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“Let’s just say I don’t run from the sun but I’m cool wit’ that. I use my complexion to my advantage ’cause I understand the politics of it all, and you need to get down wit’ that.”
Chanel had no idea what Landy was referring to. “How do I use my black skin to my advantage, Landy? There is no such thing as black privilege. You’re talking foolishness.”
“You’re not red like your sisters ’cause God wanted you to be darker. Stop comparing yourself to them and be happy in your own skin. Look in the mirror and see the black beauty and watch how differently Charlie and Claire start to treat you. If you know you’re pretty too, shit gon’ change. All these beautiful black women didn’t pave the way for you to be walking wit’ your head down. You need a role model—Oprah Winfrey, Naomi Campbell, Viola Davis, Serena Williams, that beautiful Lupita chick. I shouldn’t have to tell you dis shit.”
“You don’t get it.”
“But, I do, though. You want a pity party. Bacardi really got you fucked up, yo. You’re one of the prettiest females I know, and that’s no homo. In fact, you’re beautiful—like model–pretty, but your low self-esteem will be your downfall. If you fall in the hands of the wrong nigga you’re done. Hasta la vista done.”
“You’re being dramatic. I don’t even have a man.” Chanel paused for a beat, “And, Landy, you my bitch, but you don’t get to say the N-word.”
“My b.”
Things got quiet in the small, messy kitchen as the girls processed their conversation.
Landy continued with, “Check this, Bacardi pits y’all against each other and runs a divisive household. It’s manipulation 101. As long as you don’t feel worthy enough for her love you will always clean out the shitty toilets, wash the dirty dishes, and take whatever abuse Bacardi dishes out. How she treats you is her issue not yours, yo. I would start cursing her fat ass out.”
“I can’t disrespect my moms, Landy. She’d fuck me up.”
“Well then I would go hard on them two red bitches. I would be callin’ them hoes fire crotches and soulless gingers. Let them know all those freckles ain’t cute. It’s a fuckin’ connect-the-dots puzzle on their face! Start speaking up for yourself.”
Chanel laughed. She appreciated that Landy was trying to cheer her up. She also knew she had some good points. It was hard to take advice about self-esteem and colorism from a white girl who wanted to be black, though. Landy was book-smart—she had a 4.0 GPA—but she too was suffering from image issues. Maybe that was how she was able to recognize Chanel’s insecurities.
Chanel finished making breakfast. The bacon and scrambled eggs mixed with green peppers and onions were the bomb. Landy praised Chanel on her cooking. The two sat at the table and shared a few laughs. But their enjoyable moment together was short lived. A few minutes at the table and Bacardi entered the kitchen scowling at the two girls.
“Hello, Mrs. Brown,” Landy greeted with a smirk.
Bacardi completely ignored Landy. Her focus was on Chanel. She had smelled the food cooking and desperately needed something in her stomach to soak up the alcohol she’d consumed last night. She took one look at the empty pan on the stove and went off.
“Oh, you selfish bitch,” she started. “You cook you and your friend some fuckin’ breakfast and don’t make any for anybody else?”
“Y’all were all ’sleep,” said Chanel.
“So! That’s your damn excuse? After your sister done hooked you up wit’ some nice shit yesterday, you can only think about yourself. And why the fuck this house ain’t clean?”
Chanel could feel her face getting hot. Her mother was always a crass woman, and now she was embarrassing her in front of her company. Landy sat right by Chanel’s side frowning and trying to keep herself from going off on Mrs. Brown in her own home.
“You need to tell your company to leave and you need to make us some fuckin’ breakfast too. And clean up this damn place! Shit! I work hard every day, and your lazy ass just eats, sleeps, and shits!” Bacardi griped.
Landy stood up. “I’ll see you later, Chanel,” said Landy coolly with her plate of breakfast in her hands.
Bacardi quickly vetoed the idea of Landy taking food out of her home. She snatched the plate out of Landy’s hand. “You ain’t pay for shit in this fuckin’ house to take home wit’ you.” Like a barbaric bitch, Bacardi sat down at the table and started to gobble down the meal.
Landy clenched her fists with a hard stare aimed at Bacardi that expressed, Oh, no this bitch didn’t just snatch shit out my fuckin’ hands.
Chanel looked at her friend and her eyes pleaded for Landy to chill. She didn’t need any drama and problems right now.
For Chanel’s sake, Landy excused the incident. “Yo, I’ll see ya around, Chanel.”
She pivoted and marched toward the door. Once she was gone, Bacardi berated, “You always got that white bitch in t
his fuckin’ apartment. Her fuckin’ wanna-be-black ass. She wanna be a fuckin’ nigga, then I’m gonna start treatin’ her like a fuckin’ nigga!”
Chanel kept silent. Her mother was in an extra foul mood this morning. Chanel just stood there coyly, not wanting to escalate the situation. She sighed lightly. Bacardi wasn’t done with her yet. Still stuffing her face with eggs and bacon, Bacardi exclaimed, “You need to make some more breakfast and take your sisters a plate too. You know they gonna be hungry when they wake up.”
Chanel grudgingly did what she was told. She cooked up some more of her specialty eggs and bacon and took the plates of food to her sisters, including God, because Bacardi considered him family too. Afterwards, she cleaned the entire apartment alone. Once again, Chanel felt like a ghetto adaptation of Cinderella—but there was no fairy godmother, and most certainly no Prince Charming.
After devouring her breakfast, Bacardi lifted herself from the table and marched to her bedroom. She closed her bedroom door, went into her dresser drawer, removed a pack of Newports, lit one up, inhaled and exhaled, and then took a seat at the foot of her bed. From where she sat, she could see her disheveled image in the bedroom mirror. Her glory days of beauty and fitness were becoming a faraway memory for her.
