Lonnie flecked mud at her socks and threw her books into the trash. Jostled her chair leg during exams, yanked the ribbons in her hair, sang “Tutti-frutti, dark Judy” as soon as she was in earshot. On the last day of fifth grade, he tripped her down the school steps and she scraped her knee. At the kitchen table, her grandma pulled her leg onto her lap, gently swabbing the blood with a cotton ball.
“Maybe he likes you,” Maman said. “Little boys always act real mean to girls they like.”
She tried to imagine Lonnie holding her hand, carrying her bookshome from school, kissing her, even, his long eyelashes tickling her cheeks. Sitting beside him in a movie theater, or on the top of the Ferris wheel at the carnival, Lonnie’s arm around her. But all she could picture was Lonnie splashing her in a mud puddle or sticking chewing gum in her hair or calling her a dumb bitch, Lonnie punching her until her lip burst open and her eye swelled shut. After, her father would always storm out while her mother sobbed on the floor, her face buried in the couch cushion. Once, he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he pulled her mother’s face into his stomach, petting her hair. Her mother whimpered but didn’t pull away, as if she were comforted by his touch.
Better to picture Lonnie beating on her. That other thing—that soft part—terrified her even more.
----
—
B EFORE THE INSULTS AND JOKES , before the taunting, the muddied socks, the kicked chairs, the empty lunch bench, before all of that, there were questions. What was her name? Where’d she come from and why was she here? On her first day of school, Louisa Rubidoux leaned across their shared desk and asked who was that lady walking with her earlier.
“My mama,” Jude said. Wasn’t it obvious? She’d walked her to school, held her hand. Who else would she be?
“But not your real mama, right?” Louisa said. “Y’all don’t look nothin alike.”
Jude paused, then said, “I look like my daddy.”
“Well, where’s he at?”
She shrugged, even though she knew. Back in D.C., where they’d left him. She missed him already even though she could still see that bruise on her mother’s neck, even though she could remember all the bruises she’d seen on her body over time, dark splotches on thatstrange topography. Once, at the swimming pool, she’d stared as her mother started to change in their stall before stopping, midway, when she discovered a fading bruise on her thigh. She quietly put her clothes back on, then told Jude she’d decided to just sit by the pool today and watch her. When they arrived home, her father greeted her mother with a kiss, and Jude realized that if she tried, she could pretend that the bruises came from someplace else. Her relationship with one parent magically untethered to the other. So when she thought of her daddy, he was sprawled beside her on the rug, flipping through the comics. Not dragging her mother by her hair into the bedroom—no, that was some other man. And after the broken glass was swept, the blood wiped off the tile, after her mother retreated into the bathroom, a bag of ice pressed against her face, her real daddy returned, smiling, stroking her cheek.
“How come I don’t look like you?” she asked her mother that night. She was sitting on the worn rug in front of the couch while her mother braided her hair so she couldn’t see her face but felt her hands still.
“I don’t know,” her mother finally said.
“You look like Maman.”
“It just work that way sometimes, baby.”
“When are we going home?” she asked.
“What’d I tell you?” her mother said. “We got to be here a little while. Now stop wigglin around and let me finish.”
She was beginning to realize what she would soon know for sure: there was no plan to go back home or to go anywhere else, even, and her mother was lying each time she pretended that there was. The next day, she was sitting alone during lunch when Louisa
“Maybe he likes you,” Maman said. “Little boys always act real mean to girls they like.”
She tried to imagine Lonnie holding her hand, carrying her bookshome from school, kissing her, even, his long eyelashes tickling her cheeks. Sitting beside him in a movie theater, or on the top of the Ferris wheel at the carnival, Lonnie’s arm around her. But all she could picture was Lonnie splashing her in a mud puddle or sticking chewing gum in her hair or calling her a dumb bitch, Lonnie punching her until her lip burst open and her eye swelled shut. After, her father would always storm out while her mother sobbed on the floor, her face buried in the couch cushion. Once, he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he pulled her mother’s face into his stomach, petting her hair. Her mother whimpered but didn’t pull away, as if she were comforted by his touch.
Better to picture Lonnie beating on her. That other thing—that soft part—terrified her even more.
----
—
B EFORE THE INSULTS AND JOKES , before the taunting, the muddied socks, the kicked chairs, the empty lunch bench, before all of that, there were questions. What was her name? Where’d she come from and why was she here? On her first day of school, Louisa Rubidoux leaned across their shared desk and asked who was that lady walking with her earlier.
“My mama,” Jude said. Wasn’t it obvious? She’d walked her to school, held her hand. Who else would she be?
“But not your real mama, right?” Louisa said. “Y’all don’t look nothin alike.”
Jude paused, then said, “I look like my daddy.”
“Well, where’s he at?”
She shrugged, even though she knew. Back in D.C., where they’d left him. She missed him already even though she could still see that bruise on her mother’s neck, even though she could remember all the bruises she’d seen on her body over time, dark splotches on thatstrange topography. Once, at the swimming pool, she’d stared as her mother started to change in their stall before stopping, midway, when she discovered a fading bruise on her thigh. She quietly put her clothes back on, then told Jude she’d decided to just sit by the pool today and watch her. When they arrived home, her father greeted her mother with a kiss, and Jude realized that if she tried, she could pretend that the bruises came from someplace else. Her relationship with one parent magically untethered to the other. So when she thought of her daddy, he was sprawled beside her on the rug, flipping through the comics. Not dragging her mother by her hair into the bedroom—no, that was some other man. And after the broken glass was swept, the blood wiped off the tile, after her mother retreated into the bathroom, a bag of ice pressed against her face, her real daddy returned, smiling, stroking her cheek.
“How come I don’t look like you?” she asked her mother that night. She was sitting on the worn rug in front of the couch while her mother braided her hair so she couldn’t see her face but felt her hands still.
“I don’t know,” her mother finally said.
“You look like Maman.”
“It just work that way sometimes, baby.”
“When are we going home?” she asked.
“What’d I tell you?” her mother said. “We got to be here a little while. Now stop wigglin around and let me finish.”
She was beginning to realize what she would soon know for sure: there was no plan to go back home or to go anywhere else, even, and her mother was lying each time she pretended that there was. The next day, she was sitting alone during lunch when Louisa
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