I'm sitting in a small classroom next to my mom and across from the principal, sitting at a large desk with the same computer as the one in my teacher's class.

I look over my shoulder to see Melissa holding an ice pack to her nose at the back of the classroom. The bottoms of her eyes are puffy from crying and her cheeks are red.

"Turn around," my mom tells me with her teeth clenched and her lips scrunched. I quickly face forward and lock eyes with the principal.

She's a silver-haired woman with wrinkles all across her face and neck but they look like they were worse at one point. Her hair is in a low ponytail that stops just above her elbows and has a rose gold clip instead of a rubber band.

I glance around the room, listening to the clock ticking and other students shuffling through the halls to get to their next classes. The door is wide open, so I see Troy and Keenan walk side-by-side to their science class.

Then a woman steps in front of the door and my eyes travel up her black turtleneck and thin, beige trenchcoat.

"I'm sorry for the delay," she says but walks to Melissa like we haven't been waiting. "My Mercedes wouldn't start, so I had to get my brother to drive me."

She sounds and looks exhausted. Her voice drags a little and her eyes are heavy under layers of makeup.

"Mrs. Hayworth," the principal calls her, and Melissa's mom whips around with a raised eyebrow. Her dark brown hair swings and lands mostly on her shoulder.

"It's Donovan," she sternly tells her, then sits her Chanel clutch on the desk beside her daughter.

The principal narrows her eyes at her and asks, "Your name is Donovan?"

"No, my husband's last name is Donovan." Melissa's mom removes her trenchcoat and places it on her daughter's desk. "I haven't been a Hayworth in thirteen years."

I watch Melissa glare at her mother as she flattens the back of her black pencil skirt before finally sitting down.

"Can we speed this along," Mom asks. "I missed an appointment with my dentist to be here and if you two are just gonna argue over names, I'll gladly take my daughter and leave."

"I can see where she gets her attitude." The principal covers her mouth with one hand and stares wide-eyed at Mrs. Donovan.

"Excuse me?" My mom turns around to the smiling woman but she looks nowhere near as happy.

"I'm just saying, it explains why she lashed out at my child," she says while shrugging and acting like she meant no harm.

"Ladies?" Me and Melissa sit up in our seats. The bell rings and when I look through the door, I don't see anyone.

"Maybe my daughter had a reason." Mine crosses her arms and scans the woman's clothes. "If yours is anything like you, I think it's justified."

"I'm really paying all of this money for my child to go to school with hoods," she asks the principal with one hand gesturing toward us and laughing in disbelief.

"Hoods?" My heart sinks when my mom stands to her feet. The principal sits back with her fingers over her thin lips.

"Please, don't hit me," she says, but she doesn't sound afraid. Her tone is flat and her eyes are empty. "I have the best team of lawyers in the state and judging by your child's hair, you can't afford a lawsuit."

I look at Melissa, expecting her to smile or laugh, but she immediately lowers her head and shakes it.

"That's enough!" The adults turn to the woman in charge and like Melissa, I drop my attention to my lap and slump down in my chair. "My goodness, I feel for your children if this is the representation that they have at home." My mom glances at me, sighs, then returns to her seat. "Now, I had a word with every student in that first-period class, and from what I understand, Miss. Hayworth threw the ball at Miss. Iverson first."

"Does it matter who started it?" My mom shakes her head and chuckles like she's trying not to stand up again. "Doesn't seem like my child did much damage compared to what was done to her."

"That's irrelevant, Mrs. Donovan, and my intentions aren't to push the blame but to explain what transpired."

"I don't need a backstory to know that my child is hurt," she says while gesturing toward Melissa, then she looks at me and asks, "Will that girl be punished or should I revoke my funds and position in the PTA?"

The principal and my mom lock eyes. Her gaze softens when she catches me staring at her, then she gives my mom a sympathetic smile.

"Your daughter will be suspended for a week," she hesitates. From my body language, I can tell she feels pressured to throw Melissa's mom a bone.

"A week," they both repeat her judgment, and all I can do I hang my mouth open. For Mrs. Donovan, it's not enough, but for my mom, it's too much.

I'd never been suspended, expelled, sent to ISS, or made to write I will not misbehave over and over until there was no space left on the board.

I don't think I'm perfect, but I never drew attention for anything other than my attendance and grades.

Melissa and I stare at each other. She takes the ice pack off her face-a blue pouch that resembles a dumpling-and I suck in air through my clenched teeth.

Her nose is purple like the sky during sunset, and there's a gash across her nose bridge.

Despite her appearance, she mouths, "Sorry," while our moms argue over my punishment.

***

I'm sitting on the kitchen sink between my mom and sister with my damp hair sprawled across my head, a towel around my neck, and beads of water dripping on my hands.

