Skin Folk by Nalo Hopkinson Page A

basket!
    Eggie-law, what a pretty basket!
    Then he had held her tight to his chest, forcing the air from her lungs in a breathless giggle. The dressing-down Mummy had
     given him for that game! “You want to drop the child and crack her head open on the hard ground? Ee? Why you can’t be more
     responsible?”
    “Responsible?” he’d snapped. “Is who working like dog sunup to sundown to put food in oonuh belly?” He’d set Beatrice down,
     her feet hitting the ground with a jar. She’d started to cry, but he’d just pushed her towards her mother and stormed out
     of the room. One more volley in the constant battle between them. After he’d left them Mummy had opened the little food shop
     in town to make ends meet. In the evenings, Beatrice would rub lotion into her mother’s chapped, work-wrinkled hands. “See
     how that man make us come down in the world?” Mummy would grumble. “Look at what I come to.”
    Privately, Beatrice thought that maybe all Daddy had needed was a little patience. Mummy was too harsh, much as Beatrice loved
     her. To please her, Beatrice had studied hard all through high school: physics, chemistry, biology, describing the results
     of her lab experiments in her copy book in her cramped, resigned handwriting. Her mother greeted every A with a noncommittal
     grunt and anything less with a lecture. Beatrice would smile airily, seal the hurt away, pretend the approval meant nothing
     to her. She still worked hard, but she kept some time for play of her own. Rounders, netball, and later, boys. All those boys,
     wanting a chance for a little sweetness with a light-skin browning like her. Beatrice had discovered her appeal quickly.

    “Leggo beast…” Loose woman. The hissed words came from a knot of girls that slouched past Beatrice as she sat on the library
     steps, waiting for Clifton to come and pick her up. She willed her ears shut, smothered the sting of the words. But she knew
     some of those girls. Marguerita, Deborah. They used to be friends of hers. Though she sat up proudly, she found her fingers
     tugging self-consciously at the hem of her short white skirt. She put the big physics textbook in her lap, where it gave her
     thighs a little more coverage.
    The farting vroom of Clifton’s motorcycle interrupted her thoughts. Grinning, he slewed the bike to a dramatic halt in front
     of her. “Study time done now, darling. Time to play.”
    He looked good this evening, as he always did. Tight white shirt, jeans that showed off the bulges of his thighs. The crinkle
     of the thin gold chain at his neck set off his dark brown skin. Beatrice stood, tucked the physics text under her arm, smoothed
     the skirt over her hips. Clifton’s eyes followed the movement of her hands. See, it didn’t take much to make people treat
     you nice. She smiled at him.

    Samuel would still show up hopefully every so often to ask her to accompany him on a drive through the country. He was so
     much older than all her other suitors. And dry? Country drives, Lord! She went out with him a few times; he was so persistent
     and she couldn’t figure out how to tell him no. He didn’t seem to get her hints that really she should be studying. Truth
     to tell, though, she started to find his quiet, undemanding presence soothing. His eggshell-white BMW took the graveled country
     roads so quietly that she could hear the kiskedee birds in the mango trees, chanting their query: “Dit, dit, qu’est-ce qu’il
     dit?”
    One day, Samuel brought her a gift.
    “These are for you and your family,” he said shyly, handing her a wrinkled paper bag. “I know your mother likes them.” Inside
     were three plump eggplants from his kitchen garden, raised by his own hands. Beatrice took the humble gift out of the bag.
     The skins of the eggplants had a taut, blue sheen to them. Later she would realise that that was when she’d begun to love
     Samuel. He was stable, solid, responsible. He would make Mummy and her