Diary of an Ugly Duckling (3 page)

a woman who’s let her butt get so round she rips her

pants in front of a bunch of men!”

Audra rolled her eyes. Leave it to Edith to reduce

things to their lowest, crudest denominator. “They

ripped,” she said loftily, wishing her mother would

let her forget the awful mortification that had ac-

companied that moment, but the woman seemed

determined to make it breathe again, “because I was

breaking up a
fight
—”

“No, Miss Queen of De-Nial,” her mother

drawled. “They ripped ’cause you need to lose some

weight!” She sniffed sanctimoniously. “I know that

sounds mean, but it’s the truth and you need to hear

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

17

it. A little weight is one thing, but you’re getting too

fat, Audra.”

“I just need to cut back a little—” Audra began.

“A little?” Edith interjected. She reached behind

her, opening one of the old kitchen’s cabinets to re-

veal its contents: a solid wall of junk foods piled on

its shelves, cookies, crackers, candies and chips

jumbled atop each other. “You just bought all this

stuff last night and it’ll be gone by the end of the

weekend—”

“I’m not the only one who eats that stuff. Kiana

likes it—”

“Kiana’s a child,” Edith reminded her, jerking her

head toward the other room where Audra’s niece

watched animated girls cartwheeling around, solv-

ing some kind of mystery through their derring-do.

Either because she was transfixed by the images, or

because she was used to Grandma and Auntie A’s

noise, she didn’t even turn toward their raised

voices. To Kiana, the sound of the two of them argu-

ing over the dinner dishes was as comforting as a

lullaby.

“She doesn’t need this stuff any more than you

do,” Edith added when Audra focused on her again.

“Okay, so I like a little something sweet from time

to time.” Audra shrugged. “I know in your world of

high fashion and glamour, that’s some kind of
crime
,

but to the rest of us mere mortals, it’s no big deal.”

Edith sighed. “I don’t understand you, Audra.

Seems like you don’t care about what you look like.

Not at all,” Edith continued. Audra was pretty sure

she didn’t do it on purpose, but her mother punctu-

ated the words by striking one of her little poses,

18

Karyn Langhorne

slewing out a foot and propping her hand with her

waist, emphasizing her trim figure. She nodded to-

ward a snapshot of Petra, Audra’s older sister, look-

ing like Tyra Banks doing a photo shoot for army

fatigues, taped to the refrigerator. “Even soldiering

in that awful Baghdad, your sister takes some time

to put herself together. It’s just a matter of pride—”

“I’m looking for a man who sees deeper than out-

ward appearances. Someone who’ll love me no mat-

ter what I look like,” Audra muttered, tossing a dish

towel on the counter and snatching at an open bag

of Oreos protruding from the cabinet like a choco-

late tongue.

“Men are visual, Audra.” Edith grabbed the bag

from her hands and tossed it into the garbage can.

She dipped her hands into the sink for the next of

their dinner dishes. They were a leathery brown—

almost an entire shade darker than her cinnamon-

colored face thanks to the harsh chemicals of her

three decades working as a hairstylist. Still, dark as

the hands had become, they were still three shades

lighter than the lightest part of Audra’s body. Audra

frowned, staring at those hands.

“You want to catch one, you don’t gotta be no

beauty queen, but you sure as hell better work what

you got,” her mother continued, enjoying the

sound of her own wisdom. “Why do you think

Goldilocks Salon is packed from morning to night?

Sisters in there pressing and curling and straight-

ening and weaving”— the hands came up out of

the water as Edith snapped a couple of soapy fin-

gers. “Working it, that’s what they doing. Working

it!” She shook her head, folding her full lips in

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

19

disapproval. “You keep that hair cut short as a

man—and I run a beauty salon, for God’s sake!

How do you think it makes me look in the neigh-

borhood, my own daughter wandering around

with her hair looking like this?” She reached

toward Audra’s short naps, but Audra danced

backward out of her way.

“You know I like my hair short, Ma,” she said de-

fiantly.

“I don’t know any such thing—”

“Well, you ought to know it. We’ve tried every

other style and none of them work any better,

you’ve said so yourself.”

Edith paused, blinking while she remembered the

countless hours she and Audra had spent trying to

get the thick bristles of her hair to behave. But it was

no use: unlike Petra’s locks, which lay down per-

fectly under straightening comb or relaxer—and un-

like Edith’s own—Audra’s hair seemed to have a

mind of its own.

“Well,” Edith said slowly, since there was no ar-

gument to refute this, she wagged her swingy new

hairdo again. “The short look doesn’t do a thing for

you with your face that full. I don’t understand why

you can’t Pretty Up—like they say on the Beautify!

Network—”

“Stupid makeover shows,” Audra grumbled.

“Not as stupid as your classic movie fantasyland,”

her mother shot back, a tinge of anger in her voice.

“From where I’m standing, it seems like you’re go-

ing out of your way to look fat and ugly—and both

of those things are completely within your control!”

Fat and ugly . . . fat and ugly . . . fat, black and ugly . . .

20

Karyn Langhorne

The words chimed in her ears, chanted by in-

mates and now uttered by her own mother.

Fat, black . . . black . . . black . . .

Something angry slithered and squirmed deep in

Audra’s soul, and before she could stop herself she

snapped, “What about
black
, Ma. Is that under my

control, too?”

Her mother turned to her in surprise, hands paus-

ing over the sink. “Black?” she shrugged. “Of course

not. We’re all
black
, Audra—”

“No, Ma. You’re not black, you’re
brown
. Even
tan.

You and Petra and Daddy—you’re all
tan
.” Audra

stretched out her own arm, rolling the sleeve up to

the elbow. “See this?
This
is black.”

