TWENTY-TWO IS THE NEW SEVENTEEN — an extract

CHAPTER FOUR

Adjusting to the single life again was harder than I thought. All those years, growing up on Lifetime movies thanks to the freedom of unrestricted cable, and parents who believed in exposing me to the realities of life early, were a lie. When I watched those heartbreak movies at the tender age of eight, I could never understand the woman. Why she would cry herself to sleep or crash her car right into his living room. In fact, I always thought ‘this woman is so stupid, surely it can’t be THAT bad. All you have to do is go back to how life was before you met him, duh!’

Now I was her, dragging nude toes across the patterned carpet. Aimless. Is this what it was like before I met him? It was hard to get used to myself again, whichever version I imagined that to be. Don’t get me wrong, your whole identity should never revolve around another person, I never felt that way, but I can’t deny that I shared a huge part of myself with somebody else. A part that constantly needed to be hooped through a lasso and dragged back to me. Life became disconnected, fragmented, and this brokenness was all around. Finding myself in old routines was frequent, denying myself the pleasure of watching a film he wanted to see together, because I knew he’d appreciate the quality time, or cooking dinner for two, which actually meant portions for four in CJ’s case, being extra careful to avoid mixing mushrooms on his half, or adding the right amount of scotch bonnet in a lasagne for it to be enjoyable for me and tolerable for him until I’d remember that it was only me eating it. As you can see, these habits were hard to break.

I got the urge to pack. Funny, that’s all it takes to do something. The same ‘urge’ CJ said he got that made him cheat. I remember his eyes begging me to understand something so senseless. Telling me, ‘can’t help it. It’s an urge I get, I have to do it. Come from a family of cheaters.’ The most unbelievable part about it all, was the way he shrugged his shoulders, as if I had asked, ‘hey what do you want to do this weekend, pal?’ He went a step further to reassure me that he had done this to all his girlfriends, but I was the longest relationship – what a prize. Anyway, this was no longer my home, technically, it never was to begin with. B.B king blared in the background from the speaker, a blended two-song playlist on repeat of Papa Hummingbird and say goodbye by Nora Jones. He was speaking to me through his lyrics. I was the hummingbird that needed to fly away, this broken nest was not cutting it, and maybe I had even become a bit coo-coo walking around. The Cassie who used to live here was long gone, and I was her ghost, stuck in the reruns of her life like a bad tv marathon - but on EVERY channel.

I began folding my belongings – always a strange term. Did they belong to me, these things we once shared? Half of this stuff was just screaming ‘Cassie you’re a hoarder.’ A Toro Y Moi T-shirt from our first concert together, ugly matching Christmas sweaters that his mom sent us with messed up stitching that gave Rudolph a lazy eye, and an Erasmus T-shirt signed with sharpie names I couldn’t put faces to if I tried.

Even the air smelled differently. Old and musty, like moth balls. I stopped buying plug in air fresheners, candles, and all those other things that made it home. Looking up at the four corners, I noticed how pictureless the picture wall was. This stung. Now its purpose served only as a triggering flashback of my hands frantically ripping apart the photographs. Iceland was the first to go. Gullfoss Falls, rapids the colour and cold of ice where we stood on wooden planks pretending to be in a scene of Vikings looking out into the vastness of the green canyon. It was like nowhere else in the world. The two of us, faces numb but refreshed, standing side by side entangled in the intensity of limerence and a country that made you feel like you and you alone walked the earth. A time we thought we’d never forget fell like confetti on the ground.

I sat on the patterned carpet, releasing the contents from an IKEA storage bag. Packing became a little more comfortable with each tuck and fold. A chuck to the left for keeping, right for charity, and the middle – not sure. Pack, fold, skip thought. This is how it’ll have to be from now on. If I stopped, my mind drifted, set loose, usually starting somewhere moderately calm – Deepak Chopra positive thinking to how to get away with murder. Tuck. Fold. Reminiscing on the year abroad – stopped tucking. Staring. Zoned. Returned to the exact moment I met him. Warm inviting October sun made even warmer from an invite to a campus POC group in a Northern German village. Twenty-year-old Cassie, so dumb. Scratch that, dumb as hell, saying ‘it’s nice to meet you, too.’ Gassed, texting Emmanuella:

‘Just met the sexiest of ALL sexies. Dark chocolate GOD!’

