by Renée Watson
The train jerks to a stop. People get on, get off.
Tye says, “Your turn. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how insecure I really am.” This might be the most honest thing I’ve ever said to Tye. It just comes out. Maybe because we are underground, in a tunnel, under a bustling city. Maybe because the train is half-empty and no one is paying attention to us. Maybe because I need him to know me, the real me.
Tye shifts his body and faces me. “What do you have to be insecure about? You’re beauti—”
“Please don’t say beautiful.”
“But you are.”
“I know.”
Tye laughs, and I give in to a laugh too.
“I’m serious, though. People always think the only thing big girls cry about is our weight. I’m perfectly fine with my body.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know you didn’t,” I tell him. “Thanks for apologizing.” I kiss him on his cheek. “I don’t mind you telling me I’m beautiful. Just tell me because you see it, not because you think I don’t know.”
“Got it,” Tye says. And then, “Nala?”
“Yes?”
“You’re beautiful.” He kisses my cheek. “You’re beautiful.” He kisses my forehead. “You’re beautiful.” He kisses my lips.
The whole way downtown we go back and forth asking each other, “Tell me something that I don’t know about you.”
I tell Tye, “Okay, here’s something nobody knows. Like nobody. You have to promise me you won’t say anything.”
“Promise.”
“I don’t think I want to go to college. At least, not right away. I have no idea what I want to study, what I want to be.”
“That’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be,” Tye says. “You had me thinking you were about to confess a murder or something.”
“Well, it’s a big deal in my family. The Robertsons are a go-to-college kind of family. And with me being so close in age to Imani, there’s even more pressure. Imani has known what she wants to be since we were little girls. A lawyer. She’s always talking about how her dream is to work for the Equal Justice Initiative. She’s obsessed with what Bryan Stevenson does and wants to be a part of that. And she’s going to have 3.5 million things to put on her résumé for college applications because she’s been volunteering since we were in middle school. Her and Asher are probably getting married one day. They’re going to be that couple that’s eighty and talking about how they were high school sweethearts,” I say. “It’s like her whole life is figured out and I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow.”
Tye sounds real serious when he says, “Okay—two things. First, tomorrow you and I are hanging out again, of course. So, um, yeah, you do know what you’re doing tomorrow.”
“I’m serious, Tye,” I say, even with a laugh spilling out of me.
“I know, I know. Okay, for real, though, I thought you’ve been working on your essay and narrowing down schools.”
I forgot I told him that. “Well, yes, I am, but it’s because I have to, not because I want to. And, again, I’m just saying I don’t want to do the big four-year-university thing. I know I need to go to college. But I don’t know what I want to study and my mom doesn’t have the kind of money for college tuition, I think—”
“So wait. Is it about money? Don’t you get good grades? And with all your volunteering, you should get some scholarships for sure.”
“It’s not only about scholarships. I don’t think it’s the best next step for me.”
“So when are you going to tell your family?”
“I’m not. I’m going to do what’s expected of me. Especially if Imani—”
“You know, you compare yourself to Imani a lot. And I get it, she’s great—but so are you. Why don’t you just want to be yourself?” His question punches me in my gut, knocks the wind out of me.
“I—what do you mean? What makes you ask me that?”
“I mean, it sounds like you are trying to be like Imani, to want what she wants, but what do you want? Who do you want to be?”
He isn’t asking for an answer. It is the kind of question to contemplate, to really think about and consider. I guess when you feel like you’re not good enough, the next best thing is trying to be like someone else.
Tye changes the subject, and round and round we go, playing our game of questions the whole ride downtown, taking turns saying, Tell me something about you that I don’t know.
I learn that Tye has never had surgery. I’ve had my tonsils and my appendix taken out.
Tye loves to cook and so do I. He’s never been on a plane, but I have more times than I can count.
We both love to swim.
We both hate hiking.
The train stops, and one person gets on, then realizes this is the local train so steps off just before the doors close. We keep crawling through the tunnel, making our way downtown. By the time we get to South Ferry station, the car is empty and very few people are on the platform. We cross over to the uptown side and make our way back to Harlem. When we get on the train, Tye wraps me in his arms. I fall into a subway-sleep, where I am in a daze, half-awake, half-asleep. Every time we stop I pry my eyes open just a little and as soon as the train is in motion again, I close them. And being in Tye’s arms on the one train heading to Harlem on a summer night is the only place I want to be. We are not talking about activism or community organizing, we are just being with each other, just enjoying each other.
“Nala,” Tye whispers. “Our stop is next.”
We get off the train and climb up the mountain of stairs back into the humid night. Neither of us wants to leave the other, so we walk the long way home.
4 THINGS I WANT TO STUDY IN COLLEGE (IF I GO):
1.Maybe Communications
2.Maybe Photography
3.Maybe Business
4.Maybe there’s a course on How To Be Yourself
16
For the first time I am at Tye’s house. We are in his room, and I am surprised at how neat it is. Tye has everything in its place, and it makes me wonder if it is always like this or if he did some cleaning before I came. I am sitting in an oversized chair watching him shoot baskets in the hoop that hangs on the back of his door.
