PIECE OF CAKE, A(ISBN=9781400052295)

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版次：1
页数：472
字数：
印刷时间：2007年04月01日
开本：32开
纸张：胶版纸
包装：平装
是否套装：否
国际标准书号ISBN：9781400052295
作者:Cupcake Brown　著出版社:Random House US出版时间:2007年04月

作者简介

　　Cupcake Brown practices law at one of the nation’s largest law firms and lives in San Francisco. Visit her website at cupcakebrown.com.
　　From the Hardcover edition.

在线试读部分章节

　　1
　　The booming music coming from Momma’s radio alarm clock suddenlywoke me. I could hear Elton John singing about Philadelphiafreedom.
　　I wonder why Momma didn’t wake me? I thought to myself.
　　It was January 1976. Wasn’t no school that day. But Momma stillhad to go to work. So, while Momma was at work, I was goin’ over toDaddy’s house to play with Kelly, the daughter of his ladyfriend.
　　I wonder why she didn’t wake me? I thought again to myself as Iclimbed out of bed.
　　When I passed the dresser I caught a glimpse of myself in themirror. Boy, was I ugly.
　　“Skinny, black, and ugly.” That’s what the kids at school calledme. Or they’d yell out, “Vette, Vette, looks just like mypet!”
　　My name was La’Vette, but my first birth name was Cupcake. Atleast that’s what my momma told me. Seems Momma craved cupcakeswhen she was pregnant with me. She had three cupcakes a day, everyday, without fail, for nine and a half months (I was two weeksoverdue). Momma said that even if she didn’t eat anything else,she’d have her daily dose of cupcakes.
　　Anyway, seems that while “we” were in labor, the hospital gaveMomma some pain drugs. Once Momma popped me out, the nursesaid:
　　“Pat”—that was my momma’s name—“you have a little girl. Do youknow what you want to name her?”
　　Tired and exhausted from eight hours of hard labor, Momma liftedher head, smiled sheepishly, and said, “Cupcake,” before she passedout.
　　So that’s what they put down on my birth certificate. I mean,that is what she said. (The nurses thought it was due to theexcitement of motherhood, Momma said it was the drugs). A few hourslater, however, when Daddy came to the hospital he decided hedidn’t like “Cupcake.” Momma said Daddy wanted to name me La’Vette.So, just to make Daddy happy, Momma said she had the hospitalchange my name. I didn’t mind, really. I loved my daddy; so as faras I was concerned, he could change my name to whatever he wanted.But, Momma said that to her I would always be Cupcake. She nevercalled me anything else, ’cept sometimes she called me “Cup” forshort.

