandma wouldn’t miss four. She checked the label. Fentanyl--the good stuff. She shoved them into her pocket grimly. Just make me numb , she thought as she tipped out of the room as quickly as she could.
As she left the house, Leslie grabbed her leather jacket. She wore a black t-shirt that said simply; YUCK FOU written in bold white letters. As she locked the door behind her she could already hear The New Edition’s, If It Isn’t Love blaring from the sound system of Missy’s parent’s car. Leslie smirked. She was listening to The Clash and The Sex Pistols. She shouldn’t even be born in the United States with her style and likes. She was in the wrong time and place. They would accept her in The UK just the way she was.
Missy paused to stare at her once she was buckled into her seat. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?” Leslie touched the hardening spikes on top.
“Faux-hawk.” Leslie rolled her eyes. “Just drive, bitch and stop gawking at me.” She reached into her pocket and handed her friend a pill. “Fentanyl.”
“OOO. Jackpot!” They both dry swallowed their pills while her friend pulled out of the drive way and headed to the impromptu house party. Leslie reached into her jacket pocket for a tape.
“Oh fuck NO, Leslie! We are not listening to that white-people-shit before the party!”
“Just listen to this one song. It’s not rock or anything. It’s kinda soft, a little mellow.” Missy protested a lot but Leslie knew that she’d be open minded enough to give it a try. “Just listen to the words. This group is called The Cure and the song is Pictures of You.”
The two girls drove silently,
“I’m not going because Derek is going to be there, alright?” She finally consented, “but because I need to get pissy DRUNK!”
Missy laughed. “I’ll be there in ten!” Leslie hurried back to her bedroom and looked at her hair. Every black girl in school wanted long hair except her. She had cut her hair short into a boy cut long ago. And before the phone had rang, she had been experimenting with making a faux Mohawk the way she’d seen the punk kids wearing on MTV. Instead of combing it out she turned to and fro in her mirror and decided to keep it.
Living in a mostly black neighborhood, Leslie knew that others thought of her as the freak—and not just because she had spent several years as a mute. She wore all black; black eye shadow, black nail polish and proudly sported facial piercings and short hair with spiky bangs. Some kids in white neighborhoods dressed like this, but not in her neighborhood and not in her school. She quickly pulled off her dirty jeans for a pair of black ones that hid the dirt better.
She sniffed her armpits and then liberally rubbed on deodorant. She did brush her teeth but mainly because she’d had onions on her burger for dinner. Afterwards she put on black lipstick to match her heavy black mascara. She didn’t have time to put in all of her piercings but did get in her tragus and replaced her rook, her labret always stayed in below her lip unless Grandma made her remove it. She put in the septum because she knew Missy hated it and would call her ‘bone nose’; she was just putting in the lip ring when she heard Missy blow the horn.
She spritzed cologne on her neck and then hurried to Grandma’s room. She paused and took several deep breaths before she could enter. The room smelled of sickness. It was almost overwhelming to her. The television emitted the only light and for a moment her grandmother’s sleeping form looked lifeless.
Leslie felt a moment of panic before she noted the slight rise and fall of Grandma’s chest. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and looked at anything but her. She tipped over to the bedside table and picked up one of the many bottles of pain pills. She snuck four pills…Grandma wouldn’t miss four. She checked the label. Fentanyl--the good stuff. She shoved them into her pocket grimly. Just make me numb , she thought as she tipped out of the room as quickly as she could.
As she left the house, Leslie grabbed her leather jacket. She wore a black t-shirt that said simply; YUCK FOU written in bold white letters. As she locked the door behind her she could already hear The New Edition’s, If It Isn’t Love blaring from the sound system of Missy’s parent’s car. Leslie smirked. She was listening to The Clash and The Sex Pistols. She shouldn’t even be born in the United States with her style and likes. She was in the wrong time and place. They would accept her in The UK just the way she was.
Missy paused to stare at her once she was buckled into her seat. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?” Leslie touched the hardening spikes on top.
“Faux-hawk.” Leslie rolled her eyes. “Just drive, bitch and stop gawking at me.” She reached into her pocket and handed her friend a pill. “Fentanyl.”
“OOO. Jackpot!” They both dry swallowed their pills while her friend pulled out of the drive way and headed to the impromptu house party. Leslie reached into her jacket pocket for a tape.
“Oh fuck NO, Leslie! We are not listening to that white-people-shit before the party!”
“Just listen to this one song. It’s not rock or anything. It’s kinda soft, a little mellow.” Missy protested a lot but Leslie knew that she’d be open minded enough to give it a try. “Just listen to the words. This group is called The Cure and the song is Pictures of You.”
The two girls drove silently,
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