Edith blinked at her, her mouth working silently,

then she pushed Audra’s outstretched arm away

from her. An instant later, she thrust her hands back

in the soapy water, fished up another plate, and be-

gan scrubbing as if her little sponge could clean up

this turn in their conversation.

“So what?” Edith told her sponge in a careful, low

voice. “I’m brown-skinned, Petra’s light-skinned.

But there are darker people in the family—”

“Name one,” Audra demanded.

Edith’s dishwashing hands paused, the plate slip-

ping out of them to splash audibly in the bubbly wa-

ter. Her whole body grew very still, as though some

kind of spell had been cast on her, making her as

motionless as Snow White after she ate the apple.

She did not look at Audra or speak.

“I’ve seen the pictures.” Audra pressed on. “I’ve

been with you back to North Carolina. Almost all of

us have the same eyes and same shape of face . . .”

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

21

Audra hesitated, and then pushed the words out

with sudden determination. “Your people aren’t

this dark, Mama. Even Gran said she couldn’t figure

out where my coloring came from—”

When Edith finally faced her, her lips were folded

tight and there was a funny auburn flush creeping

up from the skin of her neck up to her ears.

“Really, Audra,” she said, in a voice that strug-

gled for light, bright and breezy, but ended up

sounding strangled and tight. “There’s some darker

kin on your father’s side—”

“No, Ma.” Audra interrupted, shaking her head.

“Remember that reunion we went to? All of his peo-

ple have fair skin. Next to them, you and Petra are

dark!” Audra stared hard at her mother. “No one ei-

ther side of the family is as dark as I am, Ma.” She

swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. “Is—is

there something you want to tell me?”

Edith’s eyes slid from Audra back to the plate,

back to the sink. “Like what?” she asked the dish in

the same constricted voice.

Audra shrugged. “Like I’m adopted . . . or . . .

something else,” she murmured.

Now, Edith’s head snapped toward Audra in sur-

prise. For a long moment, mother and daughter

stared at each other in a game of visual chicken,

each daring the other to blink first. Audra’s heart

pounded in her chest, banging so hard against her

ribs she wondered if her mother could see it, won-

dering if it looked like the animated heart of an old-

time cartoon character. She put a hand to her chest,

pressing, hoping to still the frantic beat.

Just tell me the truth, just tell me the truth
, she

22

Karyn Langhorne

thought over and over in her mind, knowing that

Edith could read the words in her eyes.
For once,

just
—

When her mother finally spoke, her voice was

hard as a slap.

“What’s this supposed to be? Some big dramatic

scene out of one of your old movies? The climactic

scene where all the secrets are revealed? Well,

I’m sorry, but you weren’t adopted . . . or anything

else,” she said brusquely. “I don’t know why you’d

want to say something like that,” she grumbled.

“You and Petra got the same father . . . and he’s been

dead two years now and you know it. Didn’t leave

anybody anything but bad debts and worse memo-

ries, so you’re better off without him. Not that you

ever needed a thing from him anyway.”

“No, not a thing,” Audra agreed, an ugly sarcasm

taking over her tone. “After all, we always had you.”

From her mother’s silence, Audra suspected the

woman understood fully the implications of that

comment, that she could feel Audra’s resentments,

longstanding and desperate, flowing toward her in

the silence between them.

“You need to lose some weight. Do something

with yourself,” her mother said in a nasty, hasty

voice, giving back as good as she was getting. “Then

you’ll stop focusing on this crazy mess.” She dried

the sparkling plate herself, pulled the plug and re-

leased the water from the sink with an air of rushed

finality. “Make yourself useful and go put your sis-

ter’s child to bed,” she told Audra abruptly. “We

promised to take care of my baby’s baby until she

comes home from the war, and I ain’t lettin’ this

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

23

trash you’re talking keep you from doing your

part.” Then, with a swish of her new hairdo, she fled

the room and Audra heard her bedroom door slam,

locking Audra, and further conversation, out.

“This one.”

Six-year-old Kiana handed Audra a thin story-

book, its paper cover vividly illustrated, and then

climbed into Audra’s lap with a proprietary cer-

tainty that only a niece who’d enjoyed a young life-

time of considerable doting and spoiling could

manage. “Read it with the voices, Auntie A. Can

you do it with the voices?”

“You bet I can do it with the voices,” Audra told

her, letting the little girl snuggle tight against her

ample chest. Kiana didn’t seem to mind how tight

her sweatshirt was or how her thighs spread across

the surface of the old rocking chair. Audra breathed

deeply, letting the girl smell of bubbles from the

bath she’d just taken erase the day, snuggling her

chin into the child’s freshly braided hair. Kiana held

Mugsy, the stuffed rabbit she’d slept with since she

was a mere baby. “You read, too, though,” Audra

told her. “You’re getting to be a big girl. Pretty soon,

you’ll
be reading the whole book to
me
.”

Kiana nodded solemnly, showing the smoky

brown eyes that were the signature characteristic of

all the women in Audra’s family—even Audra had

the eyes.

You ain’t adopted . . . or anything else.

Her mother’s words echoed in her brain, stirring

memories, questions and more questions, questions

she wondered if she would ever get answered. But

24

Karyn Langhorne

before she could get too lost in considering the mat-

ter, Kiana was prying Audra’s distracted fingers off

the book’s glossy cover. “The Ugly Duckling,” she

read, girlish and serious all at once.

The Ugly Duckling.

Great
, Audra thought, a sinking feeling of dread

pulling her heart down to her toes.
Of all the stories,

on all the bookshelves, in all the world . . . this book has to