Mooshie

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• Mooshie
• NitaJade (bio)

Nana say it's called changes. Every time I stop by Auntie Junebug's, I go through changes. I walk into her place squeaky clean and leave greasy; Blue Magic-coated fingers pinch my cheeks and get away with it. Her couch feel like wet clay melted on sandpaper, feel like pomade when it sneak under nails. Her place tiny, like Uncle Sir's matchboxes. 'Bout time you walk through the door, your body halfway through the livin' room. Once in a blue moon when the windows open, it look like storm clouds done settled inside. I figure that's why she keep the blinds closed.

Auntie Junebug started it, the name-callin'. She call me by the nickname I never asked for and never wanted: Mooshie. Everybody else took after her, callin' me Mooshie too. She say it's 'cause my granddaddy's name was Moo-Moo, and I was always under his frayed wing, but we know better. She call me Mooshie because I'm fat. I know it. The white boys at school always tell me so. I know what I am. Her eyes twinkle when she look at me. I see it. She try to mask it but ain't ever been one to try hard. I don't know which hurt my feelings more: the fact that they eyes call me fat or that they think I'm too stupid to notice.

I don't think Auntie Junebug mean much harm, though. Her godliness just hide under the bed when the bottles come out. Her gaze scold my flesh. She say, "Come here, Mooshie." I do as I'm told. "Run these food stamps on down to Nana." I snatch the card with a "Yes, ma'am" and walk away from her eyes. I stride two steps and emerge onto a beige-stained, cigarette-scented porch. "Don't drop that card, lil' girl!" Auntie yell through the screen. She supposed to watch me goin' 'til Nana can see me comin', but nine times outta ten she go back to her bottle. I wade myself into a pool of sun and imagine the rays scrubbin' my skin free of scrutiny.

Auntie Junebug got a twin, but he not a girl. Mama say that mean they in a frat. He come up the steps as I come down. He smell like Nana's gossip. She say he disappear for days, only come back when he want somethin'. I ask her what he do when he gone. She say he don't shower. "Hey, Uncle Sir!" I smile over the rail and hop down the last few steps. His sneaker scuffs the step, and he falls into the brick. The corner catches him. "Hey-Moo!" he slur, pushing himself up. "How-my-Mooshie-doin'?"

"I'm blessed," I say. Yeah, I say that. I think I say that.

I can't think real well on account of his spit in my mouth. Not sure if it's mine or what's left on his breath, but I taste throw-up. Mama say nobody allowed to kiss me not nowhere 'specially not on my lips. He make me trade places with him, fold me into his catchin'-corner. He do what Mama say men do, and when he done, he smile like his eyes ain't calling me names. He stumble on up to his twin's apartment. I hear Auntie yell, "The fuck you want?" from my hiding place. Nana blow her horn, and the food stamp card [End Page 118] bend itself into my palm. I try my best to correct it, to push against the crease with my thumbs, straighten the card's frozen flag back out. I pray a whisper, "Please don't let me get a whoopin'! Amen and Amen," and head on down the rest of the stairs.

I tiptoe past the pee-bush, past the needle-field, past the cousin-haunted building on the corner. I tiptoe all the way to the hooptie and slip the card through the window. "Bug straighten up?" Nana ask as I creak open the car door, an...