I’m not sure why you’d do that for me.”
I nodded. “Seemed the right thing to do.”
“Sometimes I don’t know if I understand you,” he said, pulling another log out of the chopped pile and onto the stacked one. “Oh, I . . . I didn’t tell him it was me what did the damage.”
“Probably the smart thing,” I said. “Frank Charles took the blame.”
“Frank Charles? That little kid who comes over for vegetables sometimes? Why would he take the blame?”
What could I say to explain, Miss Anderson? I thought for a minute, but all I could come up with was “I think he just felt it was the right thing to do.”
“Sometimes I don’t reckon I understand white people, Kizzy Ann.”
“I think it’s just understanding people, James.”
I tried to get Frank Charles to hire me. I had to be out of my mind, when I think of it. His family doesn’t have any extra money, so why in the world did I think he would have anything to spare? I’ve been studying on it quite a bit, looking through your
Encyclopedia Britannica
and the use of makeup in ancient Egypt, and I thought if I could just get some money, I might be able to go to Drug Fair and try a few things to cover my scar. I don’t know what I could do for Frank Charles’s family, but who else could I work for? Anyway, I guess he figured things out, or I don’t know, but what amazing friends I have . . . because Frank Charles told Mr. McKenna, who went to Drug Fair, and he bought makeup for a black woman! I sure would have liked to have been in the store when that happened — this very white-haired, pale-skinned Scotsman going into the Drug Fair in Madison Heights and discussing which makeup products to buy for “women of dark complexions.” HA! I don’t know how he did it! Or maybe he didn’t discuss anything with anybody, because he basically had everything under the sun in that Drug Fair bag. I guess he just bought everything they had in the store and asked no questions at all. Frank Charles brought me the bag. He caught me by the stream and said, “Here you go. Mr. McKenna says you look fine, but if this’ll make you feel better, then take it,” and he shoved the bag at me. He was red in the face, and he ran off faster than I’ve ever seen him run.
I feel a fool, Miss Anderson, but I’m also excited. Maybe this will be the answer. I know I haven’t said much about it in here. In fact, I’ve deliberately
not
said much about it in here. I spend nights looking at the moon and trying to figure out how I feel about my face, about my name, Moon Child, about my scar. Knowing my face will never look as it did before, I finger my raised skin. How is it when you know you will never be the person you were before? Does Keith dive into College Lake with the same abandon now that a bottle sliced into the back of his head? When Shag saved my life, I was not the same Kizzy Ann I was the day before. When my brother got into trouble in the woods, I was not the same as the day after, nor was he. When Caroline Kennedy woke up on November 23, she was not the same girl she was the day before, even if her face was as pretty as the day before — her life is a lot better than mine in a lot of ways, but it is also a lot worse.
I know people look hard at me. I’m not stupid. Pretty girls get things that ugly girls don’t. But smart girls get things too. And I am smart. Anyway, I pulled out the makeup to look at it, but I realized that I don’t know what to do with it — and I am smart enough to know that if you just put makeup on without knowing about it, you don’t end up looking good. You end up looking worse. This is not something I can ask my mama or my granny about. I plan to go to the library as soon as I can. Let’s hope Miss Anne Spencer has more books on makeup than she has on border collies.
I went to the library — not today, but I’m just getting to write today. There is a lot more to a poet than you think! Miss Anne Spencer had books on
I nodded. “Seemed the right thing to do.”
“Sometimes I don’t know if I understand you,” he said, pulling another log out of the chopped pile and onto the stacked one. “Oh, I . . . I didn’t tell him it was me what did the damage.”
“Probably the smart thing,” I said. “Frank Charles took the blame.”
“Frank Charles? That little kid who comes over for vegetables sometimes? Why would he take the blame?”
What could I say to explain, Miss Anderson? I thought for a minute, but all I could come up with was “I think he just felt it was the right thing to do.”
“Sometimes I don’t reckon I understand white people, Kizzy Ann.”
“I think it’s just understanding people, James.”
I tried to get Frank Charles to hire me. I had to be out of my mind, when I think of it. His family doesn’t have any extra money, so why in the world did I think he would have anything to spare? I’ve been studying on it quite a bit, looking through your
Encyclopedia Britannica
and the use of makeup in ancient Egypt, and I thought if I could just get some money, I might be able to go to Drug Fair and try a few things to cover my scar. I don’t know what I could do for Frank Charles’s family, but who else could I work for? Anyway, I guess he figured things out, or I don’t know, but what amazing friends I have . . . because Frank Charles told Mr. McKenna, who went to Drug Fair, and he bought makeup for a black woman! I sure would have liked to have been in the store when that happened — this very white-haired, pale-skinned Scotsman going into the Drug Fair in Madison Heights and discussing which makeup products to buy for “women of dark complexions.” HA! I don’t know how he did it! Or maybe he didn’t discuss anything with anybody, because he basically had everything under the sun in that Drug Fair bag. I guess he just bought everything they had in the store and asked no questions at all. Frank Charles brought me the bag. He caught me by the stream and said, “Here you go. Mr. McKenna says you look fine, but if this’ll make you feel better, then take it,” and he shoved the bag at me. He was red in the face, and he ran off faster than I’ve ever seen him run.
I feel a fool, Miss Anderson, but I’m also excited. Maybe this will be the answer. I know I haven’t said much about it in here. In fact, I’ve deliberately
not
said much about it in here. I spend nights looking at the moon and trying to figure out how I feel about my face, about my name, Moon Child, about my scar. Knowing my face will never look as it did before, I finger my raised skin. How is it when you know you will never be the person you were before? Does Keith dive into College Lake with the same abandon now that a bottle sliced into the back of his head? When Shag saved my life, I was not the same Kizzy Ann I was the day before. When my brother got into trouble in the woods, I was not the same as the day after, nor was he. When Caroline Kennedy woke up on November 23, she was not the same girl she was the day before, even if her face was as pretty as the day before — her life is a lot better than mine in a lot of ways, but it is also a lot worse.
I know people look hard at me. I’m not stupid. Pretty girls get things that ugly girls don’t. But smart girls get things too. And I am smart. Anyway, I pulled out the makeup to look at it, but I realized that I don’t know what to do with it — and I am smart enough to know that if you just put makeup on without knowing about it, you don’t end up looking good. You end up looking worse. This is not something I can ask my mama or my granny about. I plan to go to the library as soon as I can. Let’s hope Miss Anne Spencer has more books on makeup than she has on border collies.
I went to the library — not today, but I’m just getting to write today. There is a lot more to a poet than you think! Miss Anne Spencer had books on
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