Part of Family Album, a short story collection-in-progress.

 

When we were introduced to Lola my brother and I stared at her with tightened lips in skepticism of Dad’s latest girlfriend.

I waited for Lola to do or say something to get on my bad side. I wanted to get the awkwardness overwith and go straight to disliking her. She looked from my brother to me, then back again. I was the odd one out when compared to my brother and father who shared freckles lining alabaster skin with rosy flecks, small ears, and lips that disappeared when they were upset. I expected some reaction from her, a twitch, a raised eyebrow, anything to show her caution or dismay at the differences she caught between me and my brother. Instead, Lola proclaimed that we were “the most beautiful children” she’d ever seen.

“And you are just lovely with skin like caramel.” She tapped the tip of my nose.

Lola sauntered around our living room complimenting each piece of furniture with a lift in her arch before she approached the floral framed 8×11 photo of Mom and Dad above the TV. She put her hands behind her back as she peered at it, but didn’t get too close as though she were being watched by security at a museum rather than two kids and a middle-aged man in the suburbs of Long Island.

“Is this your wife?” Lola used the present tense, not saying “former” or the dreaded “deceased.”

“Wow. She’s a sight.” She followed up her praise with a whistle. She returned to Dad’s side. Wrapping her arms around his neck she said, “You have a wonderful family, Joel. I’d be lucky to be a part of it.”

Calvin and I noticed it immediately. Dad’s shoulders relaxed, his back straightened from its hunched stance. As he embraced Lola a smile crept across his face: he officially let his guard down.

Soon after meeting Lola I wandered our house, dazed from sleep and hunger as I headed down the hall to the master bedroom. Passing Dad’s bathroom I jolted when I heard my name.

Lola was admiring herself in the bathroom mirror while the sink was littered with miniature white canisters.

She winked at me before asking how I was doing that “fine morning.”

I shrugged and rubbed my eyes wondering how anyone could be that happy at eight in the morning, even if it was a Saturday.

Lola looked at me and smiled. She was a skinny woman with cheeks she tended to suck in, brown hair that was almost as curly and unruly as my own, and she reached my dad’s height in her platform Mary Janes. Noticing me notice the stuff in the sink she asked if I had any interest in make-up.

I was only twelve and told her so. Lola said it didn’t hurt to get a head start on things.

“That’s my job, Kayla. I don’t just sell make-up, I sell confidence. Because this,” she pointed to what she called her “tools,” “is just one step to making your life better. Your dad’s assistant is one of my best customers. She referred me to your father and bam,” she smacked her hands together, “here we are.”

“Where’s my dad?”

“He went to the office for a bit, asked me to hold down the fort. You don’t mind, do you?”

Another shrug. All I cared about was food. If all Lola did was talk I might as well get myself some cereal. I took a backed away thinking about whether I’d do flakes or Honey O’s, but it was too late.

Lola began to shake a bottle and then dipped it onto a cotton ball. “I know it’s real sad about your mom. And it’s unfortunate about your stepmom. But I want you to know I know what it’s like to come from a broken home and it’s important for me to make things nice and cozy for everybody.” She swabbed her face with it making her skin lighter, all one color.

The words “broken home” jolted me. It made me wonder what Dad told her about us.

“You know, no one in my family showed me how to use make-up. My mother was off with who knows who.”

I was still hungry, but I couldn’t help stare at Lola. How she spoke and how she moved. The way she leaned back to observe her work reminded me of how I stared at the food my grandma and me used to bake. Back when she was here, back before my stepmom Amy.

“Well, one day I was at the town mall with my cousin and we saw this lady at a make-up counter offering free consultations.” She waved her hand, more dust. “She called us over and showed me how to apply different products and how much to use. It was the seventies so everything was heavy-handed. Just like the eighties and hair gel.”

She put the powder down, took up some red lipstick the color of the fire hydrants around our neighborhood. Lola grabbed another one and compared the two before tossing the red in a little striped bag next to the faucet.

“Once I put that stuff on I felt like nothing could stop me. And don’t you know people started to flock to me. Just like they do to confident people. I think that’s what attracted your dad to me.”

Lola urged me into the bathroom and propped me up on the toilet next to the sink. The minute I got closer to her I smelled vanilla. My stomach growled. I wrapped my arms around my myself to try and quiet it down. She asked me to lean over and admire her work.

“I’m hungry,” I announced.

She asked if I wanted some cereal.

“I know how to make cereal. Can you make eggs and bacon or French toast?”

Lola waved off my question. “Sorry, sweetie. I wasn’t built for cooking. But I can do toast. How’s that sound?”

Lola wasn’t the best at the home stuff. Our home was in constant disorder––grease stains splattered across the stove top, droplets of juice left in cartons, her Lady Shades products peppered all over the house and smeared all over dad’s bathroom sink––unless Calvin or I decided to pick up the slack. At any moment I could find electric blue eye shadow in the spice rack when I was looking for salt.

This was the biggest difference between Lola and Dad’s ex-wife and assistant, Amy. Amy was a little too organized but didn’t seem to like kids, while Lola was super warm to us, she just didn’t have an interest in making a house feel like a home.

When Dad announced his first marriage after Mom’s death wasn’t working a year after their nuptials, Calvin and I looked at each other with some relief at not having to wonder when the end would come, or even worse, if it would. We watched Amy pack up her things, things she had used to replace our mother’s stuff. I was thankful she removed any and all traces of pastel in our home by stuffing it in her suitcases.

