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Kat House

Kimberly M. Scott

    It was almost that time again... . I could smell the smoke and taste the alcohol already, and I was just sitting in sixth period. A bunch of blonde-haired white girls sat cackling in the back of the room. I didn’t know if this was because the tracks from her nappy weave were probably showing or because Beatrice had just got up to walk to Mr. Wyatt’s desk. Beatrice was about the size of all of those skinny winches put together. In the hood, the boys on Elder Street would think her body was off the chain, but this wasn’t the hood, and the boys on Elder Street can’t hold a candle to these white folks. Beatrice walked past me again, slightly bumping my desk.
    “Sorry,” Beatrice said in a low, raspy voice that reminded me of Marilyn Monroe.
    Those girls would be surprised that I knew who Marilyn Monroe was, but I studied her for my music appreciation class last year. The smell of fresh menstrual blood passed me, too. Beatrice’s period was on. That was why she went up there to see Mr. Wyatt. Didn’t somebody teach her to count the days for when her cycle was gonna come on? My Auntie J taught me before she got killed...I wasn’t nothing but nine years old. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. Maybe Beatrice is like me. Maybe nobody don’t care about her neither. I heard the girls in the back snicker again. Yep, it wasn’t me they were laughing at this time.
    The smell was getting high now. It reminded me of the Kat House; the smell of unwashed bodies when it was some of the girls’ time of month. I suggested that they stay home during that time, but Marcy was about her money. She didn’t care if they didn’t have no legs; as long as they could be laid, they were fair game for her.
    “Ya gonna bleed anyways,” is what Marcy told me as a solution to the problem. Then she added, “Just cause you a high yella heifer, you thank you better den dem otha guls?”
    “No. It just stinks is all.” That was the end of that conversation.
    The bell rang for us to be dismissed, and as usual, I waited til everyone else left the room so as to not be in the way. I just happened to look at Beatrice’s khaki pants and sure enough, there was a red stain. What in the world was she thinking wearing them? Didn’t she know around that time a month to wear black? Then I remembered. I guess some stuff you just gotta learn. It’s like Aunt J used to say: trial and error.

#

    On the bus, I sat down in a seat close to the front and placed my books next to the empty space by me. I don’t like it when other people sit by me. Getting so close to others is uncomfortable. It’s something I already havta do at the kat house, so having time alone—even just on this short bus ride—was a luxury. Weariness of the day had caused me to almost fall asleep, but I knew I did not have time for that. Within a few minutes, I was away from the horrors of Math and English at Jefferson High and stepping into a whole new nightmare—the kat house on a Friday. Mens was already starting to pour in, and the girls’ cheap perfume was already stinkin up the air. The Kat House ain’t got no central heat or air, just lots of fans and a few little window units. The smoke is enough to kill you alone. I make my way up the stairs and to my luck there is no one in the bathroom. That is a rarity. While changing into the appropriate attire, a tight red freakum dress, I thought about what a different life would be like; one like those preppy white girls at school with their rich parents to swoop them up so they didn’t have to ride the bus. That was a luxury in itself. Then, I thought about stanky Beatrice’s life. I bet even that was better than mine. I squeezed into the red dress that had a hard time zipping. I know I better be careful not to break the zipper, because that was one less outfit, and Marcy ain’t having that. I’d be forced to walk around without clothes rather than Marcy buying me a new outfit. She’d probably like it better that way anyway—easy access.
    After getting the dress on—barely—Marcy was already banging at the door.
    “Gul, how many times I told you not to hog up the bathroom time? It’s more guls out here than you! You thank you special or somethin?! Now get outta here and serve these men. Ain’t nobody got time to be waistin money waitin on you!”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I put my fantasies aside, and stepped out to do my job praying the weekend would fly by.

