Walking on Thin Ice

By Re'Gena Bell-Roberts

Walking on Thin Ice, a memoir of love, hate, envy, and greed traces a young womans pursuit of stardom down a dangerous road that leads to shattered dreams and a harrowing fate.

I found myself staring down the barrel of a revolver, and a wave of disbelief rippled through me ... An explosion blasted me into a nightmare. The room swirled slowly. Clickclick. The sound reverberated each time she pulled the trigger. I realized this woman was trying to kill me!

In Walking on Thin Ice, ReGena Bell-Roberts shares her riveting story against the backdrop of a childhood sexual molestation. She is one, among a few young girls from the small town of Pasco, Washington, who harbored dreams of fame, fortune, and a craving for the love of a powerful man.

After high school graduation, ReGenas life transforms. Despite myriad warnings, she falls for the charming Max Clayton, a thirty-three year old streetwise hustler who entices her into a dark underworld of illicit sex and drugs.

When Max betrays her, their life takes a fateful turn. The gripping saga explodes in the Mount Baker area of Seattle, Washington; and depicts ReGenas struggle to deal with a tragic life-changing event that threatens her very existence. But she fights back with unshakable strength, courage, and a will to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491764749

Re'Gena Bell-Roberts

Re’Gena Bell-Roberts earned a bachelor’s degree in history from the University of California at Los Angeles. She is an award-winning playwright and author whose published work includes a collection of prose and poetry. Bell-Roberts lives in Murrieta, California, and has four grown children.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

M ama often said that you can’t hide from trouble; it always has a way of finding you. I never understood what that meant until it crept into our darkened house and reared its ugly head.

Mama was out on that hot summer night. While my brothers and sisters slumbered peacefully in their rooms, I was awakened by crude fingers probing roughly inside my panties. Sheer terror propelled me upright, gasping for breath, my arms flailing at the air.

I was sleeping alone on the living room sofa because I hated being cramped in the tiny, stuffy bedroom with my four sisters. We had no air conditioning and it was cooler out here. Although the ragged green sofa had lumps and holes with coiled metal springs bursting through the worn fabric, I had cherished it—until that moment.

My wide eyes darted around the room as my mind reeled with confusion. No one was there. Had it been a dream? I shuddered at the memory of that creepy hand. No. Not a dream. My heart was beating thunder. My breath rasped in my throat. Please God, I prayed frantically, please, please help me. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but he was close. I could hear his telltale shallow breathing and smell the odor of whiskey and stale aftershave.

Suddenly, he grabbed my shoulders and pressed me back down on the couch. My scream was muffled by a moist hand that slapped over my mouth as he piled his heavy weight on top of me, crushing me. He was drunk. The putrid stench of alcohol and vomit made me gag. His beard scratched my tender face as my balled fist beat against his heavy chest. I struggled beneath him but was no match against this strong, forceful man who pried my skinny legs apart and yanked down my panties. Hot tears streamed from my eyes as I squeezed them shut against the inevitable. I was too young and too weak to fight him off any further. I felt a burning pain as he tried to penetrate me.

A loud thud came from down the dark hallway, followed by a high-pitched squeal of pain. Ouch! Dang it.

You better not tell. The harsh whisper grated in my ear before the man sprang off my body and vanished in the darkness as mysteriously as he had arrived. I was terrified and shaking like a leaf but managed to pull up my underwear and the sheet as the hallway light came on. My older brother, Alfred Junior, limped through the archway into the room.

Regina, did I wake you up? he asked. John and Arlene left toys all over the house again, and I tripped.

I stayed silent but looked at my savior through teary eyes. He was only three years older than I was, but when Mama was gone, he was the man of the house and took his job seriously. Still, I knew he was no match for that man. Alfred scratched his head and looked around the room. I followed his eyes. Nothing seemed out of order.

Was somebody here? he asked.

You better not tell. I shook my head.

You sure?

I pulled the tattered sheet over my head. I’m scared, I whispered. I was afraid to tell him what had just happened. Maybe he wouldn’t believe me.

You wanna go sleep with Juanita and them?

I did. I wanted to run back to my old room and the tangle of familiar bodies sprawled helter-skelter in childish sleep. But wouldn’t the man find me there anyway? What if he tried to do the same thing to one of my sisters? What if he hurt Mama? A million questions and no answers. I couldn’t take the chance.