Amy left the kitchen items she got for the wedding and a bunch of recipe books, like her staple The Joy of Cooking. My grandmother never looked at a cookbook when she made food for us. She said cooking was an inherited gift in the Jenkins family. But Amy relied on it. She, never taking her eyes away from the instructions, added an ingredient to whatever she made.

Once Amy was gone I went into the kitchen and looked at the new blender, chopper, and knife set thinking my grandmother would’ve loved it, that she said my mom was a whiz in the kitchen. I stood on my toes and took a knife out of its block. It was larger than I expected and I saw my skewed reflection in the metal. I wanted to see if cooking was innate for me since I was a Jenkins too. As I was about to get a loaf of bread I heard Dad shout.

“Kayla! You’ll cut yourself!”

I dropped the knife and jumped back so it wouldn’t hit my feet. I was about to tell him I wouldn’t have cut myself if he hadn’t yelled at me but he grabbed the knife from the floor and put it back mumbling I shouldn’t play with such things at my age.

“Not without adult supervision. You’re too young.”

My father asked me what I wanted for takeout, again. The one thing I missed about Amy was home-cooked meals, even if they weren’t very good.

I was on the curb in front of California Avenue Elementary with my friend Cassie waiting for her mother to pick us up when Lola sped up in her compact car so fast she forced herself forward and back when she braked. Lola pulled off her sunglasses as she rolled the window down. It felt more dramatic than it was when Lola did things. I looked at Cassie and shrugged unable to explain this woman. Cassie walked up to the car with me to introduce herself.

“Oh, aren’t you darling! You two must be the cutest girls in the class with your exotic looks!” Lola leaned forward into the passenger side and covered her mouth with the back of her hand as though she was letting us in on a secret. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so White myself,” she added with a high-pitched giggle.

Cassie forced a grin and nodded. “Yeah. Bummer.”

I stifled a laugh. Cassie’s my best friend not only because we’ve known each other since kindergarten, but because she’s also biracial.

Lola patted the passenger seat and asked me to get in.

“Cassie’s mom was gonna give me a ride home.”

“I’m here. You can ride with me. So can Cassie. Would you like that, sweetheart?”

Cassie started to take a step back. “I’ll wait for my mom. I think I see her.” She turned to me and gave me a hug.

“Good luck with this one,” she whispered in my ear.  

Before I got the seatbelt around my waist Lola peeled off.

We didn’t go straight home, she decided to take me out for a “Girls Day.” I tried to argue that I had homework, but Lola spoke over me. She said something about doing something that’d stay with me for the rest of my life.

Girls Day meant we visited the mall and our first stop was the Macy’s perfume counter and then the teen clothing section.

When we got to the section I saw some of the girls from my grade. Girls Cassie and I always avoided in the hallways because they were too girly, too excitable, too judgmental. All they seemed to care about was N’Sync concerts, talking about other people, and the latest fashion trends like chokers and sunflower dresses. We weren’t in junior high yet and these girls talked about periods and boyfriends! I didn’t want to think about any of that stuff yet. They held Britney Spears and Aaliyah on a pedestal, but looked down on the rest of us for wondering about our test scores, if high school was like it was on television, and how to avoid getting hit in the head during dodge- or volleyball.

At school it felt like you had to choose. Cassie and I were on the outs because we didn’t fit in, but also because people couldn’t easily define us when they looked at us.

Cassie often got mistaken for Latina because of her tan skin, low-lidded eyes, and straight as bone black hair. People usually asked me, “You Black?” just like that and waited for me to confirm. I didn’t mind so much that Cassie and I weren’t popular or even well-known by our classmates. But I did wonder if this would be how things were once we went to junior high and as we got older.

The girls coming towards us didn’t accept new members. I tried to act like I hadn’t seen the girls, but one of them stopped a few feet in front of me. She glanced at me then Lola while scrunching up her nose. I tried not to be too obvious when I attempted to sniff my arm pits. I smelled like all the perfumes the lady at the counter sprayed on my arms, mixing into something weird and unnamable.

“Hey Kayla,” one of the girls said. They all glistened. Their lips, their fitted jeans and blouses, even their shoes sparkled in the fluorescent mall lighting.

“Hey Tiffany.” I mumbled a ‘hello’ to the girls behind her also.

“Who’re these lovely girls, sweetie?” Lola asked.

The girls all shared a look. They put up a great front when adults were around. Tiffany said it was nice to meet Lola and that she and I were good friends.

Lola didn’t notice me raise my eyebrows at that comment. She eyed the girls with a fascination I hadn’t seen since the day Calvin and I met her.

“Oh, I love meeting Kayla’s friends. I’m Lola, Kayla’s partner in crime. You girls should come by the house one of these days.”

 

Jennifer Baker is an author and editor with over 20 years’ experience in book publishing. She’s also the creator/host of the Minorities in Publishing podcast, and faculty member at Bay Path University’s MFA program in creative nonfiction. In 2019, she was named Publishers Weekly Superstar for her contributions to inclusion and representation in publishing and a recipient of the 2024 Axinn Writing Award from Adelphi University. Jennifer is the editor of the BIPOC-short story anthology Everyday People: The Color of Life (Atria Books, 2018) and the author of Forgive Me Not (Nancy Paulsen Books, 2023), a 2023 Los Angeles Times Book Prize finalist. Forgive Me Not was also listed as a 2023 NYPL Best Book for Teens, a 2023 Best of the Best by the Black Caucus American Library Association, and was included on the Texas Library Association’s 2024 TAYSHAS Reading List and Capitol Choices’ 2024 Noteworthy Books for Teens. Her fiction, nonfiction, and criticism has appeared in various print and online publications. Her website is: jennifernbaker.com.