I went to Ian's room. He was at his computer as he said he would be. He didn't have to turn around to know I had entered his room. He kept his eyes on his monitor screen and asked, "Why is she crying?"
"Adult talk," I said.
He turned and squinted. "Why?"
"Daddy's not coming home tonight. I think they had an argument."
"Was he with you and Mother at the doctor's office?"
"No."
He smiled and shook his head. "Why am I not surprised?" he asked himself. "Okay. Forget about all that now. I'm learning about your problem. I'll tell you about it later," he said. "Don't bother me right now." He waved at me to shoo me off.
"Mama wants me to get ready for dinner and she said to tell you not to be late again, Ian. Grandmother Emma will be upset.'
He didn't answer.
"She said you can't be late."
"I won't," he said. I knew that I could talk and talk and even stand on my head and talk, but he wouldn't answer me anymore or turn away from his computer so I left to do what Mama had asked.
For my birthday last year, my parents had bought me a small vanity table and mirror. When Grandmother Emma saw it being delivered, she said it was the most ridiculous birthday present for a sixyear-old she could imagine. At my birthday dinner. Daddy looked surprised about it, too, which made it seem like it was all Mama's doing and fault. I don't know why Grandmother Emma thought it was silly to buy it for me. I loved having it. I often watched my mother at her vanity table doing her makeup or brushing her hair, sometimes for hours when we lived in our own house. I used to ask her questions about her makeup, the creams and the shampoos she used. She did it here, too, during the first few months, and then she did it so infrequently or for so short a time. I rarely watched her anymore. But even though all I could do was brush my hair, I loved imitating her in front of my own vanity mirror.
A few times at our house, she let me put on lipstick and nail polish, too, but she would never let me do any of that here. She said Grandmother Emma would have a tantrum and only make us feel terrible. When I complained about it, Grandmother Emma told me her mother didn't permit her to wear lipstick or nail polish until she was sixteen. That seemed a long way off, and I did have girlfriends at school whose mothers let them wear nail polish at least.
I sat brushing my hair, which my mother liked long on me. Grandmother Emma wanted it to be cut and styled, but that was an argument Mama wouldn't lose.
"I'm not turning, her into a proper little mannequin," she said.
Daddy tried to get Mama to have my hair cut, too, but she wouldn't budge on it.
"She pulls your strings. Christopher, not mine," she told him, which started another bad argument.
After I brushed my hair. I got undressed except for my panties and went into my bathroom to wash up well so Grandmother Emma would have nothing bad to say about me at dinner. While I was washing my face. Ian came to my bathroom door.
He had reams of paper in his hands.
I had forgotten my promising Mama to never let anyone else set me undressed. I quickly raised my arms to cover my buds, as she had called them.
Ian looked at his papers. "Yes, you are suffering from something called precocious puberty, all right. Actually, it's becoming something more and more common. Nearly fifty percent of all black girls and at least fifteen percent of white girls have or would be diagnosed with the condition this year," he continued. "There are various theories about it. One idea is that all the growth hormones in meat and poultry are having an effect on humans."
I
an could sound just like Mr. Milner, the elementary school principal who also spoke through his nose when he was saying very important things.
Ian looked up from the papers. "I have noticed how tall you've gotten. In fact, I recall telling Mother not that long ago, but she didn't appear to hear me or care at the time. Since both she and Daddy are tall people, they would just assume it was natural for you to be tall. I'm not tall for my age," he added. "However. I could suddenly grow faster, taller. My shoe size would suggest it.
I looked at his feet and then at mine, which were not very big or long.
"The important thing is we'll have to keep track of your development on a nearly daily basis. From what you've told me. Dell'Acqua is following the correct protocol."
"What's that?"
"Medical procedure for diagnosing the problem. She'll soon come up with a treatment. I'm glad Mother found out about you quickly."
It wasn't that quickly. I thought, but didn't say.
He stared at me and then he walked up to me. "How developed are you?" he asked.