“Well . . . not exactly,” she said, suppressing a
yawn. “I spent the day putting together another
Ugly Duckling episode. Camilla just finished view-
ing it. She hates it. Says it’s all wrong . . . lacks
drama and interest.” She sighed. “So I’ll have to re-
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edit the sequences tomorrow. Put in a bunch of stuff
about the rape—”
“The woman was raped?”
Shamiyah nodded. “Yep. She’s kinda pitiful,
actually,” she said sounding almost casual in her fa-
tigue. “But she had a beautiful Reveal.” Her mouth
stretched wide as she bit back another yawn. “God,
I’m tired,” she mumbled. “Camilla’s a real slave
driver.”
“Slave driver?” Audra shook her head. “Honey,
that woman sounds like a first-class bitch to me.”
“No doubt.” Shamiyah sat up. “But she’s also the
best at what she does. She created this show out of
nothing, found the backers, got it on the air. That’s
not easy.” A bit of ambition glinted in Shamiyah’s
weary eyes. “I intend to learn everything there is to
learn from her. But that’s not why I came to see
you.” She focused on Audra, suddenly alert. “I saw
the tape from your session with Dr. Goddard to-
day.” Her eyebrows shot heavenward. “You were
awfully coy. Why didn’t you tell her anything?”
“Tell her anything?” Audra frowned. “Like
what?”
Shamiyah frowned. “Don’t play that with me, Au-
dra,” she snapped, in a hard, cold voice Audra
wasn’t used to hearing come from her mouth. “You
know I need that footage.”
“Footage? What footage?” she asked. “Remember
me, Shamiyah? Audra from the golden days of film?
I don’t speak TV.”
Shamiyah did not appear amused. “The stuff you
said on your audition tape,” she said impatiently.
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“About what your father said. About the stuff the in-
mates call you at that prison. About what that girl—
your friend Bradshaw’s daughter—what she told
you. All of it. I want that footage for the actual
episode. I need it.”
Audra waved her comments away. “I’m not com-
fortable talking to the doc about that stuff.”
“Why? You’ve got something against psychia-
trists? Don’t like shrinks?”
“I’ve got no problem with psychiatry—”
“But you think you don’t need one, is that it?
Because—”
“I might need one,” Audra muttered. “My mother
certainly thinks so . . . but then, she’s a fine one to
talk.” She lifted her fingers to her face as though
holding an imaginary cigar. “Takes one to know
one,” she offered in her best Groucho Marx imita-
tion. “Right?”
Shamiyah must not have ever heard of him, be-
cause she didn’t even smile. “I need that footage,
Audra,” she repeated in a voice sharp as steel.
“You’ve already got it,” Audra reminded her.
“Like you said. On the audition tape—”
“The audition tape is crap!” Shamiyah glared at
her, sounding annoyed that Audra had even both-
ered to mention it. “We can’t use that!”
“Crap? Wait just a second,” she muttered, not re-
ally liking Shamiyah as much as she had. “You’ve
spent the past few months telling me how great that
tape was, and now—”
“What’s on the tape is great, but we can’t use it.
The production quality isn’t what I need to make
this show look right. And besides, I need to feature
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193
Dr. Goddard in this episode or she won’t renew
with us for next season.” Her eyes narrowed as
she fixed another determined glance on Audra.
“You were the perfect candidate to put her skills
and abilities to use . . . and what do you do? You
stonewalled—”
“I didn’t stonewall—”
“You didn’t tell her anything! You just pulled out
“Tired?” Anger crept into Audra’s voice. “Whose
jokes are you calling tired?”
“Honestly, Audra. I don’t know what kind of mo-
rons you deal with at home, but it’s patently obvious
to everyone here”—and the way that she spoke
made it perfectly clear that in her mind, L.A. was
the hub of the civilized world—“that you’re using
humor and fantasy to compensate for what you lack
in self-esteem.”
A vein ticked in Audra’s forehead. “First of all, it
isn’t that obvious, since clearly you had to watch
Dr. Goddard on tape to come up with it,” she told
the girl, hearing her voice rise with her emotions.
“And second, my self-esteem isn’t as low as you
seem to think it is. And last, even I were willing to
put myself out there and discuss my dirty laundry
with the world, what makes you think I’m gonna do
that to my family, huh?”
