love you?”
Audra shook her head. “No.”
“And what if you were the most beautiful woman
in the world? Would that change or explain or
erase all the help and support? Would he suddenly
have ulterior motives? Would you say he was only
being your friend because you’re beautiful and he’s
hoping for something more from you than just
friendship—”
“No!” Audra exclaimed.
“Then maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t have any-
thing to do with what you look like, Audra.
Maybe—just maybe—you finally dropped your de-
fenses long enough for the man to get to know
you—really get to know you, beyond the movie lines
and diva dames. And maybe he’s found something
he values in the process.”
Audra considered. “I don’t know. You should see
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Esmeralda. I mean, I know she’s got her issues
but . . . “ She sighed. “She’s really pretty. And he’s re-
ally pretty. I can’t see what a man who was with a
woman that pretty would want with—”
“Audra.” The doc leaned forward to pat her on
the knee. “Don’t you get this yet?” And when Audra
shook her head, she continued, “The people who re-
ally love you—the people who matter—love you for
who you are on the inside—”
“But—” Audra interrupted. The whole light-skin,
dark-skin thing was swirling in her brain again.
“Yes, I know it’s a cliché. And I know you don’t
believe it. And certainly people are attracted to
beauty, there’s no denying that. But at the end of the
day, what makes one person beautiful and another
ugly?” She tapped her forehead. “Perception, Au-
dra. Beauty is the ultimate head game. I might find
a person gorgeous—a person you think of as
homely, or utterly unremarkable in every way. But
when I look at him, I see stars. Why? Because I see
something you don’t, or I see through the lens of
love.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Audra mut-
tered.
“More than that. Beauty is in the brain of the be-
holder. What you think dictates how you see it. So,
back to Bradshaw. The question isn’t really what he
sees . . . it’s what he thinks. And that’s an easy one
to answer.” She settled herself back into her arm-
chair and beamed a warm smile at Audra. “All you
have to do to find out what a man thinks is screw
your courage to its sticking place.”
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Karyn Langhorne
“Screw my courage . . . ?”
“Ask him, Audra,” Dr. Goddard said. “Not as
Bette Davis or Mae West. As yourself. Just ask him.”
Audra fixed the doctor with a small smile. “Easy
to say, doc. Easy to say, hard to do.”
Chapter 22
August 30
Dear Petra,
Things have settled into a rather dull routine: workout,
sessions with Dr. Goddard and other experts, phone
conversations with Art, emails to you. Other than
that, I watch TV, work in my journal, try to get my
head around all the changes I can expect when I get
home.
I think I’m close to your coloring, skinwise. And I
know I’m pretty thin. Even without mirrors, some things
are hard to miss. I know I must look really different . . .
but I feel really different, too. I’m trying hard to “be
myself
” as they say. It’s surprisingly difficult. Who
knew? I’m still scared of all kinds of things—like
working it out with Ma, figuring out how to handle
Bradshaw face-to-face—but at least I know why I’m
afraid. The truth is Ma loves me and I love her, so no
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Karyn Langhorne
matter what, we’ll be okay. And if Bradshaw’s meant
for me, he’ll let me know. If not . . . I guess I’ll have to
dust off my evening gowns and make like a starlet until
I find Mr. Right.
No . . . that’s a lie. The truth is I’ll be crushed. I
really like him, Petra. I haven’t even been able to work
up the nerve to ask him if he likes me. And I never
told him about the skin lightening. I don’t think he’d
like it
.
.
.
and it makes me feel
.
.
.
ashamed of
myself.
I know I should tell him . . . but I can’t. I just can’t.
Anyway, it’s only a few weeks until the Reveal, and I
guess I’ll have to deal with all of these things soon
enough. I’m really hoping you’ll be able to be there—
that would be the best part. I can’t wait to see all of
you—even Ma. No matter how I look, it’s good to
know that I have you guys.
Be careful out there,
Audra
“Okay, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
Shamiyah bounced into the gym specially
set up for Ugly Duckling participants and stood near
Audra as she pounded out her second hour on the
treadmill in front of a dull gray, mirrorless wall.
“Which do you want first?”
“Good, always the good news first,” Audra
panted, grabbing her towel to wipe the sweat rolling
down her face.
“Okay . . . God, Audra.” Shamiyah leaned closer
to her. “You’re starting to look . . . really, really
good.”
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261
“Oh yeah?” Audra panted. “According to Julienne
I’ve got about fifteen more pounds to lose.” Audra
looked down at herself. The rolls of skin were long
gone, replaced by taut flesh. “Though I can’t imag-
ine from where—”
“I can,” Shamiyah said, peering toward Audra’s
rear end. “Let’s just say all of your troubles are
behind you.” She shook her mass of curly hair off
her face, dismissing the subject before Audra could
object. “Anyway, I’m talking about your face! I
mean . . . you look—you look—” The curls wagged.
“Gorgeous. I can’t explain it. Really different and yet
still you . . . and that’s before we even get to
makeup.”
Her face. Audra felt the sudden twinge of high
anxiety that any mention or thought of it always
brought these days. It was looking good, all the doc-
tors and experts kept saying. No, good wasn’t the
word they used. The words were usually startling,
beautiful, amazing. She had the feeling that the sur-
geries had exceeded their expectations by more than
the doctors were willing to admit.
“Well, that’s about what we were going for, wasn’t
it?” She glanced at the peanut-butter skin of her
hands and arms. “There’s still a lot of dark scar tis-
sue in some places, if you know where to look.”
“Your evening gown will cover it for the show—”
“And there are places where I’m a couple of dif-
ferent colors.” Audra huffed on. “I look like a patch-
work quilt on my stomach and legs—”
“The evening gown will cover it for the show.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Do you want to hear the good news or not?”
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Karyn Langhorne
“Fire away, Shamiyah.” Audra gave her a devilish
grin. “What’s stopping you?”
Shamiyah sighed frustration. “Audra, you’re a
piece of work.”
“Glad to hear it. I was beginning to worry my out-
side had changed my inside more than I wanted it
to.” She sighed in mock relief. “Now what’s the
good word?”
“I’ve gotten you Ishti!” Shamiyah said, doing a
happy dance around Audra’s treadmill. “Ishti! Ishti!
Ishti!”
Audra tugged on the pin in her sweatpants, mak-
ing sure they wouldn’t slide off her newfound hip
bones and give the world a free sneak peek of the
doctors’ and experts’ hard-won efforts. She wiped
her face with the towel draped over the handrail of
the treadmill and rubbed her head, feeling the wiry
springs of her too-long hair rough against her fin-
gertips. Whatever other changes, her hair was still
nappy as it ever was, and long, too. Too long for the
short Afro style she had been accustomed to wear-
ing it in. Thank God today’s schedule included fit-
tings for gowns and, at long last, a trip to a beauty
salon.
Audra stared at her companion. “Her name is
Ishti? What kind of name is Ishti? You expect me to
put myself in the hands of someone named Ishti?”
God help me, Audra thought, conjuring the image of
hair arranged like a tribal headdress, with a built-in
altar in the center. Doubt welled up in her heart and
mind as the memory of her many trips to salons
back in New York surfaced. Every trip began with
the hopeful promise of a “beautiful new Audra” . . .
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263
and every trip had ended with the crushing weight
of heavy disappointment.
Just because this was a ritzy salon in Beverly
Hills didn’t mean she couldn’t 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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Karyn Langhorne
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.
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 th
em 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