Into White by Randi Pink Read Free Book Online Page B

the neighbors’ Wi-Fi, but that night things were different.
    I ironed my fanciest ensemble of pink stretchy capris and white lace BCBG top that I’d found stuck between old-lady blouses at the thrift store. My clothes fit so much better as a white girl; no badonkadonk to eat up my panties and no hungry hippo hips to tug at the seams of my capris. Everything in the world was made for white girls. Clothing, magazines, curling irons, makeup, shampoo, and every decent Disney princess. Even Princess Tiana was created and directed by white men; that’s probably why she wasn’t as awesome as the rest.
    I pushed back my cuticles and painted my toes to create the illusion of a pedicure. I wasn’t satisfied, so I elected for closed-toe flats. My fingernails, on the other hand, turned out to be quite the pain in the butt. I’d never regretted biting my nails more in my life, and I frequently regretted biting my nails.
    No matter how painted, pushed back, buffed, or evened out I tried to make them, they still looked like the hands of a neurotic wreck. And this carefree skinny white girl from Sweden or wherever could not look undone. I rummaged through my bathroom drawer for leftover press-on nails from eighth-grade graduation. The giant thumb-sized nails were all that was left of the set. No female’s thumbs were that enormous. I sliced and shaped them into smaller fingernails; and after an hour of crafty manipulation, I had myself a full set. The glue had just about dried up, but it waited until the very last pinkie finger was pressed on to turn rock hard, which I took as a sign from Jesus.
    I crawled into my bed around ten, but the anticipation of the next day made the clock tick slowly.
    â€œHey, Jesus?” I whispered into the darkness.
    â€œYeah?” he replied. I hadn’t seen him appear, but there he was, sitting on the two-seater secondhand bench at the foot of my bed.
    â€œCan you give me something to help me sleep?” I asked.
    He laughed. “I’m not a pharmacist, Toya.”
    â€œBut I’m so excited about tomorrow. Alex believes me! He’s totally in on it,” I told him.
    â€œI saw that,” said Jesus. “He’s a cool kid. You’re blessed to have him.”
    â€œCould I just stay like this for a while?”
    â€œAs you wish,” he replied.
    â€œIt’s even better than Christmas. Were you really born on that day, or was that just a guess? Oh crap, I shouldn’t ask about things like that. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said crap, either. Crap, I said it again.” I couldn’t understand why his smile made me want to cry.
    â€œI’ve heard it all, child. I should get going, though; I have a few more lost sheep to find.” He gently touched his index finger to my forehead.

 
    GOOD-BYE, TOYA, AND GOOD RIDDANCE
    If they could bottle whatever’s in Jesus’s index finger, crack would go out of business. I woke to a bright red bird chirping on my windowsill, and I ran to the bathroom mirror. As requested, the same white face from the day before cheesed back at me. I jumped in the shower with fruity Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner in tow. After working up a good lather, I rinsed and repeated until my hair squeaked clean. The shampoo would’ve stripped every bit of moisture from my black hair, leaving each strand potato-chip dry. The pitiful conditioner wouldn’t be nearly enough to replenish it.
    I blew-brushed my locks dry, giving them a natural bump in less than five minutes. That five-minute bump would’ve taken an hour on black hair, if it were achievable at all.
    For makeup, I drew little red targets on my cheeks with a tube of lipstick and rubbed. My old concealer worked fine for eye shadow, and I already had the mascara. Cosmo proved to be correct; brown mascara was way better. After pulling on my clothes, I looked like I belonged on the cover of one of those magazines.
    Staring at the