I often wondered what Bianca’s room looked like. Mine was four plain white walls, dirtied over the years from no fresh paint, a twin-size mattress on the floor that rarely had sheets on it, rather less clean ones, and four dolls with broken parts strewn about. I had only about five complete outfits that my grandmother would wash on the weekends for me to wear to school and two pairs of shoes, with holes in them. Grandma had had to quit her job as a waitress when she fell ill and had no savings to speak of. Mother refused to work and, at twenty-four, was getting food stamps from the state. Otherwise, none of us would have eaten.
“So, do you want to play hopscotch or not?” Bianca asked, smacking on a large piece of bubble gum. “It’s getting kind of hot out here.”
“It’s up to you.” I kicked my size-three shoe around in the grass, like I was scaring a colony of ants away. “I’m not hot, but it’s probably going to be too hot this afternoon to be outside.”
“Do you know your math facts? I always get stuck on the twelves.”
“I kinda do,” I replied. “You just have to—”
“Bianca! It’s time to go!”
We both turned to find Bianca’s mother, Mrs. Lee, standing by their Mazda Cosmo with white gloves on and a summery dress.
Bianca sighed. “Shoot! I forgot that I have to go shopping with Momma for vacation clothes. We’re going to Disney next month once school lets out.”
“That’s cool,” I said, trying to hide my jealousy. I started walking toward my door. “Have a good time shopping.”
“You want to go?” Bianca yelled behind me. “I’m sure Momma will say it’s okay.”
I wanted to go with them more than I wanted to take my next breath. I glanced up at Mother’s window and noticed that she was staring down at me, as if to say, “Don’t even think about it.”
I turned to Bianca. “Thanks for asking, but I have to go do my chores.”
“But you were ready to play hopscotch a minute ago.”
“I forgot that I have to do chores,” I said harshly, fighting back tears at the same time.
Bianca giggled. “We’re in second grade. How many chores could you have? I can ask Momma to wait until you’re done.”
“No!” I took her off guard with my tone, so I lowered it. “You go ahead. I don’t have any money to shop anyway, and it’s not like I’m going on any vacation.”
Bianca forced a smile and walked away from my house slowly as her mother grew more impatient by their car. I fought back tears, rushed into the house, and slammed the door behind me. Big mistake!
“You little bitch!” I heard my mother scream from upstairs. “You slammed that fucking door again!”
“I didn’t mean it,” I said in a loud whisper as she practically catapulted downstairs from the upper level. “I didn’t mean it.”
I ran into the kitchen, hoping Grandma would be able to protect me from the beating that I saw coming a mile away.
Grandma was standing over the sink, using a paring knife to peel potatoes that she had a pot of water on the stove to boil them in. “What’s wrong, Caprice?”
Before I could reply, Mother came rushing in and started slapping me in the face and all upside my head. She was screaming something, but I was too busy trying to shield my body to understand any of it.
Grandma walked over from the sink and tried to pull Mother off me, but Mother knocked her backward into the table. She slipped on something and fell onto the floor, with the paring knife still in her hand.
Mother turned to Grandma and this time, I could make out her words since the slaps ceased for a moment. “Momma, she’s the Devil! She’s the Devil! She never should have been born!”
“Stop talking crazy, Denise,” Grandma said, struggling to get up. “We need to get you some help. You can’t keep beating on that baby like that. I won’t allow it.”
“What the fuck you going to do about it?”
The two of them stood there staring each other down for a moment. Looking back on it, I understand that Grandma could not have possibly begun to comprehend the mental issues my mother had, exacerbated by the heavy drug use. Mother’s eyes were bloodshot and she was trembling like she was coming down from something.
Grandma spanned out of her shock. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, after everything I went through to raise you. You’re an ungrateful—”
“Ungrateful? Ungrateful? Your brother raped me.” Mother pointed at me. “And this is the result. Having to raise his little demon.”
“I’m not a demon,” I said, not really quite sure of the definition of the word, but I knew it was akin to being a devil. “I’m a girl.”