Bronx Masquerade Appearances Quotes

I hate always being the tallest girl in school. Everybody expects me to play basketball, so they pick me for their team, throw me the ball, and wait for me to shoot. Big mistake. I fumble it every time. Then they have the nerve to get mad at me, like I did it on purpose! But basketball is not my game. I have no game. I'm an artist, like Raul. The difference is, I don't tell anybody. I refuse to give them new reasons to laugh at me. The Jolly Green Giant jokes are bad enough. (11.4)

I've got good height and good hands, and that's a fact. But what about the rest of me? Forget who I really am, who I really want to be. The law is be cool, be tough, play ball, and use books for weight training—not reading. Otherwise, everybody gives you grief. (14.3)

Janelle is all right. So what if she's a little plump? At least when you turn the light on upstairs, somebody's at home. She's smart, and she doesn't try hiding it. Which gets me thinking. Maybe it's time I quit sneaking in and out of the library like some thief. Maybe it's time I just started being who I am. (14.8)

"Janelle Hope. Mrs. Janelle Hope. Mrs. Devon Hope." Dream on, fool. You can stand here in the girls' room and practice saying that name 'til your tongue falls out, or the change bell rings, whichever comes first, and it still won't ever be true. Face it. Devon is Denzel Washington, and you are Thighs "R" Us. (23.1)

Why couldn't I be tall and elegant like Diondra, or have Judianne's perfect complexion, all smooth, super-rich fudge? Better yet, why couldn't I look like Tanisha, or Gloria? Then I might have a chance with somebody like Devon. But I don't, so forget it. (23.2)

Of course, he's got a thing for Tanisha Scott—like every other boy in school.

Too bad we can't all have good hair and light skin.

Who am I kidding? She's more than that. She's pretty. Which I'm not, as my stepfather reminds me ten times a day. Like I don't know that from looking in the mirror, or from having kids tease me about my blue-black skin all the way through school. But my body's good. Nothing wrong with me in that department. That's why I got to show it off, wear clothes that accentuate the positive. The shorter, the better. And I don't even have to buy them. I can make them myself. It ain't much, but that's one thing I learned from my mother. How to sew.

Last week, I wore my patchwork denim skirt and vest with the red leather pockets that just about broke my sewing machine needle. Sheila was all up in my face, telling me how cool I looked, like I needed her opinion. Why she's always trying to kiss up to Black people is beyond me. Anyway, it was Lupe's compliment I listened to. She took one look at my outfit and told me she was jealous. Said she wished she could sew like me. Honey, I thought to myself, give me some of that pretty skin and hair of yours, and I'll trade. (29.3-6)

Don't none of these girls like the way they look? I don't get it. Guys don't have that problem. Not the guys I know. Would somebody clue me in? (31.1)

"Well, nobody could tell it. You know, I could really get into what you were saying about trying to make yourself over, wishing you could be perfect and all. I mean, I feel like that every time I look in the mirror."

Judianne nodded, and her tight mouth softened a little. She was about to say something, but then a toilet flushed and she realized we were not alone. Sheila Gamberoni came out of the stall, and the minute she did, Judianne slipped back behind her usual scowl and turned mean.

"Look, I am nothing like you, okay?" she spit out. "In case you haven't noticed, you're fat and I'm not. And you're wrong about my poem. It was just words. It didn't mean anything. You got that?" (35.5-7)

If Tyrone calls me "caramel cutie" one more time, I'll scream. I turn to cut my eyes at him and find Judianne staring at me again. Even after I turn away, I can feel her eyes stroking the back of my head. I'm so sick of people making a big deal over my "good hair."

I caught her pawing my hair just last week. I reached back and grabbed a finger before she had a chance to pull away. I spun around, more aggravated than angry, and said, "Look, it's just hair. It's not magic, so don't go rubbing it for good luck. Trust me, it hasn't brought me any." […] If she doesn't quit bugging me, I'm gonna ask Mr. Ward to change my seat. She's why I chopped all my hair off last year. Well, people like her. (38.1-2)

The first time he got up there, I rolled my eyes like half the sisters in class, certain he was going to spout something lame or nasty about girls and sex, or gangsters. I mean, that's all we ever heard him talk about, right? But there was nothing lame about this poem, and none of it was about sex. It was about what's going on in the world, and about trying to make sense of it. It was a poem by somebody who really thinks about things, and that somebody turned out to be Tyrone. He made me change my mind about him that day. (75.13)