Clever is the Devil

Chapter Two

I had the next day off. The chill of my nightmares still clung to my bones that morning, so I picked out a new book – I had finished the one I'd been reading the night before – and took it outside with me.

Summer arrived a month early in Georgia this year, and now that we were in the dog days of it, the heat and humidity had created a cloying, oppressive atmosphere that was damn near tyrannical. For two weeks now, I'd felt a thunderstorm building, the air getting denser and stiller with every passing day, and yet the clouds that dotted the cornflower blue sky were still few and far between. The man on the news this morning had warned that it would be some time before the weather broke, and cautioned the old and infirm to stay indoors and the rest of us to stay well hydrated.

Momma had a dozen phrases for this kind of heat. "Ruby, there's nothing but a screen door between here and hell," was a particular favorite. So was, "Seems like Satan has come to spend his summer vacation in Georgia." Momma had talked about the devil almost as much as she talked about sin.

The yard was overgrown with an ocean of weeds that rushed right up to the small brick patio outside the front door. On it stood the charcoal grill that I hadn't touched in months, my rust-caked beach chair, and a plastic end table that had started life a vibrant crimson, but had since faded to a pale, lifeless pink. I set the towel and book I carried onto the chair, and, remembering what the weatherman had said, went to fetch myself some water. Beads of condensation sprung out over the tall glass the second I stepped back outside, forcing me to carry it two-handed so I didn't drop it.

The one good thing about the lack of rain was that the Jurassic-sized mosquitoes that normally plagued this swamp-infested part of the county were few and far between. I heard not so much as a hum of one while I laid out.

I only lasted an hour. When I peeled myself up off my towel, an outline of where I had been was visible in sweat. Gross. But at least I wasn't cold anymore.

I went inside and took a long, lukewarm shower. When I was done, I wiped the mirror off and inspected my reflection, trying to determine whether I had noticeably tanned. In the winter, my skin was a deep olive. In the summers it easily darkened to bronze. Spic, towel-head, wop, dago, curry powder, the n-word, I had heard them all. No one knew what my heritage was, just that I wasn't white, so they called me whatever new slurs they learned from their parents or made up on the fly.

Momma had said my father was mulatto, or maybe Greek or Moroccan. Or Egyptian. Her guesses changed throughout the years, as her memories of him became vague. She'd met him in Biloxi, when she and a few friends had gone down for a weekend of fun and gambling. She said he was a sailor on shore leave with beautiful dark skin and muddy green eyes. She never did get his last name, and so when she realized she was pregnant, she didn't try to find him. Why risk getting worked up and going through all of the trouble to track him down just so he could tell her that he wanted nothing to do with her or a baby?

Last year, I'd finally coughed up the cash for a DNA test, and it turned out Momma's first guess was closest. It told me I was 50% Caucasian, 30% Sub-Saharan African, with the remaining 20% split between more genetic groups than I could count.

My hair was thick and dark and wavy. I wore it long, because it was easier to deal with when it was. Most days I plaited it in a braid down my back. Today I decided to let it air dry while I tweezed my eyebrows, which seemed hell bent on invading my entire browline. When I was done, I straightened and inspected my reflection. I'd grown into my features some. My skin was even and smooth, and my nose was straight, if a little large for my face. My eyes, muddy green like my father's, didn't appear so far apart anymore, and my lips were nice and full. I kept them closed as much as possible since outgrowing my allergies, because my teeth were as crooked as ever and the years of being called snaggletooth by my classmates had worked their way beneath my skin and dug their claws in.