Sugar

Rachel was in charge. It was her ninth birthday, and she would not be trifled with. The party was in her very air-conditioned wood-paneled basement, and there were about twelve or thirteen other girls there. My little sister Yolanda rolled her eyes as Rachel collapsed on the Twister map and began to cry. “It’s my birthday!” she screamed. Her small, peach face burned red, and her eyes darted wild and fierce. This was the third game she had insisted on winning. I had trouble telling left from right, so I sat out Twister and stood near the bar and quickly ate half the jar of maraschino cherries I found wedged between tonic water and vodka. I was almost eleven and the oldest one at the party. Rachel’s mother, Aunt Lucille, squatted next to her and smoothed down the waves of her long french braid. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Calm down.” Rachel grunted and pushed her mother away as the other girls backed further from the map. A chubby girl with cornrows told Rachel that she had won. “Everyone else was on the wrong spots, Rachel,” she said quietly. Rachel wiped her face and headed for the potato chips. By this time, Yolanda was beside me, trying to pull the jar of cherries away. “You know Momma would whup us if we ever acted up like that,” she mumbled. I nodded and yanked my jar away, waiting for her to ask politely.

We were new in the neighborhood. Aunt Lucille wasn’t our aunt. Rachel wasn’t my cousin. That was just a thing people did on our block. Nearly all the kids called all the adults aunt and uncle. The only exceptions seemed to be the white psychiatrists, whose daughter went to private school and didn’t come out to play, and this other white lady who was divorced and whose sons were older and smoked drugs. A couple of neighbors were up in the kitchen with Uncle Henry, Rachel’s father. They were eating some Kentucky Fried and playing cards. Me and Yolanda saw them when we first got there. Yolanda got all frantic when she saw the chicken bucket and asked Aunt Lucille if that’s what we’d be eating, too. Uncle Henry winked and said only if we gave him sugar. Yolanda giggled, came into the kitchen and pressed her lips against his. He made a smacking noise and then asked me where his sugar was. I didn’t like kissing people on the lips. I closed my eyes and aimed for his cheek, but the kiss felt nasty so I figured he must have moved his face.

After Twister, me and Yolanda finished the cherries, and I put the jar of red juice back where I found it. Aunt Lucille told everyone that we’d play musical chairs after cake and ice cream. She asked if we were hungry yet as she headed up the stairs. Rachel said no and sat down on their shiny couch that made farting noises you could hear across the room. Yolanda made a face, and we started busting up.

Most of the girls at the party knew each other. A few went to Rachel’s church, but most everyone else lived in the neighborhood and went to Attucks Elementary. I didn’t really have friends yet since we’d just moved about a month before and all my friends were back in Chatham. School would be starting soon. I guess Rachel liked me. She invited me to go see the Herbie movie and spend the night the week after her party. I wasn’t sure if I would. Yolanda didn’t like her. She said Rachel was a brat, that she said mean things about Yolanda’s skin being so dark. I had thought she was nice to me before because I was older and maybe more interesting. My skin’s only a tiny bit lighter than Yolanda’s.

One of Rachel’s church friends was busy swearing to everybody that their minister’s son looked just like Foster Sylvers, same Afro and everything. “He...