ASHLEY

18

   I really do consider if I could call Isaiah my boyfriend or not. I don't know why I can't just make up my mind already. Isaiah is a nice guy. What more could I ask for? I'm being selfish.

   Shaking my head to get rid of the thoughts and pulling out my assignment, my focus is turned to getting the work done. I have homework to finish. Then I need to venture over to the fiction section and pull me out a good book to read. My last one is way over due. I just kept forgetting to bring it in. That and I haven't had a ride. I will be so happy when I get my very own car that I payed for with my own money. I hate having to depend on people.

   My yellow pencil is tabbed against my forehead. History is hard. It's just like science; requiring too much memorization and connecting different parts. The only thing fun about it is my goofy teacher Mrs. April. Despite her old, frail appearance she is pretty tough. Also very funny. Her jokes about the events in history and military dictators are priceless.  Every brags about having her as a teacher. Who wouldn't?

   Searching for pictures of Holocaust survivors and causes is actually emotional business. What happened to those millions of people was awful. I hate looking up pictures. It's just like what happened to our ancestors. Africans were torn from their homes and shipped halfway across the world to be slaves, to serve the white man. We always learn about the Holocaust but we never learn about slavery after sixth grade. Both things are extremely similar. The only difference is one group were Jews and the others were black.

   How could anyone sit there and say they're better than anyone because of their race? How could anyone say they're better than anyone? Or that racisism doesn't exist?

   Racisism does exist and anyone that says it doesn't is part of the problem. You got black people out here talking about how much they hate they own kind. Society has poisoned us the think that we or our people aren't any good simply because of our skin or our features but on the other hand you got white girls out here getting butt injections and filling their lips or wearing styles we have been wearing for years and getting all the credit for it like they invented it. I know some black girls get butt injections too and I'm not trying to put anyone down for doing it. My point is that you can't say you hate someone's culture or skin then turn around and then mimick their culture.

   I don't get it.

   "Are you almost done?" Aggrivation is clear in Angela's voice. Her head is slumped over the desk near the computer.

   "Yeah. I just have to print these pictures out and go find a book."

   "Uh okay." She drags out her syllables to make her point. I fan her away and finish printing out my pictures. The woman at the printer ask for thirty cents I'm exchange for the pictures. I quickly thank her and head over the the fiction section. It always take me a good fifteen minutes to find something that looks even the slightest bit interesting. I always forget to check out some of the books on the library's website but it always manage to slip my mind.

   Skimming the rows and rows of books, my eyes land on Lucid by Adrienne Stoltz. It seems interesting enough and Angela is becoming annoying asking me if I'm ready to go every five minutes. I take the book for checkout. Five minutes later we hurry outside to the car.

   "Took y'all long enough," Aunt Jackie complains jokingly.

   Angela is quick to point the finger at me. "Now you know your nefew is so indecisive."

   "Call me another boy and watch me knock the mess out of you," I bark trying not to curse since Aunt Jackie is in the car.

   "Nobody hitting nobody. Not in my car."

   I turn around and stick my tounge out at Angela from the front seat in which she returns with her middle finger sticking straight up at me. Her eyes flick between me and Aunt Jackie, careful to not get caught. If I cared enough I would have gotten her in trouble.

   Aunt Jackie pulls up to the house. I grab my things and head straight for my room, placing my school work carefully in my backpack. My phone buzz with a text from Isaiah that reads hey babe. Want to hang out tonight, I'm free?

   Without thinking I quickly type yes. My finger hovers above the send button. I suddenly recall my hair appointment tonight and text instead sorry. I have a hair appointment tonight. I just remembered.

   He says oh okay.

   I groan inwardly. Getting out of bed I begin cleaning up. There's no way I'm letting someone come to my house if it's looking messy. I don't want to give anyone a reason to talk about me. They do that enough already. Just as I'm sweeping up the last bit of trash from the living room a knock sounds at the door. I answer it. "Hey Bria. I'm so glad you could fit me in. My hair is in need of your magic hands. Plus, I have to look good for my baby." She walks in carrying her packs of hair and takes a seat in the chair I put out for her.

   Laughing, "hey Kianna."