Seventeen Magazine

1

A/N- Thank you, for being here. 

Wyetta

                                                             𝙵𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟷𝟿𝟼𝟹

The trees moved listless: they were like dancing maidens each to her rhythm—tresses drawn—attracted to the southern wind. This that spring is coming, so dead leaves can twirl about my feet to their melodies on this dusty old pavement I walked on. The breeze caressed my skin while at the same time carrying the faint smell of laundry detergent through the air as the women hung their clothes outside. The sun glowered down, asserting dominance. And I smiled up at the cloudless sky, using a hand to shield my eyes.

It was a good day to walk home from school. 

"Hey! Wyetta!" Jerry and Terry rode their bikes alongside me. "Look!" Before I could turn,  my head jerked back from the sting: mustard was spurted all over my face into the eyes. In an instant my hand went to my face,  fanning the burn as if it might help. The human instinct to blink your eyes at whatever might disturb the pupil opened the burning sensation to the next level. Meanwhile, I used my shirt to wipe the mustard away, and that's when the sour-tinged scent hit me. I stretched the shirt up to my face: sniffing at my suspicion.  

Mustard and urine. That's what it was. Peepee and mustard. 

Those little brats had nothing to do with their time, they rode off laughing, and kicking the mailboxes, spurting that thing on any and everything.  I hurried the walk home, nobody wants to be outside smelling like urination. So when I got home and my mother had all the cleaning products sprawled out on the floor, it killed my mood even more.   

 "Wyetta? That you?" her voice echoed from the living room.  

"Uh, huh."  

 It was time for me to bathe and disappear into my bed, not to go and clean some windows...

But there was no escaping that woman,  she came into my room and threw down a bucket with such emphasis that it jolted me awake. Do you think she was mad at me for not helping earlier? Because that's exactly what her issue was. So I got up to help her, but let's be clear If I didn't help: I would be lectured from night to Christmas Day about how ungrateful children can be to parents—Blah Blah, and blah some more. 

By the time we were done, it was half past ten. I stood by the kitchen window eating a jelly sandwich—gazing up at the starry night sky. The crickets chirped on cue—the image of Old Man Barry popped into my head and it made me giggle: It was a night like this too, Moma and I were in the kitchen when he stuck his head through the window.  

"Uh, do yall got some toilet tissue paper up in here?" 

Not to mention that the breeze was blowing in a foul—no— an unscrupulous smell. My mother had a way of keeping composure in situations, but I couldn't, I was using my shirt to suppress the giggles.  Barry had a way with words...

I'd get a tongue-lashing from the man if I dared laugh. But a sound escaped me, and momma swatted my arm, clearing her throat. It was too comical.  As she was about to reply, Old Man Barry shot me a glance. And I shook my head, trying so hard not to laugh.

"I know my booty s-" 

"Mr. Barry!" Moma cut him off with a look of disapproval. 

The man continued with no smiles, as he shifted his weight from one foot to his cane.

"That's why I came over here to ask for some tissue to wipe my-" 

"Mr. Barry!" 

He looked at her and turned away with loaded expletives. 

The retro radio on the counter playing oldies carried through the airwaves.  I moved to the kitchen sink to wash the stickiness of the jelly from my fingers, using the end of my shirt to dry my hands. Mother sat at the table with a few envelopes, reading one of them to herself. 

Beneath the envelopes laid: newspapers and a 'Seventeen Magazine.' I reached for it.

"Not one colored folk up in here,"  

Imagine if I was to be the first black girl on the cover of this thing. Swell!

"Of course not," Moma spoke beside me. "That's why we have Ebony Magazine."

"They're models Moma, that's how models are supposed to look. A nice toned-down figure. "

The models did have slim figures with delicate features. I shook my head.

"Mom, do you think they bathe in milk?" I used my thumb to trace the lines of the model's face.

She looked up at me with a tired smile, resting one elbow on the table while using her index finger to signal me over. "Come here,"