Genesis Begins Again: Chapters 14–21

The bristly wool scratches lines into my skin, feels like I’m being scraped with razor blades.

I scrub the tenderest parts, and the invisible ones too.

Nia saunters up to the front and brushes her dreadlocks out of her face.

“Imagine being free to live without cumbersome concerns and decision-making. You will never have to worry about choosing the right career, marrying the perfect person, or keeping up with the latest trends.”

Ever since I can remember, I’ve always wanted a best friend. Someone I could be real with. And with the way Troy is looking at me, as if he earnestly cares, I want to be honest.

“No, you’re absolutely correct. She instinctively knew how to use her voice like an instrument. She could play with melodies and rhythms and add her emotions.” Mrs. Hill shakes her head as though in awe.

“You got jokes,” I say, stifling my laugh because my scars hurt when I do.

This fantasy is good enough to revel in for the rest of the day.

“I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead,” I repeat my own, warped mantra.

“Genesis?” Mama prods, “got something on your mind?”

“Yeah,” Sophia agrees, all enthusiastic. “Plus, they have a bunch of noisemakers and paparazzi. All the drama queens hang out front hogging up the spotlight.”

Dad tilts his head to one side, appraising me, then says, “Well, well, well...”

“Wait a minute, Sharon—” Dad says, his voice garbled.

Grandma berates Mama—always. How does she stand it?

But Mama looks so beaten down, and Grandma’s badgering doesn’t stop.

And I don’t mean to be rude or insolent when I interrupt, “Grandma?”

I’m hoping Grandma doesn’t rehash last week’s conversation.

It peeks out when she describes someone dark complexioned and adds: “But he or she’s still good looking.”

That night, when my head falls on the pillow—smelling of BB SuperGro—I have a fitful dream of Dad in a clown’s mask, cutting off my long, straight hair.

“No, I’d listen.” They both look at me so intently that my brain freezes, until Mrs. Hill nods for me to continue. “Like, your essay was amazing. No one else wrote so deeply about a book, or read theirs the way you did. If your music’s the same way, then you’ll win. For sure.”

She raises one eyebrow saucily.

I tell her yes, so she sits, plunks at various keys, and has me mimic the sound. “Good, but a little less staccato. And one more thing, good singers have good posture. When you collapse your sternum, you can’t get breath from your diaphragm.”

I tell her yes, so she sits, plunks at various keys, and has me mimic the sound. “Good, but a little less staccato. And one more thing, good singers have good posture. When you collapse your sternum, you can’t get breath from your diaphragm.”

I tell her that I can’t stay too long because even though nothing much happens out here in suburbia, Mama’ll have a fit if she beats me home and doesn’t know where I am. And when she starts to balk, I remind her that I can’t be making my mama mad since she’s letting me come over Saturday.

The couches and chairs are white, their legs etched with ornate antique-ish designs.

Then Sophia asks her yiayia to tell me the story about the goats chasing her every time she went to milk them, which she does, and everyone starts interjecting their two cents, slowing down the story for me to hear the best parts.

In the first twenty minutes, we see an a cappella ensemble, two hip-hop and one modern dance group, an all-girl singing group, a Justin Bieber look-alike, and an Eminem wannabe who wouldn’t last a minute on 8 Mile.

In the first twenty minutes, we see an a cappella ensemble, two hip-hop and one modern dance group, an all-girl singing group, a Justin Bieber look-alike, and an Eminem wannabe who wouldn’t last a minute on 8 Mile.

Troy adds, “They’ve got a real good chance of winning it this time,” as the three sashay off the stage.

I want to blurt out how fab their audition was, and how perfectly poised Yvette was onstage.