The Bluest App

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“It’s an app.”

“I can see that. Some kinda game? Tunes? But you ain’t got no earbuds for that sorry-ass celly of yours.”

Cissy looked up at Kenisha, squinting against the sun. Should she tell her? Well, Kenisha was as close to a friend as Cissy had in the neighborhood. Or in school. Most kids made fun of the mixup girl with freckles and kinky hair.

Like today in Earth Science. She answered a question from Mr. Lewis, so right away she heard the whispers and snorts.

“Mama’s a skank, and daddy’s so white he a ghost, ‘cuz nobody ever seen him! So she gotta be like look at me all smart like she some kinda white …”

Cissy swallowed and showed Kenisha her phone.

“You takin’ pictures of weeds?”

“Maybe it’s a weed. Or a flower. These yellow and orangey ones,” Cissy pointed at the little cluster at their feet. The narrow green leaves seemed limp, like maybe they weren’t getting enough water.

Kenisha pointed to a fence a few feet away. “They’s more of ‘em.”

“Yeah, you’re right. By Missus Baxter’s place. Maybe some seeds got away.”

“So, ‘bout that app?”

Since Kenisha wasn’t giving her a hard time, Cissy decided to tell her more.

“Take a picture of a tree or flower, the app tells you what kind it is.”

“Whynch’t just ask?”

“Cuz flowers don’ talk,” Cissy grinned.

Kenisha snorted and punched her arm. It was good to have a friend.

“I mean ask Missus Baxter.”

“She ain’t nice to me. Don’t like my mama, I guess.”

“I could ask her.”

“Already sent the picture.”

“So why you so interested in that yellow flower?”

“Think I know what it might be.”

“Yeah?”

“Marigold.”

“Whas’ that?”

“Spos’ to be something like this. Wanted to be sure. It’s in a book I read …”

She risked a glance up at Kenisha.

Cissy was a good reader, but she couldn’t read Kenisha’s face.

Finally, Kenisha spoke.

“So, not just like car chases and kissing and stuff?”

“No.”

“Girls in it?”

“Yeah.”

“White girls?”

“No, black girls this time.”

“Huh. Sad story?”

“Real sad. The little girls in the story, they thought marigolds was magic.”

“They was?”

“No, ‘course not. Life’s not like that.”

“No, it ain’t. So, why you wanna spen’ your time readin’ a book like that?”

It was a genuine question. Cissy thought about it.

“This older girl in the story, she just wanna have blue eyes. Thinks that’d make her life all better. She goes crazy. Another girl, she’s so black and angry she trashes all her white dolls. She and her sister, they spend all their money on marigold seeds and still can’t make the magic work. Long story. Sad book. But …”

“But they’s something you like about it.”

“Yeah. The sisters … they’re strong. Like just fine with who they are. But they’re …” Cissy pauses again and ducks her head.

“Yeah?”

“They’re not mixup kids like me, and they got family.”

“Uh huh. Seems like the main thing is, they workin' with who they is and not worryin' about no blue eyes.”

Kenisha walked over to the water tap by Missus Baxter’s fence and filled an empty can she found there in the long grass. She brought it back to where Cissy stood looking down at the wilted plants pushing through a wide crack in the sidewalk. Kenisha carefully poured some water into the crack, returned the can, and walked back to stand beside Cissy.

Cissy’s phone chimed as the app displayed an answer to her question:

“Calendula officinalis. English marigolds.”

“Marigolds all right,” Cissy announced to her friend. “Flowers, I guess. Or weeds, out here in the street.”

“Depends,” Kenisha nodded, smiling.