No, I said from beneath the covers. But can you leave the light on?

I didn’t think the man would come back as long as the light was on, and I silently vowed to stay awake until daylight or at least until Mama came home.

At some point, exhaustion overcame my vigilance and I slept. When I woke up the next morning, I had peed the sofa. Embarrassed, I balled up the wet sheets and hid them at the bottom of the dirty clothes hamper. You better not … But in the bright light of day, fear started to recede. As I hurried off to join everyone else at the breakfast table, I had buried my shame. The dark secret would be locked away forever—or so I thought. For a whole week, I was a hotbed of raw emotions. Almost every night, I was haunted by nightmares and peed the bed.

During the day, I gnawed my fingernails until they were bloody and raw. I felt helpless, yet anger raged inside me. I could feel the evilness of it coursing through me like a snake, coiled, waiting to strike. I unleashed my venom on my siblings. Out of frustration, I would shove or punch them if they looked at me wrong. I didn’t want to watch TV or hang outside and play with my friends. Mama didn’t understand my sudden display of craziness, but it wasn’t long before she was fed up with it.

Early one morning, Juanita knocked frantically at the bathroom door, and out of spite, I wouldn’t let her in.

Regina. I heard Mama’s harried voice. Open this door right now.

She would take Juanita’s side, I thought sullenly. After all, she was Mama’s favorite.

Reluctantly, I opened the door. As Juanita rushed in, I tried to slide past Mama, but Alfred Junior, who stood next to her eating a piece of toast, blocked my way.

Regina. Mama frowned. Why are you so evil? What’s gotten into you?

You better not tell. My shoulders sagged, and I avoided her eyes. I don’t know.

Maybe she’s scared the bogeyman is gonna come back. Alfred wiggled his eyebrows then grinned at Mama around a mouthful of bread.

What bogeyman? Mama glared at Alfred. Did you have some of your friends over here scaring her?

No, he answered emphatically. Everybody was in bed that night, but I thought I heard something so I got up to check.

And?

Now, Alfred Junior looked like he wished he’d never opened his mouth. And nothing. Nobody was in there but her.

You didn’t see anybody?

No. I even asked her, and she said no.

Everything was locked up?

He nodded.

Mama gave him a penetrating look. Did the window with the broken lock have the stick in it?

I guess.

Go check.

Alfred walked away mumbling. Mama took me into her bedroom, closed the door, and took off my clothes to examine me.

Baby … Mama’s voice was soft and encouraging. Did somebody get in the house?

Finally, I nodded.

Her face looked stricken. Who was it? Regina, baby, who was it?

Better not tell. I don’t know, Mama, I whimpered.

Did he hurt you?

A little. I nodded again, filled with shame.

Where did he hurt you?

Down there. I dropped my head.

How many times did he touch you?

A couple.

She lifted my head up. From now on, you sleep in the bedroom with your sisters. Do you hear me?

Yes.

Everything’s going to be all right, baby. She hugged me, and I relaxed in her tight embrace.

From that point on, Mama slept on the living room sofa. I never figured out how she found out it was her friend Ray. But the day that fat, bubble-eyed, dark-skinned man knocked at our door, Mama greeted him with her pistol. You’ve been molesting my daughter, she screamed. Don’t bring your black ass around here no more, or I’ll kill you.

Ray never came back to our house again. Still, I could never entirely shake the fear that he might. I lived from one day to the next praying that someday I’d grow up to be strong and fearless like Mama.

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

Rise and shine. Mama’s voice echoed softly through the closed bedroom door.

No, I mumbled, pulling the pillow over my head. I rolled over and bumped into one of my four sisters. They all crawled out of bed, leaving the door open behind them. I caught the mouth-watering aroma of homemade buttermilk biscuits, and pork rind bacon. Mama didn’t have to call me twice. I peeked out from beneath the pillow, jumped out of bed, and rushed to the table. I couldn’t wait to savor the sweet taste of the peach preserves, which Mama had canned and kept sealed on the kitchen shelf in Mason jars.

Hurry up, Mama said. We don’t want to be late for church.