Shamiyah wagged her kinky-curled head. “I
thought you were ready, Audra. That’s why I lob-
bied so hard for you. I really stuck my neck out, you
know? Put it all on the line with Camilla.” She
paced away from Audra, gathering up her things as
if preparing to leave. “She really didn’t want you on
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Karyn Langhorne
the show. She didn’t think you had what it took. But
I insisted that you did. That you were worth the
thousands of dollars in surgeries and consulta-
tions . . . that you were willing to stand up and be a
real example to millions of women—”
“Shamiyah . . .” Audra sighed. “There are things
here that I’m not sure I want to share with the whole
world—”
“Then why are you here?” Shamiyah snapped, ir-
ritation palpable in her voice.
For an instant the two women stared at each
other: irresistible force and immovable object.
Shamiyah’s face had lost its usual cheerfulness and
in the blank expression she presented, Audra read a
grasping hardness she’d never noticed before. Then,
just as suddenly as she’d glimpsed it, the hardness
was gone. Shamiyah stepped close to Audra and
took her hand. For a second, Audra thought that the
gesture was one of support, one of solidarity, but in-
stead, she studied the skin on the arm carefully,
then lay her own arm beside it, comparing skin
tones.
Audra followed her eyes. When they’d first met,
Audra’s skin had been the color of molasses—deep,
rich and dark—while Shamiyah’s was a tawny red
brown. But now, Audra’s coloring had brightened to
match the girl’s almost exactly. It was the most strik-
ing evidence of the changes the drug had wrought
that Audra had seen, and she stared at the two arms,
&nbs
p; as if understanding for the first time the process
she’d set in motion.
“If you’re willing to do this,” Shamiyah said, ges-
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
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turing toward their still-touching skin, “then you
sure ought to be willing to tell the world at least
some of the reasons why.” Her eyes found Audra’s.
“Talk to the doc,” she said calmly. “We need that
footage . . . or the audience is just going to decide
you’re some self-hating black woman who wants to
look like a white girl—”
“It’s not going to come across like that!” Audra
exclaimed. “No one’s going to think—”
“They will if you don’t tell your story!” Shamiyah
nearly shouted. “Come on, Audra! You know how
sensitive we are about color in the black commu-
nity. If you just show up one color and leave a
different one without saying a word about it, what
else are people gonna think! But”—Shamiyah con-
tinued in a voice that regained its reassuring
calm—“when you tell your story, you come across
differently. You’re . . .” She paused as if gathering
steam to present her argument. “You’re a person
who doesn’t like the hand she was dealt and has de-
cided to use the resources available to change it.
You’re not filled with self-hate. You’re . . . coura-
choir of amens in her head. “Personally, I think
you’re brave as hell to do this—and to tackle it on
TV.” Her smile vanished again. “But you got to give
it to the shrink straight. We’re gonna need that
footage to help explain your reasons for making
such radical changes. Okay?”
Audra’s chest felt tight, as though her heart were
being squeezed in a vise. The idea of delving into
the depths of the pain of the past made her head
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Karyn Langhorne
hurt . . . but the possibility of being perceived as
one of those black folks who hated her blackness
was even worse. “I don’t know,” she muttered,
rubbing at her temples. “I’ll . . . I’ll have to think
about it.”
Shamiyah hesitated, as though debating the wis-
dom of lengthening her pep talk a bit. But ulti-
mately, she just nodded. “I’m beat, how about you?”
she said, filling the space between them with a final
elaborate yawn that seemed a little fake. “You should
get some rest, too. You’ll be meeting with the dentist
tomorrow morning and Dr. Goddard again in the
afternoon, I think—”
“And the nutritionist in between,” Audra said,
trying to laugh, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“Right, right,” Shamiyah said, but her tone made
it clear that she was about as interested in the nutri-
tionist’s comments as she was in the current condi-
tion of the polar ice cap. “Oh, I almost forgot. I got
you these.” She pulled a wide-brimmed straw hat
with a red ribbon around its base, an elegant red
scarf and a pair of long, red gloves from her bag.
“Throw away that baseball cap and jacket. These are
much more hip.”
“Wow . . . it’s so . . . so . . .” Audra settled the hat
on her head and wrapped the scarf around her
throat, wishing for a mirror for the first time since
Shamiyah had admitted her to this small apartment.
“Audrey Hepburn.”
“Exactly,” Shamiyah nodded. “I thought you’d
like it.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“No problem. And talk to Doc Goddard. Let’s get
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the situation on camera for all the sisters and broth-
ers out there to see, okay?” she said and waved her
good night.
Chapter 16
Thursday, June 28
Dear Petra,
Thanks for the email. I got a little scared when I didn’t
hear from you . . .
