Nakesha and I had never been the popular girls. We lacked the grades, boyfriends, hairstyles, faces, wardrobes, or personalities to earn notice and respect. Without talent to dance, dress, rap, sing, run, ball, or wisecrack, we were irrelevant to our peers. No matter we were good cooks or secretly interested in science, or that my eyes epitomized “almond-shaped” and Nakesha’s cheekbones surged forward to create an enviable hollow; we were too brown, too broke, too nappy-headed, too quiet, and too mysterious. Getting our hair done professionally was a necessity we couldn’t afford, so we were always out of style. In our paycheck-to-paycheck households, a biweekly hair appointment was a laugh-out-loud suggestion we knew much better than to make. We may have owned two or three pairs of brand-name shoes and jeans, but beyond that we only bought the cheaper sweatpants and T-shirts with money we earned from babysitting. About the most we had going for us was our curvaceous bodies: narrow waists and thick bottoms that had cursed us to an everyday torrent of catcalls from men and boys who had no true interest in what we held inside. We sparkled when alone or around other girls fated to this category, but faded out in any crowd that refused to validate our existence.