Mama’s name was Charlene. She was a preacher’s daughter and a choir member in good standing at the Morning Star Baptist Church in Pasco, where my granddaddy, Reverend Johnnie Steward, preached. She was a beautiful, slender woman in her mid-twenties with youthful, smooth, chestnut-brown skin; long, iron-curled black hair; and piercing, shiny brown eyes. She was religious and ruled the house with quiet authority. Mama kept all eight of us in line with "the look," which could only be described as the look of death whenever she locked her eyes on any one of us. It was a clear first warning; anything beyond the look brought a beating with a leather belt or a switch from the closest tree limb. But depending on how Mama felt at that particular time or the severity of the offense, the punishment could be dished out with the snap of an extension cord. Drop your drawers and bend over, she’d say. The slice of pain was as sharp as a razor’s edge. After the fifth or six lash, you’d surely wish you were dead. I met the sting of death many times and was left screaming on the shallow side of hysteria.

To get ready for worship service, I put on a multicolored cotton dress with a matching shoulder vest that Mama had made from a cutout pattern and sewn on her Singer sewing machine. Lacy white anklets were followed by scuffed but passable black Mary Janes—unlike those dreadful-looking black-and-white saddle oxfords I had to wear to school each day.

Now I had to tackle my nappy mass of black hair. It was short, thick, and tightly coiled. I grabbed a brush and began tugging it through my hair. On the third pass, the bristles got caught in a cluster of knots and I nearly yanked my scalp off. I howled in frustration, and Mama came to my rescue. She gently unwound my hair from the brush, took me into the kitchen, and sat me down in a chair. I envied Mama. Her hair was considered good hair. It was straighter than kinky and hung down to her shoulders. As if she could read my thoughts, she patted my shoulder and gently pulled a hot comb through my hair. Then, as she plaited my hair into three tight braids, she started humming a tune she would probably be singing today in church.

Okay, time to go! she announced loudly. It’s Sunday revival … going to be a long day.

Sunday revival came around once a year, and it seemed like everyone in town streamed toward the church on that day. Reasons for being in the crowd varied—some came for healing and salvation, some for fellowship and food, and others for the entertainment that the holy rollers inevitably provided. But they came.

The men dressed flamboyantly in double-breasted suits, and the women adorned themselves in costume jewelry and pastel-colored dresses with matching, wide-brimmed hats and exchanged respectful greetings:

Morning, Sista Miles. How are you?

Oh, just blessed to see another day, Brother Jones, and yourself?

Truly blessed. Truly blessed.

Amen. Amen. God is good.

Yes. He is … Praise the Lord.

Of course Sista Miles and Mr. Jones had been a lot friendlier in the grocery store parking lot last week, but that was grown folks’ business and none of mine, so I kept silent as we passed by.

Inside the splendid red-carpeted sanctuary, a golden cross gleamed at the altar, and mounted high behind the pulpit was a big, white fluorescent sign with a bold caption that read, One Lord. One Faith. One Baptism. Today the usually sedate Morning Star Baptist Church was in an unusual state. Under the watchful eyes of church mothers, the harried ushers were dutifully trying to seat adults, teenagers, jerking kids, and whiny toddlers, as well as the guests from the visiting towns of Spokane and Wenatchee.

As Mama moved off toward the front of the church, my older sister Juanita and I sat in the fourth row with the rest of the youth choir. The solid wooden bench was hard. I dreaded having to sit like a cardboard poster doll for the rest of the day, but our padded seats were filled with the guest choirs. I wiggled in my seat. Mama was seated up front in the choir section, dressed in a purple robe with a white V-neck collar. As I settled down, the rising heat nearly suffocated me. I thought I would die from heat stroke. I grabbed a fan that read Greenlee Funeral Home from the back pew pocket and quickly fanned myself, hoping to ward off sudden death.

As the congregants settled down, Papa Jackson, old and frail, rose to his feet. He blinked owlishly at the congregation and then opened his mouth and spat saliva-peppered words through pink toothless gums. I wub da Lawd. He hud ma cry. To me, he sounded just like Elmer Fudd and I couldn’t stop the giggles that bubbled up and escaped my lips. A sharp jab from Juanita signaled that Mama had noticed me acting up and thrown me the look. I lowered my eyes and wiped the grin from my face.

I love the Lord. He heard my cry … My childish voice piped in with the answering chorus that flooded like water from all corners of the church. Papa Jackson finally ended his prayer. Once he swiped a wrinkly black hand across his pointy, bald head and sat down, I breathed a sigh of relief. Praise the Lord!