‘Wtf!!! I hate you! take a pic!’

‘Can’t, too close. Call you later? X’

Hype. Thirsty, maybe? Tuck. Fold. Reimagine. Me now, wise, twenty-two from the future would slap her twice, perhaps right in the face, asking, ‘is this what you want, huh? To be a slob on the couch, listening to If it wasn’t for the nights with wine stained lips?’ Quick side note, thank. God. for. ABBA. Anyway, twenty-year old Cassie needed to understand that these were serious existential questions being asked here. Two years of your life wasted, Cassie Alexandra Evans! Letting perfectly good Pappardelle go to waste, only the hiss of the stove as a reminder to feed yourself. What would really get her is if I mentioned how much skinnier she would get after this breakup. £160 of personal training gone down the drain. Also, £35 meal plan purchase. Pointless. Tuck. After hearing the tragic future events, poor little Cassie would be so horrified that she would NEVER look in his direction again. Fold. This gave me comfort, a warm cosy comfort, like smelling fresh cotton scented laundry or melting into soft pants right out the dryer. I could spend hours making up scenarios, living them out on the projector of my mind. Endless CJ avoided alternate universes. Heart spared! Until reality kicked in – wrong pile.

An incessant muffled buzzing was coming from underneath the ‘not sure’ pile. My phone. It was a reminder. CRAP – Alma. I had forgotten about the waxing appointment today. Who was I even waxing for anymore? Hmm. Cancel. No. besides, it was always lovely seeing Alma. Pushing myself off the Turkish rug, I dragged myself to the shower.

This burst of energy would be short-lived, so I had to take it while I had it.

#

Alma was worth the trek up the Northern line, and after plucking back my panties to check if I needed to see her, I was on the first train from Tooting Bec to Queensbury.

‘Hi darlin’, you look gorgeous, going party?’ The trill of her Polish accent ushered me in.

‘Thanks, Alma. Yeah, just a little thing.’

‘That’s good, that’s good, sounds fun. Come come.’ A rush of the familiar scents of

Egyptian musk and lavender greeted me as I entered the foyer. ‘Just go straight in my love. I let you to get ready, take off your pants and lie down when you’re done.’

Alma had the usual piano playlist going for that spa ambiance. I knew the drill. She didn’t even ‘leave leave’ – just turned her back to prepare the wax. After three-plus years of coming here, the comfort was mutual. Thinking about it now – I’m so grateful for her, saving me after my constant battle with ingrown hairs and hyperpigmentation until the wide world of the internet told me I was not alone! Waxing was the cure. I laid on the scratchy paper looking around her home studio, feet soles together, knees apart. Full access. The warm aroma of the sugar wax licked my nose.

‘How have you been my darlin’, you come alone waxing today?’ Alma smacked on translucent gloves that wrinkled all over.

How. Could. I. Have. Forgotten. Of course, she’d notice. For the ages I had been coming to her, CJ tagged along. Every time. Waxing and barber was a ritual we did together, every 3-4 weeks for me, and level one fade and shape up for him or the other way around – who cares? Anyway, his barber was a ten-minute walk up the road – which we went to first, then Alma. The lump in my throat climbed its way up, but I pushed it down to speak.

‘We broke up’, I sighed.

She clicked her tongue. ‘No, you didn’t. Wha happened – you break up with him?’

‘No, he broke up with me.’ Embarrassment flushed my body hot. It was awkward to admit.

‘Stchupid boy, tell me the story - this temperature okay?’ Alma blew on the wooden stick.

Even though hot wax ripped at the roots of my pubic hair, I was numb. Until wet drops curled under my jaw.

‘Oh, darling, no no don’t cry, did I pull too hard?’

I shook my head, accepting the tissue that floated above then blotted my eyes.