“So, what’s your plan for the photo legacy project?” Tye asks.
“I don’t have a plan yet. I don’t even know if it’s really going to happen. I have to talk with the head of programming to figure it all out.” I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s not happening. If I tell him the photo project isn’t happening, I’ll have to tell him why. And telling him that I really don’t work at Sugar Hill Senior Living means telling him that I’ve been lying to him this whole time.
“Well, it has to happen,” Tye says. “It’s a great idea. And plus, isn’t it your job to do programs? Why would your boss say no?”
Because it is not my job and she is not my boss.
Tye takes another shot, misses, and tries again. It goes in the second time. “I think you should make a flyer announcing what the project is and ask for residents to give you a portrait that you can copy, or you could even take a day and have people set up an appointment to get their photo taken.”
“I’m not a photographer.”
“But you’re always taking pictures.”
Tye is so into this nonexistent project.
I think maybe I should just get it over with. Tell him now that I am not—and have never been—the activity coordinator at my grandmother’s residence. “Tye?”
“Yes?”
“Um, I—can we please talk about something else?” I thought I was going to tell him the truth, but I just can’t say the words Tye, I haven’t been honest with you.
Tye looks at me like he can’t understand what else I could possibly want to talk about. “Can I just say one more thing?” he asks.
“One.”
“I think we
should start thinking about how you’ll do the reveal. You could have the lounge closed for a day while we decorate and set everything up, then you can welcome all the residents in with their families and we could have some light refreshments.”
“Tye—I’m not even sure if this is going to happen. And you really don’t have to help me plan anything. You have your own stuff with Inspire Harlem. I don’t want you to—”
“It’s not a problem. I love doing these kinds of things.”
Obviously.
He tosses the ball again, and I jump up off the bed and intercept it. I hold the basketball away from him.
“What are you doing?”
“I did not come over here to talk about old people and photographs.” I drop the ball, lean in for a kiss. “I mean, we’re dating, right?”
“Yes. Why are you asking me that?”
“Because sometimes I feel like you’re more interested in helping me instead of spending time with me.”
“Helping you plan the photo legacy project is spending time with you.”
“Can we just . . . Can we just have fun? Like, what do you watch on TV?” I take the remote off the TV stand and hit the power button. I sit on his bed, tell him, “Let’s just hang out.” I flip through channels and see that one of my favorite reality shows is on. It follows the behind the scenes of singers as they prepare for tour. Of course, there’s always drama, like the singer being sick or the backup singers not knowing their parts, even personal dramas with family, spouses, and children. I love it.
Tye says, “It’s staged, though, don’t you think? Is there any reality show that is actually real?”
“Just watch. It’s good. And the music is the best. You get to see how artists create songs, how they plan shows.” I try to sell it, but I’m not sure it’s working. “Okay, just watch one episode and if you don’t like it, we’ll watch something else.”
“All right.”
Eventually there is more kissing than there is watching TV. Three episodes later, Tye is the one who is saying, “One more,” and I don’t gloat but inside I am smiling, and when he puts his arms around me, I lay my head on his shoulder and we spend the rest of the day in each other’s arms.
By the time Tye’s mom gets home, the sun is sleeping and the air is relaxed and calm. Ms. Brown has brought dinner home from their favorite restaurant and says, “Nala, it’s so good to meet you. I’m glad you could come over for dinner.”
“Thanks for inviting me. And nice to meet you too.” I’m not sure if I should hug her or shake her hand. Meeting people for the first time can be so awkward. We shake hands. “Can I help with anything?” I ask.
“Uh, sure. Can you set these on the dining room table?” Ms. Brown hands me two large to-go containers. When I set them on the table, I see that one is labeled Mashed Kabocha Squash, and even though I don’t know what kabocha is, at least I recognize the word “squash.” It’s not my favorite, but I’ll eat it. The other container says Teriyaki Seitan. I sound it out in my head: Sei-tan . . . say-tan . . . say-tun . . . satan? Satan as in the devil, as in opposite of light and peace, as in red suit and pitchfork? Who would eat something that literally sounds like one of the devil’s nicknames? No thank you. Nope. Maybe I should have said I needed to go home for dinner.
Ms. Brown comes into the dining room carrying plates and napkins. Tye is right behind her with three glasses. “I am so hungry,” she says. “Aren’t you?”
Not anymore.
Tye goes back and forth from the kitchen a few times to get the pitcher of lemonade and two big serving spoons. He sits down next to me, and Ms. Brown starts dishing out the food. She gives me way too much of everything, and as she piles the food on my plate, she explains, “I love kabocha squash. It’s so much sweeter than butternut.”
I’m a little relieved knowing I’ll at least like the mashed squash. But still, what is seitan?
We all start eating. I take a bit of the teriyaki seitan, and it’s only because I have good home training that I don’t spit it out back onto the plate. What is this? Ms. Brown must notice the look on my face. “Not a fan of seitan?” she asks. “Maybe I should have ordered tofu.”
