“Who told you this—Janelle? With her big mouth? I know it, I just know it. Well, first of all, it ain’t true.”

“It is true, and it’s your fault for not being there to keep their behinds in line.”

“I’ma pretend like I didn’t hear that. But let me tell you something, Mother. Tiffany did not get expelled. She got sent home for wearing too much perfume, ’cause half the class—including the teacher—started getting nauseous. And for your information, Monique just told a joke that made everybody laugh.”

I knew she was lying through her teeth, but I didn’t dare say it, so I just said, “Un-huh.”

“And since Janelle’s running her mouth so much, did she bother to tell you that Monique is also having a tough time ’cause we regulating her medication?”

“I got her medicine, all right.”

“Mama, you know what? I’m so tired of your sarcastic remarks I don’t know what to do. Sick of ’em! You never have nothing nice to say about my kids!”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it!”

“It ain’t bullshit!”

“When they do something good, then I’ll have a reason to say something nice.”

“See, that’s what I mean! Has Dingus thrown a touchdown pass lately? And what about your darling Shanice: did she get straight A’s again? Go ahead and throw it in my face. I could use some more good goddamn news today!”

“You better watch your mouth. I’m still your mother.”

“Then don’t call me until you start acting like a mother and a grandmother to my kids!” And—bam!—she hung up.

The truth always hurts. This ain’t the first time she done slammed the phone down in my face or talked to me in that nasty tone: like I’m somebody in the street. I ain’t gon’ lie: it hurts and cuts into me deep, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing how bad she makes me feel. To be honest, Charlotte just likes people to kiss her ass, but I kissed their daddy’s behind for thirty-eight years, I ain’t here to pacify my kids. No, Lordy. Them days is over, especially since they’re all damn near middle age.

Charlotte came too quick. Ten months after Paris. I did not need another baby so soon, and I think she knew it. She wanted all my attention then. And still do. She ain’t never forgiven me for having Lewis and Janelle, and she made sure I knew it. I had to snatch a knot in her behind once for putting furniture polish in their milk. Made ’em take a nap in the doghouse with the dog and fed ’em Alpo while I went downtown to pay some bills. Had ’em practice drowning in a bathtub full of cold water. How many steps could they jump down with their eyes closed without falling. The list goes on.

Now, all my kids is taller than average, as good-looking as they come and as dark as you can get, and I spent what I felt was a whole lotta unnecessary time and energy teaching ’em to appreciate the color of their skin. To not be ashamed of it. I used to tell ’em that the blacker the berry the sweeter the juice, ’cause everybody know that back then being yellow with long wavy hair meant you was automatically fine, which was bullshit, but here it is 1994 and there’s millions of homely yellow women with long straggly hair running around still believing that lie. Anyway, no matter what I did or said to make my kids feel proud, Charlotte was the only one who despised her color. Never mind that she was the prettiest of the bunch. Never mind that she had the longest, thickest, shiniest hair of all the black girls in the whole school. And nothing upset that chile more than when Paris started getting breasts and learned how to do the splits and Charlotte couldn’t. She was the type of child you couldn’t praise enough. Always wanted more. But, hell, I had three other kids and I had to work overtime to divide up my energy and time. What was left, I gave to Cecil.