Into White by Randi Pink Page B

her.
    â€œHow am I supposed to sleep when your daddy’s walking the dog all times of night?”
    Dad stayed quiet. Sometimes he elected to keep his mouth shut and disappear into his own mind. Dad was a strange man with a lot of flaws, but his feelings got hurt easier than anybody else I knew. Alex had inherited that curse. Deep emotional wounds that festered for months and years. Dad still brought up the look I gave him the one time he spanked me as a child. My attitude toward such things was I deserved the spanking—you delivered—get over it and move forward. Dad, on the other hand, couldn’t let it go. Little memories built up inside and tormented him like ghosts.
    â€œToya!” Mom screamed. “You want to go thrifting?”
    Our favorite mother-daughter pastime—thrift store hopping. While most of Edgewood’s mother-daughter duos spent their Saturdays at Gus Von March, my mom and I sifted through other people’s trash to find treasure. I was a brilliant thrifter if I do say so myself, but Mom sucked. She was a pipe-dream thrifter who believed every worthless tchotchke was worth a million dollars—fake fruit, ceramic white children with red lips, pretty much anything that could be purchased at the Dollar General.
    I, however, could find chic treasures among all the junk. I liked the idea of clothing with a soul, so I imagined historical facts about my finds. For instance, a pink knee-length skirt may have belonged to a 1950s Southern housewife who vacuumed in high heels. Or a crisp white button-down may have been worn by Condoleezza Rice for a DC job interview; she was, after all, from Alabama. I felt for ol’ Condie. Smart, educated, powerful, but black and Republican. Black Republicans got so much crap for being black and Republican. Deanté called Condoleezza a sellout, an Uncle Tom, a traitor to her race. I had never met a black Alabamian proud of her success—a shining example of black support for you.
    â€œNo, Mom. I don’t feel well.” I felt fine, but I didn’t want to deal with thrifting with a middle-aged black woman. Too many stares to deflect. It was for her protection, really.
    â€œOkay, but Lovelady’s having an early-bird sale. Everything’s fifty percent off.” Any other day that would have gotten me; I was a sucker for a bargain. I had vivid dreams of a comfortable house filled with places to sit, places to eat, utensils to eat with. Every now and then, I spent the thrifting cash Dad gave me on things for the house, and then they’d always turn up missing, or broken. As a result, I focused on the decor of my bedroom, which was shabby-chic cozy.
    â€œI’m sick, Mom.” I hated lying to her.
    â€œPlease come with me. I need your help picking the good stuff.” She sounded pitiful and relentless. I had to go for the jugular.
    â€œWhy don’t you call Aunt Evilyn?” I shouted before burying my head in the pillow. It was one of the meanest things I could say to my guilt-ridden mother.
    There was a long pause from downstairs. I imagined Mom’s head hanging low with shame. I imagined her sick with the kind of guilt moms get when they leave their kids home alone for necessary twelve-hour shifts. I imagined her shattered.
    â€œCan I come?” Alex said from his room. Sweet Alex.
    â€œPraise Jesus. We can stop by the pawnshop on the way.” If the thrift stores were mine, pawnshops were Alex’s. Alex dashed down the stairs, leaving Dad and me alone in the empty castle.
    I tried hard to go back to sleep, but it was no use. I spent about an hour picking my outfit for the party later that night. I had no clue what people wore to parties. In movies, it ranged from satiny dresses to jeans. The athletic token black character would arrive late in gym spandex and tennis shoes, yelling, “Where da party at?” while the white kids laughed and high-fived their hilarious, eternally friend-zoned