#

    Monday rolled around, and I was back in sixth period. Mr. Wyatt stood at the front of the class teaching something he knew very little about—African American history. I tuned out the snickers and gum popping coming from the skinny white girls in the black of the class. Mr. Wyatt, getting agitated, turned away from the chalk board where he was writing notes that nobody was taking down, pushed his coke bottle glasses up on his nose, and asked, “Who can name three notable African Americans?”
    Everyone basically looked around until Mr. Wyatt placed his forefingers on his temple.
    “No one will be prepared for this History test Friday. You need to know this.”
    The talking, snickers, and gum popping continued as Mr. Wyatt turned back to the board and began to make more notes. This time about “three notable African Americans.” Out of nowhere, one of the skinny white girls asked,
    “Why do we have to learn this stuff? Who cares about negroes anyway?”
    It is unbelievable what can come out of some people’s mouths. I wondered if the class wasn’t so small and us blacks so outnumbered if the outcome of saying something like that would have been different.
    “We’re important, too,” Beatrice almost whispered.
    Beatrice has some gumption to say something back to those girls, and I was waiting for them to chew her up alive.
    “Who asked you?” retorted one of the white girls.
    One of the few boys, who was also white, made a spit ball with the straw he had been playing with and shot it directly at Beatrice’s neck, and that is where it landed. For a minute I thought big B was going to get up out of her seat, and braced myself for the brawl that was about to ensue. That is until there was a knock on the door.
    “Class, class, quiet down,” Mr. Wyatt asked with no real amount of concern. Not wanting to show the chaos going on in the room, Mr. Wyatt stepped outside the door. When he stepped back in, he motioned for me.
    “The guidance counselor wants to see you.”
    On the quiet walk from Mr. Wyatt’s class to the Guidance Office with stern Ms. Helen, the school secretary, I thought of all the possible reasons the guidance counselor would want to see me of all people. Maybe I had won an award or something. No, my grades barely floated above average. Maybe fat B had opened her mouth one too many times about being picked on and put me in the spot to have to be a witness. Or maybe Marcy was dead. Then where would I go? This thought made me shiver, so I quickly put it out of my mind.
    Ms. Helen left me at the door of the Guidance Office. I stepped in and Ms. Anne, one of the other secretaries, motioned her head toward Ms. Alice, who greeted me with a smile. Ain’t no white woman gonna smile at you for nothing. This was big. Really big.
    “Come on in,” she said quaintly. “Have a seat.”
    Ms. Alice motioned for me to sit down, as the door closed behind me. Thoughts of what I had done rung through my head, but I kept coming up blank.
    “Do you know why you are here?”
    “No, Ma’am.”
    “I have gotten notes from several of your teachers that you have been recently falling asleep in class...”
    “...I am just tired from studyin’ is all.” Late nights at the Kat House can put a wear and tear on a girl.
    “Uhm huh. And several have also complained of you getting sick...you know...vomiting.” Ms. Alice said the word as if it made her sick.
    “This food here ain’t nothin to brag about, Ms. Alice.” I kept a straight face. It was the truth.
    “What I am trying to hint at...is...are you pregnant?”
    The thought had never occurred to me. It was all adding up now. The sleepiness. The nausea (more than usual). My dress not fitting. Oh my dear God! I had put a noose around my own neck. When one of the regulars, Bo-bo as he was called, because of his bowed legs, had left me more messy than usual, I wondered what was wrong. Then, I thought missing a few of my pills here and there wouldn’t matter, because Marcy has a rule that men can’t be bare with the girls at all.
    “No, ma’am,” I said with my best poker face. “Family just been sick at my house is all. Stomach flu or something. I must’ve caught somethin from one of them.”
    “Okay. How is your family doing?”
    “Fine now.” I tried to add as little as possible. No need to open another bag of worms.
    “Alright. I hope you get to feeling better. You can go back to class now before the dismissal bell rings. If that flu hasn’t let up in a few days, let me know, and we can have you checked by the school nurse, okay?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”

#

    As I walked up the steps to the Kat House, it felt like I was walking into an execution chamber. How would I tell Marcy? What would she do to me?! My thoughts glazed over as I entered the house, feeling sicker than usual, and ignoring whatever Marcy was trying to tell me.
    “...school called...tell me...might as well get ready...you here me gul?” Marcy’s voice was weightless and of no concern to me.
    I drew me a warm bath and added some Epsom salt. I went into the medicine cabinet and got out a couple bottle of pills. I took out a sheet of paper and began writing. If you are reading this letter...

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