Page 15 of The Cruel Heir
Madeline Kingsley.
She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her smile dropped. Her eyes scanned me, no, peeled at me, like my presence was some unspoken offense. She stepped back, as if my coils carried a contagion. As if my very being shrunk her spotlight.
“You’re… working?” she asked, voice sharp enough to draw blood.
“Yes.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Do you have to wear your hair like that? It’s just… kind of distracting.” Her voice had the cadence of practiced civility, crisp vowels and cold undertones, like every country club wife who ever told me to smile more, while handing me a soiled napkin.
There it was. The soft microaggression, spoken in a wedding-white whisper. Not loud enough to get her in trouble, but just clear enough to remind me who she thought I was; less than. Just a server. Just a black girl with big hair, and bigger nerve for showing up in the room without shrinking.
I smiled, small and tight.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not the one on display.”
Her cheeks turned the color of cheap rosé, but I didn’t wait for her to find her words again. I walked off, head high, bun tight, curls proud.
She could choke on her discomfort.
I was done making myself small, so other people could feel big. This wasn’t the first time she’d commented about my hair atthe club. I took pride in my hair care. I wasn’t a nail girl. I was a hair girl, and, from its growth, it showed.
Still, I ducked into the bathroom, seething, bracing. Not to erase myself, but to reassert who I was. My coils weren’t unruly, they were testimony. A lineage of resistance spun around my crown. I didn’t want more problems. I needed people to tip me. And on some level, I knew someone would say something. I’d hoped it was different.
Natural hair had its own rules, its own care. The world didn’t always understand it, but I did. I grabbed my brush and carefully smoothed my edges with gel, working my hair into a sleeker bun. My coils were tight, thick, and resistant, just like me. The soft bristles of my boar brush coaxed my strands into obedience, but only because I allowed it.
Water, oil, cream, the holy trinity of keeping my hair moisturized and thriving. My fingers moved swiftly, twisting my hair into a taut bun at the nape of my neck.
I used to hum when I braided my hair.
Little melodies. Songs I composed in my head.
Mom would say, “Z, that tune could crack the clouds.”
I believed her. Back then, I believed everything.
Especially in music.
The last time I played was at the spring recital. Vivaldi. I wore blue velvet, and my heart beat louder than the applause I should’ve gotten. Instead, ridiculed and humiliated, I couldn’t bear to touch my instrument again.
Every now and again, I caught myself humming a tune that had no words, but it wasn’t the same. Without my violin, without my music, I felt lost in the darkness.
And the silence swallowed me whole.
I shouldn’t think about that. I shook off the nostalgia and kept getting ready. It was muscle memory, a style I’d learned early. A protective style that kept me looking put together, whilekeeping the world from seeing too much of me. Neat, controlled, perfect.
I secured it with pins, smoothing down the baby hairs along my edges with a touch of gel. The sleekness was effortless, but I knew the work it took. black girls knew.
Once satisfied, I took a step back, staring at my reflection. Polished. Invisible. Just another worker blending into the background.
Just the way I needed to be. My hair was my resistance. But some days, I wished someone would touch it like it was beautiful. Like I was. Not to tame it. Just to see me. A nauseating train of thought.
My stomach roiled, reminding me that there’s been something off.
I glanced at the clock, and noted there was still a little bit of time. I hustled to the bathroom. I should’ve done this at home, but I was too rushed.
The club kept everything on hand that a guest would need at a moment’s notice. I swiped two tests from one of the storage closets full of different supplies at the club.
Now, I sat on the toilet waiting.
