Chapter Three
Mornings in America are quiet. That’s one ofthe first things I noticed when we moved. Before daybreak, nothing indicates the beginning of a new day except an alarm going off. In Nigeria, there were various early-morning sounds.
First, the crow of a rooster from a distant compound. To this day, I don’t know who, in our middle-class neighborhood of professionals, owned a rooster. But after the loud cock-a-doodle-doo, Mama Ebenezer would step out of her apartment. She lived below us in a two-story fourplex and hated the fruit trees that lined our gated compound. Whenever the leaves fell, they drifted to her verandah, and it drove her mad. She would wake up at the crack of dawn and sweep with a palm broom, separating mango and guava leaves from the sand-coated pavement while humming a Catholic hymn.
Minutes after she went inside, Dr. Abraham would try to start his 1966 Peugeot that should have been in a junkyard rather than in our compound. Some days, he got lucky and could drive the beat-up car to work. But on the days he was unlucky, he would grunt while looking under the hood, and his wife would stand at the door of their apartment, bouncing their baby on her hip and ranting about how cheap her husband was.
For a moment, I stay in bed and imagine these sounds are around me, that distance hasn’t stifled the pulse of Nigeria. I imagine nothing has changed. And then the alarm on my nightstand goes off.
After a deep sigh, I sit up. It’s seven o’clock on the first day of school. The outfit I plan to wear is on a velvet armchair at the end of the room. It’s a plain black T-shirt, blue skinny jeans, and white Converses—the perfect outfit for someone who wants to go unnoticed. Through my research, a.k.a. the sixty teen movies I’ve now watched, I have learned that below the radar is the safest place to be in high school. It ensures survival. And that’s my goal—to survive high school.
When I’m dressed, Esosa walks into my room with her hands behind her back. The gloss on her lips matches the buds of pink roses on her dress. Some of her short box braids are up in a double topknot; the style enhances her oval face—her cheekbones that have a layer of shimmer on them.
My sister and I don’t look much alike. While she has our father’s honey-brown complexion, I have our mother’s warm chestnut. Even though I’m two years older, she’s taller, with long legs she has trained to be graceful. The parts of us that are similar—our upturned eyes and round, full lips—look different on her once she’s exaggerated them with makeup. Our slight similarities are only apparent early in the mornings before she’s sat in front of a mirror to highlight and contour her features, using techniques I know absolutely nothing about.
Back in Nigeria, while still refining her skills as a makeup artist, she worked on middle-aged women whose idea of makeup involved drawing a sharp black line over their excessively plucked eyebrows. Her clientele later expanded to brides and birthday celebrants. Usually, her weekends were fully booked. I know she’s already started building a client base here. She’s been going to parties with our cousin, mingling and advertising her work on her always stunning and flawless face. She’s spent the last weeks announcing her presence in Bellwood and will likely walk into school today with an entourage already assembled.
“Your outfit is…” She squints while studying me. “Underwhelming.”
“That’s intentional.”
“Oh. I see.” She nods slowly. “Well, would you like me to do your edges?”
“I already did them.”
“But you never really do them right.” She pulls her hands from her back, revealing an edge brush and a container of gel. “I could help.”
After glancing at the mirror on my vanity, I sigh. She’s right. I’m not skilled in the art of swooping my edges into a perfect half circle. “Okay.” I sit on the bed. “But be fast.”
The cool, sticky gel glides on my forehead as Esosa uses the brush and her finger to style my baby hair.
“So,” she says. “How are you feeling about school?”
I look at her standing over me and shrug.
“Are you excited?”
Again, I shrug.
Esosa asks no more questions. She does my hair, then takes a step back to inspect her work. “Perfect.”
I don’t have to look in the mirror for extra validation. I trust Esosa blindly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She slumps into the spot beside me and huffs. “I’m a little excited about school. I’m also… nervous. And angry. And really sad.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “Is it crazy that I feel all these things at the same time?”
“No. It isn’t.” Since my dad died, there hasn’t been a moment where I’ve felt only one emotion. Since his death, happiness is no longer just happiness; it’s something sweet mingled with the bitter taste of guilt and anger. It’s exhausting and confusing. I squeeze my sister’s hand and assure her again. “It’s not crazy.”
“I just wish…” Esosa takes in a sharp breath but doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to.
“I know, Sosa. I know.”
