My scarred hands tremble as I tuck my blouse into my skirt. My sister will be here any minute. The sister who always held life in the palm of her hand. The sister who never heard the word "no" from anyone. The sister who hated me. Maybe he doesn't do it anymore, now that he doesn't have to look at me every day. Eventually her mother raised enough money, with the help of the church, to send her to school in Augusta. From then on, Dee became poorer but also less tolerable. Once he learned to read, he read to us continuously. However, I'm still not sure that everything she read in us was true. That would be just like Dee. Never admit you're wrong to make something up. Well, now I can read too! Sometimes I read to mom. I still stumble a little, but at least I'm honest. I know I'm not very bright, but I'm a little brighter than most people give me credit for. I don't care. I don't need to be very smart, pretty or rich. Unlike Dee. Dee has always wanted beautiful things. He manages to convince mom to buy his things even though we can't afford it. Like that yellow organza dress she wore for high school graduation and those black pumps to match a green dress she made herself. He has had his own style since he was sixteen. This is what I think as I look in the mirror. I wish the sleeves on this blouse were long enough to hide my arms a little better. It's hot today, though, so I'll have to show some charred skin. I take a deep breath and peek out the door. “How do I look, Mom?” “Come out into the yard,” he says. I shuffle outside with my eyes fixed on the hard, clay soil that Mom and I spent all yesterday cleaning. A car stops in front of our house and I know that I ... middle of paper ... or call me "If you don't want to do it," Wangero says. "Why shouldn't I?" asks the mother. “If that's what we call you, we'll call you.” “I know it might feel awkward at first,” Wangero says. “I'll get used to it,” he says. “Fix it again.” Once Mom learns to pronounce Dee's new name, she tries "Asalamalakim." After stumbling over it a couple of times, he tells her to just call him Hakim-a-barber, I think she didn't. I haven't been to the barber for a long time. “You must belong to those cattle people down the road,” says Mom. They also say "Asalamalakim" when they meet you, but they don't tremble. Too busy, I guess. Hakim-a-barber says, "I accept some of their doctrines, but farming and raising livestock is not my style." Works Cited Walker, Alice and Barbara Christian New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1994. Print.