I gave the two visiting pastors a quick peek. The light-skinned one was big and round, and I silently christened him Humpty Dumpty. The other, lean as a pencil with charcoal skin and a broad, light-skinned nose, was Jack Sprat. I entertained myself for a little while with different scenarios of people—like the piano man with the bulldog face and Brother Johnson, who resembled the Big Bad Wolf—and then grew bored with them. I started playing with the handkerchief in the pocket of my dress. Inside the knotted piece of embroidered cloth was the twenty-five cents Mama had given me for my offering. But I had it all worked out—ten of those cents was going into the offering tray; the rest I’d spend on bubble gum and my choice of candy at J.D.’s corner store. J.D.’s was heaven on earth. For that, I figured God wouldn’t mind, and what Mama didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

The chorus flew into a song that was contagious and swept on like fire when Mama stepped up to sing. Her silky voice and the choir’s accompanying harmony filled the air with divine fellowship. I was so proud of Mama, and I couldn’t wait to take my place in the youth choir to sing once again. When the song ended, the church rumbled with praises. The revival had started in grand fashion, and I knew I was in for a show.

Granddaddy rose from his throne—a hand-carved chair embellished with red velvet—and approached the pulpit. He wore a black pinstriped suit, a starchy white shirt, and shiny black and white Stacy Adams. He stood tall for a man of five feet five inches. His hair, slick and black, framed prominent, high cheekbones that rose beneath his reddish-brown skin. Let the church say, Amen.

A tidal wave of Amens rolled through the building.

I just stopped by to tell you today that … Granddaddy paused, eyeing the congregation while he pulled out a pair of black-rimmed glasses and slid them onto his face. …We have a friend in Jesus. Can I get a witness?

The congregation gave in quickly. That’s right! Thank you, Lord.

The two visiting preachers jumped to their feet shouting and clapping. Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Praise his holy name.

Granddaddy acknowledged their testimony with a nod, and the sermon continued, Our text today comes from the book of Matthew … Granddaddy’s Southern drawl was as smooth as butter. Matthew tells me in the seventh chapter, sixth verse that it is not good to take the children’s holy bread and throw it to the dogs.

All eyes were fixed on him. People nodded and rocked with each phrase. They gave my granddaddy a look of deep love, admiration, and respect.

I wanted desperately to experience that same kind of adoration. One day, I’ll be on stage and people will love me, too.

Granddaddy jumped into the meat of his sermon. He spun a tale about a woman who believed that Christ could save her sick daughter who was filled with the devil. When Christ fed her leftover bread from His table, she was well again and the devil left her.

I leaned in and listened closer when Granddaddy mentioned the devil’s name. And as if I were placed under a spell, in a twinkling I was snatched out of my seat onto the pulpit and zapped inside his body. Crumbs from the Master’s table, I spat, as I strutted and dipped from one side of the podium to the next. I’m so glad! I shouted. Then I slapped the Bible across my shoulder. My knees buckled as if the weight of it was too great for me. I’m so glad. I sang strolling across the pulpit floor–– head rocking as I went–– that we serve a great and mighty God… hmm.

After a while I rested the closed Bible on the podium. Hot and drenched with sweat, I plucked a handkerchief from my vest, dabbed my brow and gazed into the sanctified crowd of believers. Be obedient to God. Hell awaits you, if you don’t. May the good Lord bless you and keep you. Amen. I took the Bible and returned to my seat.

The slap of piano keys snapped me back from under the spell, fully alert. I rubbed my eyes and blinked them a few times. Wow! That experience felt so real! I stood up, grateful to get circulation back into my behind. The ushers passed collection plates row by row. People lifted their voices and sang, His eye is on the sparrow … I untied my offering of twenty-five cents that Mama gave me and dropped two silver nickels into the tray. I dared to betray God for the price of some bubble gum and candy. And I know he’s watching me … The verse generated guilt in me, and I quickly released the extra coins.

The very thought of burning in hell scared me. I made a silent promise to God that I would be a better person. I inwardly confessed my wrongdoings—I had stolen candy from J.D.’s grocery store. I had helped Alfred Junior string my younger brother Kenneth over the door by his heels and banged is head on the hardwood floor. We had tossed our baby sister Sheryl out in the snow to watch her pale skin turn red. I had popped my sister Renea in the forehead with a BB gun. Now, I was ashamed and probably the biggest sinner in the whole world. Maybe that was why that nasty old man named Ray came to torment me that night on the sofa when Mama was away, I thought. But where was God when I needed Him?

