My head throbbed as I walked into the hallway. My hands were cupping tufts of my grown-out afro, hair spilling out from my five-year-old palms.
“Hey, I love your hair! Can I touch it please?”
I turned around. The white girl’s pupils dilated and motioned back and forward in rhythm like a kit-cat clock. She belonged to the Kindergarten class one grade above me. She didn’t even try to make eye contact.
“Can I touch your hair?”
I felt my body beginning to vibrate. At first with hurt anger, then subsumed by another, unfamiliar wave of emotions. I felt the tears forming at the cusps of my eyes and that’s when I thought of rushing at her stomach with full speed. At first, her face made it look like she was going to grab a handful of my curls and yank them like “yagga!” whether I allowed her to touch me or not. But I let her stand there like we were playing statues and I was the watchman who hadn’t yelled out the next position yet like “Rock Stars!” The thought of hurting her left as soon as it was conceived. Mommy said to never hit a girl, but Daddy did tell me to start bringing a rusty screwdriver to school like a man. I don’t really listen to Daddy, especially because I don’t like it when he hurts Mommy. Besides, I felt that the white girl wouldn’t pull my hair like Abigail, Chris, Luke, Bryan, or Lucy had. Because they hadn’t even asked to touch my hair. Just “yagga, yagga, yagga!” But she had asked me like Crystal and Melody did. But they were both Black and she was white, and I was crying, which means that she had something to lose if I said no—and that she wouldn’t dare to think of putting her hand in my hair by force—or I would stop her.
“Pleeeeease.”
Her patterned freckles crinkled with authenticity. I wanted to touch them too. I began to blush as the tiniest space between her bottom lip and upper parted to show a singular white tooth. I wonder if the tooth fairy gives more money for white teeth instead of silver ones. Manuel’s mouth flashes with silver teeth every time he says the f-word at lunch. I licked my two front teeth just to make sure they were still there. I stared at her. I don’t think Black people are born with freckles since we’re one big color already. Like pencil shavings moving across the paper when you blow on them. You can even still pick them out lying on the floor.
“Yeah,” I paused, “as long as you don’t pull my hair like Abigail, Chris, Luke, Bryan, or Lucy did.”
My resolve faltered. I lowered my hands.
“Oh, I wouldn’t hurt you. I like the way your hair looks.”
Her hand moved with restrained excitement as her fingers intertwined with the curls nearest my forehead. Her freckles came closer to my face.
“What are you?”
“I’m Bla—”
“Your hair is softer than mine.”
I blinked, then heard the sound of running soles squeaking on the PVC flooring.
“YAGGA!”
The force of the tug dragged me to the very real ground.
“LUKE that’s not funny! Look what you did!”
But Luke was already halfway down the hallway, his laugh echoing off the walls. But I knew who had given me a false sense of safety. That’s it. I took off my right shoe and aimed it at her open mouth. I was gonna knock that other white tooth right out her skull.
Muah! My star 🫶