After a moment where we both say nothing, she lifts her head and looks at me.
“Are we going to be fine?” she asks. “Are we going to be fine here? In this country? Without him?”
I imagine a future where the pain of our loss is less and things are better, but my pessimism blurs that image. For my little sister, I want that picture-perfect future to be bright and vivid—enough that the hope of it helps her through today and tomorrow and all the days ahead.
“Yes. We’re going to be fine.” I force those words out of my mouth and beg for the skills to make them sound believable. “We’re going to be just fine. I promise.”
Esosa nods, then sighs.
“Oya.” I stand and take her hand, pulling her up and then toward the door. “Let’s go have breakfast.”
When we walk into the kitchen, our mother gasps. “You both look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Esosa grins and spins around, her dress flaring above her knees.
“Sit and eat.” My mother sets down two plates of fried eggs and toast, and Esosa and I sit at the wooden counter. As we eat, she stands above us, watching with a small smile.
When I was younger, I used to stare at my mother while she got dressed or cooked, thinking she was the most beautiful woman. I’m seventeen and still watch her with the same admiration. The sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds beam on her chestnut-brown skin. Her hair, dense and springy with tight curls, hovers above her shoulders. In Nigeria, people would say she looks like the Nollywood actress Genevieve Nnaji. My father would disagree firmly. “Abeg,” he would say. “My wife is finer.” That always made my mother laugh.
“So?” she says, looking from me to Esosa. “The first day of a new school. Are you both nervous?”
“A little, but I’m excited too,” Esosa answers.
“Good.” My mother looks at me. “Enore?”
If I tell her the truth, that I’m not only nervous but terrified, she’ll worry for the rest of the day. “Me too,” I lie. “I’m excited.”
She presses her lips in a firm line, clearly not convinced. I’m sure she’s going to ask me more questions, but a knock at the front door comes just in time.
“It’s not locked,” she shouts.
Seconds after the door creaks open, Uncle Davis appears in the kitchen. He’s wearing one of his gray suits, appearing both professional and authoritative. He looks like my father the same way Esosa and I look like each other—similar in fewer ways than in more. The only things they have in common are their round eyes and pointed nose that dips slightly at the tip.
“Good morning,” he says, cheerful. “It’s a big day. Are you guys ready?”
“Absolutely.” Esosa attempts to take her empty plate to the sink, but Mom gestures for her to leave it.
“Go ahead. I don’t want you to be late.”
“Yeah. We should get going,” Uncle Davis says. “Adrian is already waiting in the car.”
“Okay.” Esosa grabs her bag off the floor and slings it over her shoulder. “Bye, Mommy. Have a nice day.”
“You too. And be good. Don’t look for trouble o.”
“I won’t. But if it comes my way, I will handle it.”
“Esosa,” Mom says sternly. “Behave.”
“Don’t worry.” Uncle Davis stands in front of Esosa, theatrically shielding her from our mother’s glare. “She’ll behave.” They rush out of the kitchen and then out of the house, laughing.
The room is quiet for a moment, and I breathe deeply before standing and grabbing my bag.
“Enore.” Mom edges toward me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
I shrug.
“I am your mother. I know when—”
A loud honk cuts her off. These interruptions keep coming at the perfect time.
“That’s Uncle. I should go.”
Slowly, she nods. “Okay. But wait.” She turns to the refrigerator and pulls out two brown paper bags. “Here. Lunch for you and your sister.”
“But Adrian says they serve lunch at the cafeteria.”
“Well, just in case you don’t like the food.”
“Thank you.” I take the brown bags and examine them. “What is it?”
“Sandwiches. Turkey. Sara said it’s a standard lunch here.”
I’m relieved she didn’t say tuna or egg. My research has proven that people with tuna or egg sandwiches don’t do well in high school.
“So, what are you going to do while we’re gone?”
“Study for my medical licensing exam. Maybe I will go to the library. But I’ll see you after school. I’ll be right here,” she assures me. “You can tell me all about your day. Okay?”
“Okay. Bye.” I turn to the door but pause and look at her when she calls me.
“Don’t get carried away,” she says. “No distractions. Remember the reason you’re going to school. Remember the reason your father and I wanted you and your sister to come to this country. Make us proud, eh?” She blinks quickly, pushing back the tears in her eyes.
With a firm grip on my bag strap, I do the same and nod. “I will.”