Lundi 8 octobre 2007 1 08 /10 /2007 08:44

Under the hood

Under the hood.
 
            I’d spotted this girl on my first day back to school. Well, I hadn’t really seen her, but nearly figured out the shape of her face from under the huge black hood she was constantly wearing even at hottest hours of the day, when the skin became sticky with sweat triggered by the mere action of breathing. Most guys whom I’d heard talking about her said she was strange and somehow intriguing, but the way they spoke about her always left me a vague feeling of insecurity. Still, there was no such thing as her silhouette when she was wandering in the courtyard, with her back straight and her swift steps, one would have thought she was dancing.
            She scarcely attended classes because of the shadow she covered her head with. Many times had I witnessed teachers losing temper and shouting her out of the class. Head down, without a visible face expression, she would leave, as if removing her hood implied anything perilous for her. Other kids in the class would laugh or shake their head, but as soon as she closed the door behind her, everything went as though she had never existed. I would then wonder about all the reasons that could explain her resistance to the teachers, but nothing seemed relevant to me, and I kept trying to convince myself it was just a way for her to attract attention on her. Everybody else seemed to think the same, anyway.
            It took me months before I found the courage to talk to her. It happened by chance, during the morning break, when she was trying to retrieve a can of juice from the vending machine in the hallway. The can was stuck and she obviously didn’t dare make a fuss about it. Although I was speaking with some friends, I couldn’t help watching her for I was curious to see whether she would turn angry or sad, or even ask for help. But she seemed not to be aware of the world around her, facing the vending machine helplessly, while no one appeared to have noticed.
- The sad thing about life is that you have to fight for everything, I said when my feet had taken me close to her. Even for a stupid can of juice.
            She barely turned my way to look at me, but by the way she started, I knew she hadn’t expected anyone to give her a hand. Knowing my friends and other kids would be watching me, I gave a solid shake at the machine and the can crashed with a heavy thud in the cradle. She picked it up quickly and turned towards me with her head down.
- Thank you, she whispered and at that very moment I wished I could grab a corner of her hood and pull it away so I could look into her face.
            Before my wish had become an impulse, she was gone, and my friends were staring at me with what looked like skepticism. Yet, from the next day on, I noticed she was watching me too, and therefore allowed myself to think that, having made the first move, she would eventually consider me as friendly. But she didn’t, keeping with me the same distance as with the others.
            Weeks passed, and I met her one Saturday at the mall, in front of a pile of dying creams. She seemed to hesitate between a black or a plum dye. The occasion was so perfect I was talking to her before I could even think of what to say.
- Looking for a new dye? I said.
            She started, but I had prepared myself for it so I just smiled and waited for her to collect herself.
- Yes, she whispered, and I hoped she would add something to give me time to fuel the conversation, but she remained silent.
- I think the plum would suit you, I blurted out.
            To my relief, she raised her head and smiled, and it was the most beautiful, heartwarming smile I had ever seen.
- How do you know? she asked defiantly.
            I could read her mind without even seeing her eyes, and it made me feel foolish; her question was at the same time an invitation to say more and a warning. Still, I wouldn’t stop at the latter.
- I’ve never seen your face, but I can tell from the color of your skin, I answered.
            As a matter of fact, the complexion of the model whose smiling picture was all over the package was exactly the same as hers. She realized I’d been guessing and smiled again.
- You’re nice, she said. Thank you, but I need to think about it some more.
            She was putting a polite end to our conversation but I was not ready to let go yet.
- What is the actual color of your hair? I asked pointblank.
            She looked shocked and embarrassed, just as though I had asked about her underwear or something intimate. Her hand raised to her hood and seized it instinctively while her eyes stared at me with fright.
- They… They’re black, she faltered.
            A mischievous voice inside was urging me to pull the hood off, while in the meantime I was growing anxious not to hurt her feelings, and as my eyes kept locked on the hood she started moving backwards, putting distance between us, step by step. I found myself following her, as though hypnotized by the secret she was clumsily trying to protect.
- Just leave me alone! she shouted, and she started running.
            It took me two long strides to reach her and grab her hood. As I pulled it off, a bundle of flaxen blond hair went loose, and she stopped suddenly.
- Oh, my gosh!
            Customers in the mall were watching us, and at the very end of the aisle I could see the security officers were peeping at us.
- Why did you do that? she yelled at me angrily.
            I had never seen such a beautiful girl before, and my eyes were restlessly staring at each piece of her wonderful looks. She pulled her hood on again and started walking away.
- Why do you keep hiding under this stuff? I asked her, barely keeping up with her pace.
- Oh, please!
            She suddenly stopped and faced me.
- How do you expect me to walk around with this? She asked, pointing her finger at her head.
            It didn’t look like an invitation, but considering the fact I was already guilty for offending her, I dared pull the hood off again, gently. It felt like undressing her.
- Your hair is beautiful, I said. You should show it.
- My hair is blond. Touch it!
            I thought I’d heard wrong, but she took my hand and pressed it on her head. It felt warm and soft, just like mine.
- It’s perfect, I said, longing to drown my face into it.
- I’m a black girl! she cried. My hair shouldn’t naturally be like this in the first place!
            It sounded so silly to me I started laughing, but when I saw the tears in her eyes I realized it meant much more for her. It had never occurred to me that having the same physical specifics as other people one looked like could be so important. To me, it looked like a wonderful eccentricity of nature, a path between styles, like an artistic experience.
- All I see is that you are beautiful, I said. What if you don’t match a stereotype?
            She shook her head to and fro.
- It used to be different, she said. Then I wanted to try something new, and shaved it off. It made me look funny, but I liked it. And then it started growing again, but it wasn’t the same anymore.
            While she spoke, I figured myself in her position and thought I would have felt as embarrassed as she had. Then we stood silently facing each other, probably wondering both what should be our next move. I had an idea, though.
- Let’s go hang around together, I said with a shrug.
            Her eyes widened, her mouth opened.
- Don’t you think I’m a freak? she asked.
            I had already spoken my mind to her so many times I didn’t want to repeat myself once more, so I let my deeds speak for myself and kissed her. And when she looked into my eyes after that, a sudden certainty grew inside me, that my friends at school would definitely hate me.
 
KAB
Par Kim Ann Burden - Publié dans : English KiAnBu - Communauté : Question Tag
Ecrire un commentaire - Voir les 0 commentaires - Partager    
Retour à l'accueil

Présentation

 

Recommander

Partager ce blog

 

Interrogez les devins!

 

Récents voyages outre-mondes

Liste complète

 

Etagères

 

Parchemins

 

Texte libre

Les textes publiés sur ce blog sont de ma création. Bien entendu, toute ressemblance avec d'autres fictions, des faits ou des personnes réelles est tout à fait fortuite.

 

Archives

 

Vistez d'autres mondes!

 

W3C

  • Flux RSS des articles

 

Créer un blog gratuit sur over-blog.com - Contact - C.G.U. - Signaler un abus - Articles les plus commentés