‘Tell me somefing, you never noticed no signs nothing a little off wid him, ever?’ She applied another layer, right underneath the crease of my cheeks. The worst part.

‘Yeah, I guess, he could be really mean…sometimes I – ouch.’

‘Sorry darlin’ worst part.’ Alma smiled pressing her warm hand on my skin.

The metallic taste of pennies filled my mouth.

‘You alright?’ She put the stick back into the large white pot that I could never see inside.

‘Feel a little sick.’ I inhaled deeply to control the nausea.

‘Hold on, I get you some water. It is a bit hot in here, isn’t it?’ Alma pressed the silver button of the latch letting in the air. I could hear the squeaking of plastic as she came back, handing me bottled water from the mini-fridge.

‘Thanks, Alma.’

‘I hope you’re eating! I know you’re sad, trust me, I’ve been there, but when you don’t eat you feel sick!’

I smiled through gulps, grateful.

‘Yeah, you’re right, I haven’t been eating much – my stomach hasn’t been right for a while.’

‘Start smoll, like soups,’ Alma’s glossy lips pouted. ‘Even if you have to order the takeaway. Eat somefing – you’re so skinny already. You’ll become nothing but bones if you carry on,’ she tapped my shoulder.

‘You sound like my family’, I laughed.

You get used to everyone’s obsessive concerns over your weight when you’re the skinny one in a Jamaican household. Weight was a greeting in most cases.

‘Ah-ah look at you. Turn round let me see you. You too skinny like maga dog.’ Or, which I’ve only witnessed, the public announcement of ‘What happened to you, when you gain so much weight? No afters for you, no sah.’

Alma smiled briefly before focusing on the area. She furrowed her blonde brows momentarily before adding another layer.

‘You should do somefing nice, it’s Saturday. Go see your family, they’ll make you feel better’, she said.

The warmth turned hard. I winced.

‘Might do actually, the apartment looks like a bomb hit it.’

Alma shook her head, focused on the last, but trickiest hairs.

‘He was your first, no?’

I nodded, anticipating the pain.

‘Well, then it’s not so bad. My first, we dated for six years, got married - turned out to be HORRIBLE. He did somefing I could never forgive; wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Worse than cheating.’ The green of her eyes darkened in thought. ‘Now, I’ve remarried. Nothing is perfect, but I don’t regret it’, she added. ‘You know wha, they say you have two loves, the first love and the true love…which one was he?’

#

Her advice didn’t fall on deaf ears, it would be nice to go home. I took the Jubilee line from Queensbury to West Hampstead. A station I tried to avoid at all cost after seeing a woman jump in front of a train. CJ and I were coming back from our last Ikea shop, mad at each other about God knows what. A group of two men and a woman were laughing, enjoying each other’s company. I gazed across the tracks at an Asian lady looking out intensely for the train. Her black eyes squinted behind thick glasses. When the train approached, her arms swung out, throwing a woven PVC bag behind her. My eyes seemed to register everything before my brain. The sound of the pebbles crunching beneath her feet caught my attention. Wondering why she was walking there, how strange it sounded to hear anything other than the sound of screeching steel on the tracks. A complete mind laps until I heard CJ scream no. Then everything went dark. When it was over, both sides of the platform were quiet. Not a sound. The group next to me stared at the lifeless body beneath the metal. CJ’s jacket may have shielded me, but he couldn’t stop my mind from conjuring up its own idea of what had happened. People on the train stared at us confused, until one by one faces of horror reflected through the glass. Since then I either avoided or braced myself, never managing to escape the thoughts and unanswered questions.

#

‘Hey, Baby didn’t know you were coming round’, Mom said, making space by tucking her geometric housedress underneath her thick thighs. ‘Face looks thin, have you been eating?’ She added.

I could already tell the inspection was coming. Since I moved out, every time I showed up for a visit Mom acted as if I had been away on an expedition in the Amazon, surviving on bugs and red eyed tree frogs. Sure, I had skipped a few meals in between my suffering which just became an excuse to not cook and order in, but I mean really, what twenty-something in London was short of options to eat? If it wasn’t sushi at Hakksan or a group meal at Busaba, then it was a visit to a yummy Nigerian spot. Plus, if I really blew all my cash then I’m sure a three-pound Tesco meal deal would suffice.

