do with the price of beans in China?” her mother
concluded, as if the question were completely logical.
16
Karyn Langhorne
Talking to her mother was always like this. So
many questions, so little listening. They were as
combative as the mother-daughter relationship in
Mildred Pierce. Joan Crawford played the long-
suffering, giving mother to Ann Blyth’s selfish,
greedy, mean-spirited daughter. Only in their case,
Audra was certain, it was the daughter who was the
suffering one.
“It’s tea, Ma,” she corrected, infusing a touch of
the movie’s drama into the moment to make it more
bearable. “The price of tea in China. And I’m telling
you, that stuff with the pants, it won’t matter. He
knows the old movies—the classic movies—and he
knows I know them, too. Did you hear what he said
about confusing Casablanca and Double Indemnity?”
Her chest lifted in a sigh of longing. “It’s like we
were meant for each other—”
“Oh, Audra, please,” Edith Marks muttered dis-
missively. “Stop talkin’ foolishness and get real. I
can’t think of anything much more of a turnoff than
a woman who’s let her butt get so round she rips her
pants in front of a bunch of men!”
Audra rolled her eyes. Leave it to Edith to reduce
things to their lowest, crudest denominator. “They
ripped,” she said loftily, wishing her mother would
let her forget the awful mortification that had ac-
companied that moment, but the woman seemed
determined to make it breathe again, “because I was
breaking up a fight—”
“No, Miss Queen of De-Nial,” her mother
drawled. “They ripped ’cause you need to lose some
weight!” She sniffed sanctimoniously. “I know that
sounds mean, but it’s the truth and you need to hear
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
17
it. A little weight is one thing, but you’re getting too
fat, Audra.”
“I just need to cut back a little—” Audra began.
“A little?” Edith interjected. She reached behind
her, opening one of the old kitchen’s cabinets to re-
veal its contents: a solid wall of junk foods piled on
its shelves, cookies, crackers, candies and chips
jumbled atop each other. “You just bought all this
stuff last night and it’ll be gone by the end of the
weekend—”
“I’m not the only one who eats that stuff. Kiana
likes it—”
“Kiana’s a child,” Edith reminded her, jerking her
head toward the other room where Audra’s niece
watched animated girls cartwheeling around, solv-
ing some kind of mystery through their derring-do.
Either because she was transfixed by the images, or
because she was used to Grandma and Auntie A’s
noise, she didn’t even turn toward their raised
voices. To Kiana, the sound of the two of them argu-
ing over the dinner dishes was as comforting as a
lullaby.
“She doesn’t need this stuff any more than you
do,” Edith added when Audra focused on her again.
“Okay, so I like a little something sweet from time
to time.” Audra shrugged. “I know in your world of
high fashion and glamour, that’s some kind of crime,
but to the rest of us mere mortals, it’s no big deal.”
Edith sighed. “I don’t understand you, Audra.
Seems like you don’t care about what you look like.
Not at all,” Edith continued. Audra was pretty sure
she didn’t do it on purpose, but her mother punctu-
ated the words by striking one of her little poses,
18
Karyn Langhorne
slewing out a foot and propping her hand with her
waist, emphasizing her trim figure. She nodded to-
ward a snapshot of Petra, Audra’s older sister, look-
ing like Tyra Banks doing a photo shoot for army
fatigues, taped to the refrigerator. “Even soldiering
in that awful Baghdad, your sister takes some time
to put herself together. It’s just a matter of pride—”
“I’m looking for a man who sees deeper than out-
ward appearances. Someone who’ll love me no mat-
ter what I look like,” Audra muttered, tossing a dish
towel on the counter and snatching at an open bag
of Oreos protruding from the cabinet like a choco-
late tongue.
“Men are visual, Audra.” Edith grabbed the bag
from her hands and tossed it into the garbage can.
She dipped her hands into the sink for the next of
their dinner dishes. They were a leathery brown—
almost an entire shade darker than her cinnamon-
colored face thanks to the harsh chemicals of her
three decades working as a hairstylist. Still, dark as
the hands had become, they were still three shades
lighter than the lightest part of Audra’s body. Audra
frowned, staring at those hands.
“You want to catch one, you don’t gotta be no
beauty queen, but you sure as hell better work what
you got,” her mother continued, enjoying the
sound of her own wisdom. “Why do you think
Goldilocks Salon is packed from morning to night?
Sisters in there pressing and curling and straight-
ening and weaving”— the hands came up out of
the water as Edith snapped a couple of soapy fin-
gers. “Working it, that’s what they doing. Working
it!” She shook her head, folding her full lips in
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
19
disapproval. “You keep that hair cut short as a
man—and I run a beauty salon, for God’s sake!
How do you think it makes me look in the neigh-
borhood, my own daughter wandering around
with her hair looking like this?” She reached
toward Audra’s short naps, but Audra danced
backward out of her way.
“You know I like my hair short, Ma,” she said de-
fiantly.
“I don’t know any such thing—”
“Well, you ought to know it. We’ve tried every
other style and none of them work any better,
you’ve said so yourself.”
Edith paused, blinking while she remembered the
countless hours she and Audra had spent trying to
get the thick bristles of her hair to behave. But it was
no use: unlike Petra’s locks, which lay down per-
fectly under straightening comb or relaxer—and un-
like Edith’s own—Audra’s hair seemed to have a
mind of its own.
“Well,” Edith said slowly, since there was no ar-
gument to refute this, she