A year later, granddaddy moved away. He told Mama that he was called by the Lord to pastor a new church in Arkansas. Our attendance at Sunday morning worship lessened over a period of time. After a while, our trips to church stopped altogether. But the rush of excitement I felt stayed with me long after the theatrics of the church ended. I was inspired to someday draw that same center stage attention—just like my granddaddy had.

CHAPTER 2

Granddaddy’s absence left a void in my life. Eventually, burning questions about my own daddy’s whereabouts surfaced. It hovered over me like a dark, mysterious secret. One Saturday afternoon, while my brothers and sisters where outside playing, I asked Mama about him as we were snapping and shelling peas at the kitchen table. She filled me in bit by bit.

Your daddy’s name is Alfred, she said. He’s from Oklahoma and works as a cement finisher.

I was intrigued, all ears as I listened. My busy fingers continued snapping and peeling the slender, bubbled shells open, plucking out the small green peas and tossing them into the plastic bowl that rested on the table.

He moves around a lot, because of his job, she continued. But I’m not sure where he is now.

My heart sank. Suddenly my younger brother Kenneth and sister Sheryl dashed into the kitchen. What’s for lunch Mama? Kenneth panted.

Rat titties and rice? Mama chuckled.

Aw, he grumbled. Then he smiled wryly at Sheryl and tapped her. Tag. You’re it, he said before racing out of the house. Sheryl giggled and chased behind him.

I glanced at Mama with a smile on my face. Rat titties and rice. She always gave us the same answer. It was a good joke. I sat patiently waiting for her to tell me more about my daddy.

Your daddy lived with his father, Buck, who … She paused. Well, maybe you’re not ready to hear this, she said, dropping the empty shell into the trash can on the floor between our chairs.

"Yes I am, Mama. Tell me pleeeese," I begged.

Well … She hesitated. His dad was shot dead by a woman in town.

I gasped. Who killed him, Mama?

She didn’t say. She grabbed a handful of peas from the bucket and continued to quickly snap and split them open and pop them into the bowl. Your daddy lived with his aunt Sally, who sells barbecued ribs from her home. You’ve met her. Remember? She smiled warmly.

I nodded, yes. I remembered that mean, foulmouthed lady who lived in that shabby little shack at the end of the town. People in town raved on and on about how good her barbeque was but I preferred Ms. Virginia’s crispy fried chicken. At least she served her food with a kind word and a friendly smile.

Mama’s lips curled tightly inside her mouth for a second. I married your daddy when I was fifteen, but I left him while I was pregnant with you.

I frowned and pried further. Why, Mama? Why did you leave him?

Her expression changed. I thought she was in pain by the way she twisted her face. She was silent for a long time. You’re too young to know, she finally said.

I shrugged, reaching for another pea shell.

When I asked what he looked like, she merely said, One day, you’ll see.

I wasn’t satisfied with her answer, so I conjured up images of him—rich, tall, and handsome. I also created an enchanted world with Daddy. It was a happy world, where Daddy and I spent all of our time together—picnics at the park, eating ice cream at the zoo, popcorn at the movies, cotton candy at the circus, and traveling to faraway places. Then he would show me off to all of his friends and proudly announce that I was his little girl.

Then finally, one day he came to our house. I was nine years old. Mama never mentioned him coming, and I was taken by surprise. While standing behind Mama’s dress, I stole a few quick peeks at him.

Mama, who’s that man? I asked.

Your daddy. She smiled.

He didn’t look like the man I’d pictured. This short, bowlegged stranger had a round face with dark-brown eyes and bushy eyebrows. He struck me as being more common than special.

Hello. He smiled and extended his arms to me. No hugs. I clung to Mama’s dress.

She’s shy right now, Mama said.

Daddy hung around for a few days and then left.

Later, he wrote letters from distant places. Juanita and Alfred Junior didn’t bother to answer his letters, but I did. I was fascinated by his stories. I couldn’t wait to read them. His letters spoke of his jobs, places he’d traveled, and his love for me. Oftentimes, they were filled with so much money that the envelope seemed to explode. I squealed with delight. Daddy made me feel so special. I called myself Daddy’s girl. But Mama had eyes like a hawk. She’d take my money and divide it evenly between me, Alfred Junior and Juanita, saying that he was their father too. I hated her for that.

