Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

end up with the

same near-disastrous results. “Who’s Ishti?” she

asked.

Shamiyah laughed. “ ‘Who is Ishti?’ ” she mim-

icked. “It figures you don’t have a clue. Just don’t

let Ishti hear that. She takes herself very, very seri-

ously. Ishti . . .” she said, pausing for dramatic ef-

fect, “is only the stylist for African-American

celebrities!”

Audra thought of her mother trying time and

time again to tug a straightening comb through her

unruly naps and smiled. Good luck, Ishti. You’re

gonna need it.

“And there’s more,” Shamiyah was saying. “I’ve

just finished making the final arrangements. Your

mother’s changed her mind: She’s coming to the

Reveal.”

Audra stumbled a bit on the treadmill as her legs

seemed to stop pumping of their own accord. She

recovered herself and her stride and jogged on, star-

ing at Shamiyah in silent expectation.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Shamiyah squealed, practi-

cally jumping up and down with pride in her ac-

complishment. “We’re going to fly her and your

niece—”

“What about my sister? You got the Army to let

Petra and Michael come home, didn’t you?”

Shamiyah sighed. “That’s the bad news. They

won’t be coming. The military wouldn’t grant

them leave. They say it’s too close to their discharge

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date or something.” Another shake of the head.

“It sucks, really. Nothing like a couple of good-

looking folks in uniform to boost ratings.” Audra

turned toward her, a hard glare on her face, and

Shamiyah immediately continued with, “Well, of

course I know what it meant to you, but you know

what I mean.” She smiled, as if that erased her ear-

lier callousness. “But Art Bradshaw and his daugh-

ter are coming.”

Audra forgot all about the treadmill and stopped

short. A second later, she found herself flat on her

bottom on the floor, staring up at a startled

Shamiyah and, a second later, a concerned Julienne

who must have sprinted a new world’s record to get

across the room that fast.

“Are you all right?” they asked simultaneously.

Audra ignored them, their concerned faces and

outstretched hands. “Bradshaw’s going to make it?”

she demanded from her seat on the floor, feeling her

cheeks flush hot with something more than exer-

cise.

Shamiyah and Julienne exchanged glances.

“Why are you surprised? It was your idea to in-

vite him, right?” Shamiyah put a hand on her curvy

hip and twisted her neck, girlfriend style. “You talk

to him almost every night. Looks to me like now that

you’ve taken matters into your hands, you’ve finally

gotten his attention—”

“I wasn’t trying to get his attention, Shamiyah.”

Audra spat out.

“Don’t kid a kidder,” Shamiyah laughed. “Be-

sides, I was there, remember? Listening to you

whine about he’d promised to call, but he hadn’t.

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

265

Well, look who’s calling now! Another Ugly Duck-

ling success story, I’d say. Clearly he’s dying to see

your finished product,” she gushed. “I have a feel-

ing that he’s going to take one look at you and

you’re finally going to have a boyfriend.”

“If that’s the only reason he’s interested, I don’t

want him,” Audra declared. “I swear I don’t.”

Julienne grinned, elbowing Shamiyah like she

had a secret. “Methinks the lady doth protest too

much.”

“Oh, shut up,” Audra muttered, pulling herself off

the floor with a wince. She rubbed her behind ab-

sently. There was a lot less back there to cushion a fall

than there used to be, and she suspected she’d find a

nasty blue-purple bruise on her tailbone later on.

Art Bradshaw. Coming Here. For real. A shivery feel-

ing, one part anticipation, one part fear tingled

along her spine. When she left New York, the man

had been just a co-worker she’d built a fantasy

around, a co-worker she’d dreamed of knowing bet-

ter. Now, he was a friend—but in the form of a dis-

embodied voice of someone who knew her as she

had been. And in her dreams—and every now and

then in her realities—he’d say something to make

her hope he could be something else. Something

warm and real and permanent . . .

Still, bringing him here was like inviting her old

fears into this safe and mirrorless existence and

making them breakfast.

Shamiyah and Julienne were still staring at her,

waiting for her to say something.

Audra shrugged her shoulders with the noncha-

lance of a forties film star and climbed back aboard

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Karyn Langhorne

the treadmill as though she were already wearing

an evening gown. She gave them a dismissive smile.

“So when do I meet the famous Ishti?”

The overpowering smells of relaxer, hair oil, hair-

spray and the distinct aroma of hot hair on the boil

met Audra’s nose the second Shamiyah steered her

into the spacious salon overlooking a Beverly Hills

corner. To Audra’s surprise, the place was bustling

with attractive black women—more of them than

Audra had seen in her entire visit to L.A.—but

then, she had been so cloistered, she hadn’t seen

much of anyone.

Toward the center of the shop, Audra counted

six stylists in long, black aprons bustling around

customers in every chair. They were all beautiful,

stylists and customers alike, all carrying them-

selves with the comfort and ease of those who

knew they were pearls of great price. They ranged

in tones from sepia to mahogany, weights from

slender to thick, hair in every style and color from

Afro puffs to sleek. Audra looked around. Two

more women—older than most of the others in

the room, but both exquisitely dressed—sat in the

small, cool reception area set in a small alcove

away from the window opening to the street. They

were flipping the pages of fashion magazines and

chatting amicably.

“A lot of celebrities come here,” Shamiyah whis-

pered, guiding her into an empty seat. She needn’t

have bothered: Even Audra recognized a few of the

faces as familiar from television commercials and

movies. Audra felt on edge in their presence—in the

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

267

presence of all these women. They were confident in

their beauty, sure of themselves. But in spite of the

baggy clothes, the vanishing scars and the light

color of her skin, Audra knew nothing of her own

ranking in the beauty department. It was still sight

unseen.

Snippets of beauty-shop conversation floated to-

ward them from the main salon.

“Girl, no he didn’t,” a woman roared, laughter on

the left edge of her tone.

“Yes, he did!” her stylist exclaimed, and the two of

them fell against each other, chuckling in a way that

reminded Audra of New York and the Goldilocks

salon. She thought of her mother with a sudden

longing.

“Looks like the joint is jumping.” Shamiyah

sounded neither