It’s funny, isn’t it? I don’t mind letting them cut me
up (well, maybe a little) and I haven’t minded Dr.
Jamison’s treatments. To me, those were meant to
help me be more like you and Kiana . . . and even Ma.
I don’t mind knowing that at this Reveal there will be a
huge blowup of me in my fat, black and ugly glory
beside my new reality: something light and bright and
slender. I know people will draw whatever conclusion
suits them and I’m fine with it.
I don’t mind inviting the public to watch all the
external stuff . . . but I do mind the idea of talking to
this body-image consultant and having my most
personal doubts recorded for public consumption.
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199
But I don’t think there’s much I can do about it now.
Maybe Shamiyah’s right: Maybe it’s better to explain
myself than to leave it alone and let people reach what-
ever conclusions about me that they want to. Or maybe
it’s not other people I’m worried about at all. Maybe it’s
just that I don’t want to talk about any of that stuff. I
don’t want to go there. It’s one thing to beat Ma over the
head with it . . . It’s something else to really think about
it, what it means to me, who I am, my relationships . . .
I keep asking myself WWPD: What would Petra do?
Enlighten me, oh wise one!
Be careful out there,
Audra
“So. It’s tomorrow.” Edith’s voice was heavy
with the lateness of the hour. She sounded
tired and defeated to Audra’s ears . . . but it could
have just been a by-product of the thousands of
miles between them.
“Yep.” Audra forced her voice to bouncy enthusi-
asm she didn’t feel. “Tomorrow’s the big slice and
dice. Or at least it’s the first of the three days of slic-
ing and dicing.”
There was a long pause. Audra could almost see
her mother’s face: her cinnamon skin a little gray
without her makeup, her latest hairstyle tied down
tight in a colorful do-rag. She would be sitting in her
room by now, maybe on the bed, maybe at the little
desk that housed her computer, where she faithfully
typed an email to Petra every night, just as Audra
herself did, every morning. The image gave Audra
an unexpected sense of comfort.
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Karyn Langhorne
“I don’t suppose you’re gonna back out now? I
don’t suppose you might change your mind before
they knock you out and do what they’re gonna
do . . . because . . .” She hesitated for the briefest
moment, before rushing on to say, “You can still
come home. I know there’s been some harsh words
between us. But”—her mother spoke faster still, as if
expecting Audra to rain anger upon her before she
could finish—“like it or not, you’re still my daughter
and you can still come home.”
But instead of prompting anger, a surprising feel-
ing of gratitude welled up in Adura’s heart.
“Thanks, Ma,” Audra said softly. “But it’s really
too late. I’ve come this far.” She shrugged. “I guess
I’ll see it through.”
Edith was silent for a long moment and Audra
half expected her next words to be in the “you’re out
of your mind” vein the woman had been mining for
the past month. But to her surprise, her mother
asked, “You scared?”
“A little . . . I guess.”
“Well, I am,” Edith declared with a little more of
her usual fight and fire. “I got one daughter in Iraq
and the other on a reality show.” She made an odd
strangled noise that sounded like a laugh gone bad.
“From where I’m sitting, I got two children in the
crosshairs and there’s nothing I can do about it but
pray.”
Audra wanted to respond, to reassure her that all
would be well . . . but with thoughts swirling in her
head like the debris picked up by a tornado—each
thought more confusing than the last—she knew
there wasn’t much she could say that would be
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201
credible. It was one thing to submit a tape, visit with
doctors, smear some cream on your skin. It was
something else to spend three days in surgery with
only a picture generated by a computer to guide your
expectations of what you’d look like when it was all
done. It was something else to let people start pick-
ing and prying into your most private of memories
and motives . . . and something else yet again to try
to go home again after the picking and prodding—
both physical and emotional—was through.
“All the ladies down at the shop can’t wait to see
you when this is done,” her mother was saying. “I
keep telling them they won’t know you, but I don’t
go into the details. I mean,” and again she spoke
quickly as if to prevent interruption, “no one really
knows how all this is gonna come out. Let ’em see
for themselves, that’s what I say—”
“Ma—”
“I don’t want to talk about none of that, Audra,”
her mother’s voice rose to strident. “You already
said you’re gonna do it anyway, so what’s the
point?”
“Ma—”
“Aren’t you listening? I said I don’t want to talk
about any of it, so don’t even try to—”
“Shut up, Ma, and listen!” Audra shouted into the
phone. She inhaled deeply into the silence that fol-