1 
　　The booming music coming from Momma’s radio alarm clock suddenly
woke me. I could hear Elton John singing about Philadelphia
freedom. 
　　I wonder why Momma didn’t wake me? I thought to myself. 
　　It was January 1976. Wasn’t no school that day. But Momma still
had to go to work. So, while Momma was at work, I was goin’ over to
Daddy’s house to play with Kelly, the daughter of his lady
friend. 
　　I wonder why she didn’t wake me? I thought again to myself as I
climbed out of bed. 
　　When I passed the dresser I caught a glimpse of myself in the
mirror. Boy, was I ugly. 
　　“Skinny, black, and ugly.” That’s what the kids at school called
me. Or they’d yell out, “Vette, Vette, looks just like my
pet!” 
　　My name was La’Vette, but my first birth name was Cupcake. At
least that’s what my momma told me. Seems Momma craved cupcakes
when she was pregnant with me. She had three cupcakes a day, every
day, without fail, for nine and a half months (I was two weeks
overdue). Momma said that even if she didn’t eat anything else,
she’d have her daily dose of cupcakes. 
　　Anyway, seems that while “we” were in labor, the hospital gave
Momma some pain drugs. Once Momma popped me out, the nurse
said: 
　　“Pat”—that was my momma’s name—“you have a little girl. Do you
know what you want to name her?” 
　　Tired and exhausted from eight hours of hard labor, Momma lifted
her head, smiled sheepishly, and said, “Cupcake,” before she passed
out. 
　　So that’s what they put down on my birth certificate. I mean,
that is what she said. (The nurses thought it was due to the
excitement of motherhood, Momma said it was the drugs). A few hours
later, however, when Daddy came to the hospital he decided he
didn’t like “Cupcake.” Momma said Daddy wanted to name me La’Vette.
So, just to make Daddy happy, Momma said she had the hospital
change my name. I didn’t mind, really. I loved my daddy; so as far
as I was concerned, he could change my name to whatever he wanted.
But, Momma said that to her I would always be Cupcake. She never
called me anything else, ’cept sometimes she called me “Cup” for
short. 
　　Anyway, the kids at school always told me that I was ugly. They
teased me, saying I looked like “Aunt Esther,” that old lady from
Sanford and Son, the one always calling Sanford a “fish-eyed fool.”
She was the ugliest woman I’d ever seen. So if the other kids
thought I looked like her, I knew I had to be ugly. Besides,
everybody knew a black girl wasn’t considered pretty unless she was
light-skinned with long straight hair. I was dark-skinned with
short kinky hair. I hated my complexion. I hated my hair. I hated
my skinny legs and arms. 
　　But, my momma thought I was beautiful. She’d say: 
　　“Cup, you’re only eleven years old. You will appreciate your
beauty as you grow up.” 
　　Shoot, I couldn’t wait to grow up! 
　　Momma always said things to make me feel better. I loved my
momma. She was my best friend and she was beautiful: she had
cocoa-colored skin and her long black hair hung way past her
shoulders. And, Momma had the biggest, prettiest smile you ever
saw. People always told her that she looked like Diana Ross because
of her long hair and wide beautiful smile—all teeth. 
　　I passed the black ugly thing in the mirror and continued toward
Momma’s room. The radio alarm continued to blast. I giggled to
myself. Momma was like me. She hated getting up in the morning, so
she put the clock way across the room and turned it all the way up
so it would scare her awake in the morning. That way, she’d have to
get out of bed and walk across the room to turn it off. 
　　I wonder why she didn’t turn the alarm off? I thought as I made
my way through the kitchen toward the large living room that led
into Momma’s room. The floor was cold because wasn’t no carpet in
our house. Still, I loved our old house. It was Victorian style,
three bedrooms and one bathroom. 
　　We lived in San Diego in the heart of the ghetto, though I never
knew it until I got older. We had our share of dilapidated houses,
and run-down apartment buildings, but most of the houses and
apartments in the neighborhood were in decent order. I mean, we
didn’t have any mansions, but most folks made sincere efforts to
keep their houses decent-looking: they watered their tired brown
lawns, trying to keep them up (as kept up as a lawn could be with
kids runnin’ over it all the time), and tried to replace windows
that had been broken from runaway fly balls that escaped the
imaginary fields of street baseball games. 
　　We had a great neighborhood store, Sawaya Brothers, that had
everything you could need or want, including the most delicious
pickled pig feet. We had a neighborhood park, Memorial Park, a
boys’ club and a girls’ club. 
　　I thought my family was rich because I was the only kid in the
neighborhood who had her own bedroom, furnished with a white
princess-style bedroom set complete with a canopy bed, matching
nightstands, and dresser. There was a pink frilly comforter with
matching frills for the canopy overhead. And, I had a closet full
of clothes. Unlike other kids in my neighborhood, I never had to
share clothes or wear hand-me-downs. Momma loved to sew and made
most of my clothes. 
　　The other kids thought we were rich too. Little did we know that
we weren’t rich—it’s just that both my mom and dad worked while the
other kids only had one parent trying to raise several kids either
on one income or, more commonly, on welfare, though being on
welfare wasn’t nothing to be ’shamed about. Most everybody was. In
fact, I envied my friends on welfare because they got government
food that you couldn’t get from the store, like this great
government cheese. You ain’t had a grilled cheese sandwich till
you’ve had one made with government cheese. 
　　The blasting radio brought me back to my immediate mission:
finding out why Momma didn’t wake me. 
　　I wished she’da woke me up, I thought as I followed the sound of
the blasting radio. I was excited about going to my daddy’s. 
　　My momma and daddy didn’t live together. Daddy lived around the
way with my brother, Larry. I hated Larry. Larry was thin and lanky
like me. And he was dark-skinned like me. Although he was two years
older than me, he never acted like a big brother. He never
protected me. In fact, HE was usually the one I had to be protected
FROM. And, usually, it was ME jumping in a fight to protect HIM. I
thought he was a wimp. 
　　Larry hated me just as much as I hated him, but for different
reasons. He was jealous of me. He’d never admit it, but I knew he
was. I was the one who always got good grades and saved my weekly
allowance so I could buy something nice and big, while Larry hated
school (and was always on the verge of flunking out) and spent his
money faster than he got it—and then had the nerve to get mad when
he didn’t have anything left. 
　　Our hate for each other resulted in fierce fights: cussin’ each
other out (a skill I’d turned into an art from an early age) and
throwing knives and hammers (or anything else lethal we could find)
at each other. Our fights were no joke. We were trying to kill each
other for real, or at least cause loss of body parts. In our house,
before Larry went to live with Daddy, I could never slack up and
always had to watch my back because we were always trying to
sabotage each other. 
　　Once I woke to Larry trying to smother me with a pillow. Bastard.
He just woke up one day and decided he’d try to kill me. I had to
fight, kick, scratch, punch, and scream to get him off me. I got
him back, though: I tried to poi- son him. 
　　Larry was always trying to boss me around. One day, after yet
another unsuccessful attempt at killing me, he’d ordered me to get
him some Kool-Aid. And I did—with a little rat poison in it. But
watching my sudden obedience, he got suspicious. Talkin’ ’bout he
smelled “somethin’ funny.” He ordered me to take a drink first. I
took a sip, but I didn’t swallow. I just held it in my mouth,
hoping he’d now be willing to drink. He was smarter than I thought.
He fucked around and fucked around twirling the Kool-Aid in the
glass with a sly grin on his face till I couldn’t hold what was in
my mouth anymore without swallowing. 
　　Oh shit! I thought, I can’t kill myself! That’d be right up his
alley! 
　　I ran for the bathroom, which confirmed Larry’s suspicions that
something was up. He ran ahead of me and blocked the bathroom door
with his body, laughing hysterically at the irony of the situation.
My only other option was out the front door—halfway ’cross the
house. I’d never make it. 
　　“Swallow it, bitch!” he ordered, his body still blocking the
doorway, hands up in the air like a soccer goalie. Damn, I hated
him. 
　　But, I would have the last word on this one. It took me a moment
to think of a way out, but then it came to me. As I realized my way
out, the look of terror on my face from envisioning what seemed to
be my impending death slowly changed into a wide-ass grin: I spit
the Kool-Aid in his face. And with that, it was on—we tumbled,
kicked, bit, and scratched, until we tired ourselves out and
retreated to opposite ends of the house to await the next
battle. 
　　So I was really glad when Momma sent Larry to go live with Daddy.
Larry had started talking back to Momma, being smart-mouthed and
sassin’ ..

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