She grabbed my jaw deceptively firm considering how delicately her hands were cupped. Jasmine oil clung on her veiny wrist, the one I had bought her last Christmas. She always wore it when she missed me.

‘My God, look. Practically starving your cheek bones are basically out your face!’

Honestly, I wouldn’t have known that these cheekbones were actually a beauty statement and that it was one of my best features. A modelling scout once told me; they were what high fashion would kill for. Too bad I was five feet too short to live that dream.

‘Val, come on now, leave the kid alone.’ Dad took a sip of ginger beer, the fizzing liquid from the beige can tingled his moustache.

‘She’s even hunched over’, Mom continued.

‘What? I’m literally just sitting here, lookin’ at the puzzle.’ I wanted to roll my eyes so badly, had to act like I was blinking hard because of a lash.

‘Your eyes, what’s going on, you’re worrying me.’

‘Nothing.’ It was mission impossible not to roll them to the back of my skull at this point. Instead, I focused my gaze on the clay sculptures of dark-skinned women captured in everyday poses. My favourite was always the one of a woman laying down, her toned clay muscles in the stomach absorbing the light from all angles of the natural lit room. The dark hues of ebony skin were striking against the porcelain walls. In my opinion, it was a living room every little black girl should grow up in.

‘Well all I see is my beautiful princess, come ere’ ladybug, you still sad over that boy?’ Ladybug had been my nickname according to Dad, since one landed on his finger the exact moment Mom’s water broke.

‘Where’s Grandad?’

‘Western Union’, Mom sighed, pushing herself from the table to answer the phone.

‘Think I really got skinny...er?’

‘Of course not, honey,’ Dad kissed my forehead quickly. ‘Your Mom is just being, well you know...herself. Like I always say, as long as you’re healthy that’s what matters.

‘I swear, all the women in this family missed their calling to be an actress,’ I said, pushing at a puzzle piece that did not belong.

‘Ha! Amen to that one. Lord have mercy. Gonna be honest with you though, she’s worried about you. A lot.’

‘Obviously’, I scoffed, stealing a sip of his drink.

‘You have been pret-ty M.I.A. past few weeks…everything okay?’

‘Yeah dad. Perfect. Homeless. Boyfriendless. About to be hairless. And I’ve lost half my body weight in one month!’

‘My child, my child. Lord, what did I do in my past life to be surrounded by crazy women?’ Dad’s arms pushed towards the sky like he was in a Baptist church down south, stepping to the rhythm of the Holy Ghost. ‘It’s heartbreak sweetie, we all go through it, part of life.’

‘But I’m so hurt, daddy. My feelings are literally hurt.’ I leaned into the crack of his arm, resting my head on his chest.

‘Oh baby, want me to go over there and beat his scrawny lil ass?’ Dad slapped his stomach that bounced as he laughed.

‘Yes’, I laughed, grabbing onto him tighter. I was glad I came home.

‘Do something that will make you feel good. Guys don’t like sad girls.

‘I don’t care what guys like. They all suck, except you.’

‘No doubt I’m the best, glad somebody recognises! You hear that, Valerie? Dad hollered.

Mom came to the living room cupping the bottom of the house phone in her hand, mouthing shut up. It was probably someone from her women and mothers group which meant keep it professional.

‘All seriousness now...don’t be bitter, Cassie. People can’t steal your joy.

Never let people have that kinda control over you. It’s weak minded.’

‘I know. Just upset I chose a shi-stupid one. Sorry, slipped out.’

‘Better have.’ Dad tugged my ear. ‘You still going to your appointment to get your hair did?’ He sang the words in his American twang.

‘Tomorrow. Gotta take my braids out, wash, deep condition then probably ask mom to put it in two plats.’

‘Mmm. Okay. Sounds good. Always remember you come first. Got some cash in my wallet, can use it for the hair or nails. All that girly stuff.’