It isn’t fair! I’d scream, wishing that someday my daddy would come and take me away.

My wish came true. By the time I was eleven years old, Alfred Junior, Juanita, and I headed off with Daddy that summer to live in Compton, California. Brimming with excitement, I drew a mental picture of what California looked like. We stopped in Bakersfield and met his mother Annie Mae. My grandmother was a sweet round-faced Christian woman who fed us well and sanctified her house with gospel music. She must have played the song: God can do anything but fail… a hundred times. I think it got the best of Daddy. After two days he was ready to leave. My guess was the song had stirred up bitter memories for him––something to do with his daddy being killed. Poor daddy. Our arrival in Compton was uneventful and my happiness was short-lived. For nearly three months, we were confined to our small, two-bedroom apartment. I spent my time listening to songs on the radio, but I felt like a caged bird without a cheerful tune to sing. Daddy worked long hours every day except weekends, leaving us alone with nothing to do. On his days off, he was too tired to take us anywhere special beyond the local grocery store. I was very disappointed. It was not going the way I had imagined it would.

When school started in mid-September, I dreaded taking the long, daily bus rides to get there. And because of my shyness and apprehension in making new friends, the other kids thought I was stuck up or something. The boys were indifferent, but the older girls were brash and mean. They made fun of me—at first behind my back. They pranced around with a snotty attitude while laughing and teasing me about my nappy hair. I hated them for that, and I hated my hair more.

One day, while listening to the radio, I heard a commercial advertising a product called Sulfur 8. The hair ointment was supposed to cure short, measly, dried-out hair and guaranteed long, soft, luxurious hair. I yearned for that hair grease and spent most of my time daydreaming about it. But it was just a dream—a stupid dream. I wanted to go home, back to Pasco.

I wrote Mama on a regular basis. I told her about the steel-plated trailers that were used for classrooms; the unfriendly, foulmouthed girls; Daddy’s absence; and my personal woes.

But things got worse. While I was in class one day, my teacher Miss Kraft clapped us to attention. I sat at my desk in the back row, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Today, we will review the study words for the quiz tomorrow, she rasped, her smoke-infested voice screeched like bad brakes on a locomotive train. She produced a short stick of chalk and scrawled on the board. Now, who can pronounce this word? she asked. Several eager hands flew into the air. I could pronounce it too, but I didn’t raise my hand. I slunk down in my seat. Miss Kraft tilted her head sideways and jabbed a pointy finger at me. All heads turned and I saw a zillion eyeballs staring at me. I swallowed hard. Regina, she said.

No! My insides screamed. She pronounced my name wrong, putting emphasis on the i. It sounded like she said "vagina." I stewed with hard-boiled embarrassment as my classmates fell over sideways giggling and snickering in their private joke. I wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear. The blood seemed to drain from my head. My eyes crossed and I closed them remembering that Mama warned me to never cross them or someday they would get stuck that way. With the sting of loathing at being embarrassed, I mumbled out the word Miss Kraft had written on the chalkboard.

Diligence, I said. Miss Kraft didn’t know I had a few choice words for her that I dared not breathe. She gave me a satisfactory nod. After that, I changed the spelling of my name by substituting the i with an e. I hated her for mispronouncing my name and I never wanted to go back to that school again. I poured my heart out and begged Mama to send for me. She wrote back and said that she would talk to Daddy. As time dragged along, my sadness turned to gloom.

It wasn’t long before Daddy discovered one of the letters. My tearstains had smeared the ink on the paper, so I had tossed it in the trash. He stood stiffly in the doorway, gazing at the letter I’d written. Then he looked up and stared at us. His glassy brown eyes were sad. Do you all feel the same way?

The three of us nodded. We had conspired together. Daddy said we would go home soon. Soon! I wanted to go home right now. My mind screamed. But I got on the school bus daily, ignoring those stupid girls and praying for the day to come when I would leave.

One afternoon, I returned from school and noticed a jar of hair balm on my dresser. It was Sulfur 8. My eyes bucked, and I squealed in surprise. I quickly opened the jar, grabbed a comb, parted my hair, and rubbed the ointment on my scalp. It tingled my head like it was already performing a miracle. When Daddy came in that evening from work, I rushed over to him.

Thank you, Daddy! I grinned.

He smiled back and asked, "Regina, do you have short,