Leaving Atlanta Read Online Free

but she howled as a preventive measure. DeShaun never complained and, as a result, often went to school with her hair
     pulled back so tightly that her eyes slanted.
    “You know this is not hurting you,” Mama said, but she used a lighter touch.
    “Why can’t I fix my own hair?”
    “Because you can’t part straight and I can’t have you going out of this house looking like a little pickaninny.”
    Tasha sighed, resting her face on the inside of Mama’s thigh and running her hand up and down her pecan-colored shin, enjoying
     the texture of the stocking.
    “Tasha, let my hose alone. I don’t have time to change them when you put a run in them.”
    Tasha moved her hand, feeling rejected.
    “Okay,” Mama said, patting her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m done.”
    Tasha went into the bathroom to inspect the job in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was just like DeShaun’s. Evidently,
     Mama thought that it was cute for the two of them to be small and large versions of the same thing, like those dolls that
     nest inside each other. But it was entirely inappropriate, not to mention humiliating, for a fifth-grader to have the same
     hairdo as a little bitty third-grader.
    Assuming an air of maturity, Tasha wiggled the silver key hanging on a shoestring like a pendant, from under her blouse to
     the outside. This, at least, would separate her from her sister; no little kids had keys and Tasha had only gotten hers this
     school year. Instead of staying with their neighbor, Mrs. Mahmud, she and Shaun went straight home after school and stayed
     alone until Mama got off from work.
    Those two hours were Tasha’s favorite time of day. She was
in charge
. Each day, she gravely insisted that she be the only one to touch anything mechanical.
    “It’s too dangerous,” she had told her sister, as she adjusted the thermostat to seventy-four degrees.
    She looked in the mirror a little longer. If the weather had been better, Tasha would have demanded some modification of her
     coif. But it was raining outside and she would be forced to wear a stupid hat anyway.
    Tasha was sitting at her desk when her nose started to run. There was a long piece of bathroom tissue in her pocket, but Forsythia
     Collier, across the aisle, was dabbing at her nostrils with tiny Kleenexes from a cute little pouch. Too embarrassed to tear
     off a piece of crumpled toilet paper, Tasha inhaled deeply through her nostrils, hoping to reverse the flow without making
     noise.
    Mr. Harrell looked at her with disapproval from in front of the class. “Miss Baxter,” he said, “if you need to blow your nose,
     please go to the lavatory.”
    Tasha skulked out of the trailer appearing to concentrate intently on the white tile floor, flecked with black.
    Although the walkway connecting the fifth-grade trailers to the main school building was covered, it was not enclosed. Wet
     air blew into Tasha’s face. Just as she shoved her hands into her pockets, she saw Jashante Hamilton leaning against a pole.
     He rested his weight on one leg and angled his chin.
    “What you get sent out here for?” he wanted to know.
    “I’m just going to blow my nose.” For some reason, Tasha felt as though she were pleading.
    He was good-looking. Not in the same way as Roderick Palmer, who had pretty eyelashes like a girl, cute bow-legs, and skin
     soft brown like the wood around a pencil lead. Jashante was tall and brown-red like a pair of penny-loafers. His hair, shaved
     low to his head, was pomaded and brushed into rows of even waves. There was something grown about him. Tasha knew he was much
     older than the average fifth-grader. (Way older than her, since she had a late birthday.) Roderick Palmer claimed to have
     somehow seen Jashante’s permanent record, which said he was fifteen.
    “Don’t you have one of them little bitty Kleenexes in your pocketbook like all the other fancy girls?” he asked. His voice
     was slippery and almost deep.
    Tasha was flattered that he