‘Thanks, daddy.’ I squeezed him as tightly as I could, as if it were the last time. ‘Ah, my ladybug. Welcome. Remember, you’re MY child.’

#

I arrived an hour late the next morning. Amina rested her hand against the crease of her lower back. She was carrying high, which, in my family, meant it was a girl. Her other daughter, Grace, was asleep in the room next door.

‘Cassie, why are you late?’ She asked, smiling as she unpacked the pulled extensions. Her table was prepared for the eight hours ahead with bristle brushes, green Indian hemp grease, and the dreaded rat-tail comb.

‘Sorry, woke up late, then missed the bus,’ I said plopping myself in the middle of the chair, sliding my feet into her blue house slippers. She was expecting my excuse - as usual. She kissed her teeth and laughed. Her belly made her bend slightly to accommodate for the melon sized baby that floated inside.

‘How is your fiancé?’ she asked, grabbing a chunk of my hair, combing it from the ends.

‘We broke up’, I pursed my lips. Avoiding to no avail her wide questioning eyes.

That was the issue with breakups, they became a shadow. There was no escaping the same question, with the same answer, met by everybody’s same reaction. I was tired of people feeling sorry for me. Tired of feeling sorry for myself.

‘He kissed a girl from his law lecture, they were in a group, and after class one day he said they kissed, then once more the next day after coffee.’

‘So he has left you for her?’ She slid the cold silver rat tail comb to section my hair. No matter how much I combed my thick coils she found a way to make it feel like I had a million knots.

‘No. he said he’s not leaving me for anybody - just wants time to find himself or something.’ I placed a soothing hand on my head, but Amina swatted it away.

‘That is a lie. Cassie, hold it for me.’ I held the extension between my thumb and index while her hands played double-Dutch, twisting the hair into thin dark ropes. ‘You don’t leave someone for no one. You cannot believe this man. You were not there, so you will never know the truth.’

‘No, but he -’

Amina went on. Shame and embarrassment flooded me. Why was I going so hard to defend his word even though it could be a total lie? How could I ever know for sure? Maybe he was trying to spare my feelings, for all I know he could have been sleeping with her for months. Until the guilt became too much and he couldn’t pretend anymore. I would never know… she was right.

‘Don’t be so quick to believe the words of those who deceive you’, she said, touching my shoulder.

Three hours had come and gone in the chair. Grace had woken up only to be lulled to sleep swaddled in the colourful orange, green, and black kanga against her mother’s back. The two of them reminded me of paintings in our house of the African mother and child, carrying the gift of the world on her back with glowing circled streaks of the vitalising sun behind her rich illuminating melanin. Multitasking was second nature to Amina, who managed to do all of this while watching Brazilian telenovelas and Nollywood films where the husbands dishonoured and left the wives who failed to give them sons.

These ridiculous shows were our past time, part of a ritual rooted in seven years of the comfort and nurturing of braiding in one’s home.

‘Let us eat.’ Amina vanished into the tiny kitchen where pots and pans clashed against each other, and the hum of the microwave matched the volume of the television with no door to mute the sound. Seconds later, I could smell the spice of onions and pepper sauce, the familiar fragrances of Jollof rice. As a Jamaican I know this was sacrilege to say…but give me Jollof over rice and peas any day!

‘Cassie, you are invited.’ She pulled out a chair. Grace still slept, strapped peacefully against her mother.

Amina placed down the plate with a mountain of red rice topped with spicy dark shito. My mouth was watering.

‘Enjoy, my sister.’

#

Eight hours later, Amina had worked her magic to make me beautiful. The twists framed my face and made my skin have a glow that only happened after the steam, trim, and oiling of her work. I handed over seventy pounds as she fought me about the extra ten.

‘Cassie, you are a fool,’ she laughed, placing the money on the table reaching for the palm broom.

‘You work hard.’ I hugged her softly, mindful of the bump.

‘I wish you the best on your travels around this world my sister and remember, you don’t need to rush in life, you need to be careful. I will ask God to watch over you.’