“Oh, no. It’s totally fine. This is . . . this tastes . . . this is good. Perfect.” I take a big bite and hardly chew, just swallow it as fast as I can so I don’t have to taste it. At least the teriyaki sauce gives it some flavor. I feel like I am seven years old and at Grandma’s kitchen table sneaking food into my napkin that I don’t want to eat.
As we eat, Ms. Brown tells me all kinds of stories about Tye, and I love learning about him through someone else’s eyes. Somehow I manage to eat most of my food. There’s an appropriate amount left on my plate, an amount that says I’m too full to eat another bite instead of This was the worst meal I’ve ever had.
“So, tell me, Nala, how’s your summer going?” Ms. Brown asks.
Can I tell her that because of her son it is the best summer I’ve ever had? “It’s good,” I say.
“Tye told me you work as a volunteer at Sugar Hill Senior Living.”
This isn’t a question, but I answer with, “Yes, I am. I’m over the Open Studio.”
Ms. Brown tilts her head just a bit, in a way that says a big question is coming. “That’s so interesting, I didn’t know they had an activity coordinator. My friend’s mother lives there. The way she talks, new management came and they don’t have any good activities anymore. She’s so funny, always talking about running people over with her scooter. I wonder why she doesn’t go to any of your activities.”
I take another bite of this nasty, satanic food just so I don’t have to answer right away.
Tye answers instead. “It’s new, Mom. Nala just started this summer.”
“Oh, I see,” Ms. Brown says. She is talking to Tye, but her eyes are on me. “Will you still work there during the school year, or is this just a summer job?”
I take a sip of lemonade. “I, uh, I haven’t decided.” I do not look Ms. Brown in the eyes.
“Well, I’d love to have you meet my friend’s mom. I’ll try to remember to tell her to look for you. Just in case some random person comes up to you, her name is Ms. Mabel. You won’t forget her once you meet her,” Ms. Brown says.
I look up at the mention of Grandma’s friend. I do not say that I know her, but my eyes must be saying something to Ms. Brown because she leans forward and asks, “Does that name sound familiar?”
“I—I think so—yes. I think my grandmother might know her.” I take my phone out of my pocket and pretend to check the time. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how late it is. I need to get going soon. Thanks so much for dinner, Ms. Brown. It was really good.”
“You’re welcome. Come back anytime,” she says. She pushes her chair away from the table and gets up to hug me. “Tye, are you walking her home?”
“Yes,” he says.
Ms. Brown is just like Aunt Ebony and Grandma and all the women in my family—there are certain questions that are not questions at all. You can always tell by the tone, by the look in her eyes that really, it is a command not a request.
Tye takes the dishes into the kitchen, and while we wait for him, Ms. Brown walks me to the door, gives me a hug, and says, “My son really likes you. He talks so highly of you. I’m glad he has someone like you.”
17
I sleep in today and don’t get out of bed till eleven o’clock. Okay, that’s not super late but in this house, we rise and shine early. By the time I shower and get dressed, Imani is already gone. Aunt Ebony is dressed and looks like she’s been gone and back again because her keys are on the counter instead of the usual hook they hang on at the door.
I scramble eggs and make toast, and just when I am about to walk out the door to meet Tye, Aunt Ebony asks, “Where are you heading?”
“Out with Tye,” I say.
“Have you worked on your college essay?” she asks. “Don’t let the summer go by with nothing to show for it, Nala.
You have such good grades, and you did very well on your SAT. You have some great choices for school. Do you need me to help with anything?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Aunt Ebony knows me so well. She says, “You haven’t started, have you?”
I can’t lie to her. I can’t. “I’m going to be finished by the end of summer. I promise.”
“Are you stuck?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I tell her. “I’m just, I’m brainstorming right now. My English teacher said making random lists is a way to get ideas about what you want to write about. So right now, I’m just in the beginning phase, just thinking and making lists about my life until something, I don’t know . . . until something—”
“Resonates?”
“Right.”
Aunt Ebony gives me a look like she isn’t quite sure she trusts my answer.
“I’m serious,” I tell her. “Our teacher told us that colleges like personal essays about lessons learned or important, life-changing moments. So I’m just thinking of what I might want to write about. I’ve been making lists in my notebook.”
She just looks at me. “Don’t lose yourself in that boy,” she says.
Yeah, she knows me. Maybe better than I know myself.
Tye sends me a text that he’s a block away, so I go outside to meet him. We don’t have a plan, so we just start walking. We stop at the bodega. He gets a bag of chips—plain (not even with ridges), and I get a bottled water and a candy bar for later.
We wander to 135th and Fifth, and I see a Goodwill store. “Can we stop in here?” I ask. “Goodwill?”
“Yes, they have good deals on cute clothes sometimes.” I pull his arm and walk him into the store. We browse the aisles, not really looking for anything in particular. I look through the clothes and stick to my try-it-if-you-like-it rule because sometimes tags are deceiving and I can actually fit a size that in other stores I can’t. I grab a few cute summer skirts and try them on. Two out of four fit. Not bad. I look for tops and only find one that I really like—and that really fits. When I come out of the dressing room, I don’t see Tye and then I realize that he is trying on clothes too.