Michelle is standing at the stove, heating the straightening comb; Regina is sitting backward in a dining chair with her arms folded on the top and her chin on her wrist, grinning from ear to ear at me; Mom is rinsing the suds from the sink, and Aunt LaToya is beside her.

"It's ready," Michelle tells her before turning around and leaning against the Lazy Susan.

"I'm tellin' you, Teresa, you're better than me," LaToya says, shaking her head. "I would've went medieval if she called my baby a hood."

"If it wasn't for Leila sitting there, they would've had to pull me off her." Mom turns to me and Michelle.

Mom glances at LaToya when she asks, "What'd she look like?"

"A brunette Claudia Schiffer," she tells her with a higher tone, as if she can't believe it. "Strutted in, smelling herself talking about how her Mercedes broke down." She fans off the thought of Melissa's mom, then focuses on Michelle. "And she looks too young to be a mother."

Michelle lifts the handle like it's no hotter than what she'd run for bath water. I watch the smoke rise and sway similar to a smoking gun or a lit cigarette and my stomach rumbles.

I hadn't ever had my hair pressed or permed until now, and I'm afraid. I'm not naive to the practice, but I've only heard horror stories. I've seen women and men lose patches upon patches until all that they could do was pull out their clippers.

My real mom spent my whole life growing out my hair in braids and twists because she wanted me to have the choice to decide what I wanted when I was older. Also, it was a way of showing me how versatile my coils are.

"Probably didn't happen by choice." Mom nods as she takes the comb from my sister. "Women like that don't plan babies unless it's to trap their men or to tote them around like trophies."

I think her statement only resonates with me because their reactions don't change much.

I can't help but think about Melissa. I don't regret smacking her with that ball-if I'd missed, I swear I would've pummeled her right in front of her friends-but seeing how small she made herself next to her mom gave me a new perspective.

Maybe Aunt LaToya's right; maybe Melissa's the way she is because her mom is the way she is.

"Mom," I speak lower than I usually do, but all eyes are on me.

How do I tell an adult-someone who thinks she's my parent-to do something? How do I ask her not to press my hair, even though with Michelle and LaToya's help, she spent five minutes unbraiding my hair and half an hour washing and detangling it?

"What's wrong?" I lick my lips and straighten my posture.

"I don't want my hair to be straight," I firmly tell her without a quiver in my voice.

She holds her hip in her other hand, and with an annoyed tone, she asks, "Then what do you want done to it, Leila?"

"I like it like this." I fluff the back of my frizzy hair, patting the stretched coils against my palms.

LaToya and Mom look at each other, their eyebrows drawn in. They seem confused, so I take a breath to speak, but then they burst out laughing. They cackle like hyenas in floral blouses and plain capris. LaToya squeezes the counter's edge, and Mom clutches her stomach.

Michelle and Regina share a glance, both cringing.

"Chaka Khan, baby, it's the nineties," she says through shaky breaths, suppressing another bout of laughter. "You should've been born in the fifties like us if you wanted a bush."

"And you wait 'til now to say this? I already put the comb on the stove." She wipes her eyes, and then LaToya does the same.

"And weren't you asking for hair like Halle Berry in Living Dolls," Michelle asks. I don't remember asking because it never happened, but I can't say that.

Mom points at me with her eyebrows raised. "I'm not cutting your hair but I'll press it and pin it for you."

But I don't want my hair pressed!

"Okay, can I just go back to the braids, please," I whine, threading my fingers through the sides of my hair. It feels like wool. "I have some beads in my room."

"I can do it for you, Ma," Michelle offers and we all look at her. She lifts her olive-toned hand to my dark hair, gently petting it.

"Alright, fine." She takes a deep breath as she walks past us to the stove. We watch her shut it off and turn to us. "I need to head to the store to pick up some things for dinner, so you'll be helping me out."

"Am I still not allowed to go outside?" Mom stares at me with her lips agape, and though Regina's face is aimed at Mom, her hazel eyes are on me. She flares are nostrils like she's afraid for me.

"Ride with me, LaToya." Our aunt steps out of the kitchen. As she licks her lips, she turns at the hips to set the comb on the back burner. Her cold gaze returns to me and sends chills racing down my spine. "Don't play with me in front of company, Leila, you know you can't leave this house." I drop my head and lick my lips. She tells Michelle, "Don't take long braiding her hair," and then she joins LaToya at the door. She copies my question, then scoffs. "That girl is lucky I'm talking to her."

Regina leans back in her chair to watch them leave and when the door slams shut, she almost snaps the chair leg turning to me.

She struggles to contain her excitement when she says, "Girl, tell me everything," and she reminds me of a child before Christmas.

She wants the full details. Did we have a screaming match or get straight to fighting? Was it an all-out brawl or were our classmates surrounding us? How'd Melissa look, and was the meeting really as bad as Mom made it seem?

I can't tell her anything. If it weren't for what LaToya said, I'd spill the beans like a tea channel host, but maybe there's more to Melissa.