by Renée Watson
I do not want Grandma to see me holding this ice cream. I look around, make sure she is nowhere in sight. I walk over to Ms. Louise, and as soon as she sees the ice cream in my hand, she says, “Oh, you come bearing gifts today?”
I laugh. “I only have one this time,” I say.
“Well, I guess that’s okay,” she says. “You looking for your grandma? If she’s not in the lounge or her apartment, check JT’s place. Fifth floor, apartment 5 A.”
Perfect. I didn’t even have to ask. “Thank you.” I get on the elevator in a hurry, hoping the ice cream doesn’t melt any more than it already has.
I knock on JT’s door and wait and wait. I really hope he’s home and not at Grandma’s. I put my ear to the door, and I can hear the television—on one of the westerns, of course. I knock again, harder this time. JT opens the door, and I’m not even sure if he sees me. His eyes are fixed on the ice cream. “For me? You bought this for me?”
I hand the sundae to him. “Everyone deserves a sweet cold treat, especially in the summertime.”
“Miss Nala, you are too kind. Too kind, indeed.” With JT’s door cracked open I get a glimpse of his apartment. It is a similar layout as Grandma’s, but he has a lot less furniture, fewer photos on the wall. Makes me wonder what picture he would’ve shared for the project that isn’t happening anymore. JT smiles. “Your grandmother know about this?”
“Nope.”
He opens the door all the way. “Come in,” he says. JT becomes a little child, the way he rushes to get a spoon, the way he takes the cherry off the top and devours it. “How’d you know hot fudge is my favorite?”
I shrug. “Who doesn’t like hot fudge?”
“Indeed, Miss Nala. Indeed.” We sit at the kitchen table. JT digs into his sundae. “Now, isn’t this a shame—I don’t have anything special to offer you. Would you like some sweet tea?”
“No thank you,” I say.
JT eats a few spoonfuls and then asks, “So, what’s on your mind today?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s impossible,” JT says.
I laugh. I guess he’s right. It’s kind of impossible to think about absolutely nothing. I ask JT, “Do you think I should still try to do the photo project?”
“Oh, so that’s what’s on your mind.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking maybe I gave in too easy. Maybe I should have tried harder.” I’ve been thinking a lot about what Tye said. I still think we could have waited to talk about it. But he has a point. That’s what’s on my mind. I am thinking about how I spent the first two weeks of summer lounging on the sofa and streaming movies all day. And now, here I am actually wanting to volunteer and do something important with my time.
“It’s not too late,” JT says. “Persistence can get you far.”
And just like that I’ve decided to find a way to do this.
There’s a knock at the door, and JT calls out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” Grandma says.
JT scrapes the last bit of ice cream out of the plastic cup and throws it away. He puts his index finger up to his mouth. “Shh. Our secret.”
I whisper, “Our secret.”
He opens the door.
“Well, what are you doing here?” Grandma asks.
“I, um—”
“She came to see you, but I pulled her in here because I wanted to talk to her about the photo project. We’ve been talking about her giving it another go,” JT says.
“Well, I am glad to hear that. I think that’s a great idea.”
As Grandma gets settled, I stand and push in my chair. “I’m going to go see if I can set up a meeting with Ms. Sharon. I’ll be right back.”
I leave JT’s apartment and head to the main office. This time, I have a plan. I just want to ask for a meeting. I think setting up a formal time to talk where I can really share my idea is better than just blurting it out at the front desk when there’s a line forming. I’m almost at the front desk when I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Tye is calling. I wanted to call him first, be the one to apologize and ask if we could talk. I answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, where are you?”
“At work,” I say.
And then I hear Imani’s voice. “You mean, at Grandma’s?”
“What?” I ask. And then I turn the corner and see Tye and Imani standing at the front desk. Ms. Sharon is there too, and they are all looking at me with contempt in their eyes. I hang up the phone. “I can explain,” I say.
Tye turns around and walks out the door.
“You lied about working here?” Imani says. She says more, but I run after Tye so I don’t hear her full rebuke.
“Tye, please. Let me explain.”
Tye stops and turns around slow. “Do you work here or not?”
“No.”
Tye starts to walk away again.
“Wait. Just—just let me explain.”
Tye stops walking, but he doesn’t face me. People bump into him because he is standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. He doesn’t move. “You give me updates all the time about how things are going at work; we’ve been shopping for the photo project . . . I don’t understand why you’re playing games with me. All this talk about you wanting to get to know each other, and the whole time you’ve been lying to me? Has everything between us been a lie?”
“Everything? No. Not my feelings for you. No.”
“How can I believe you?” Tye walks away.
“Tye!”
He keeps walking.
“Tye!”
He turns the corner, gone.
I didn’t cry yesterday when we argued, and I didn’t cry when I turned around and saw he wasn’t coming back to Harlem with me. I didn’t cry on the subway on the long ride uptown, or in bed that night when I replayed every moment we’ve ever spent over and over. I haven’t cried at all until right now. No words will come out of me, just tears. And I can’t stop them.
20
WORST PLACES TO CRY
1.At the park in front of all the kids who just watched the neighborhood bully push you off the swing.
2.In the nurse’s office when you are in the sixth grade and realize your period has started and everyone, including the cute guy you have a crush on, knows.
3.On a New York City subway when you thought you were grown enough to take the train by yourself but missed your stop and panicked because you realized your mom was right, you weren’t ready. And she knew this, so she was on the train, just a few seats away waiting for you to need her.
4.On a sidewalk, standing alone, watching your boyfriend walk away.
When I step back into the lobby, Ms. Sharon is waiting there with her arms folded looking like she is about to scold me. And Imani must’ve called for Grandma because she’s here too and so are all her friends and JT. “What is this Imani is telling me about you pretending to work here?” Grandma asks.
I roll my eyes at Imani.
“Grandma, she did all of this to get a guy to like her—”
“I can talk for myself, Imani. And what did you do, go and tell Tye I wasn’t woke enough so you could hook him up with Toya?”
“What? No. Tye came by the house looking for you, and when I told him you weren’t home, he asked me if you were at work. I thought he was confused or something because you definitely don’t have a job, but it turns out not only is she jobless, she’s also a liar and a fraud.”
Ms. Norma and Ms. Mabel are looking at me with disappointed eyes. JT too.
Grandma stands between us. “All right, enough. We’re making a scene,” Grandma says. “Let’s talk about this in private.” She walks away, and Imani and I follow her.
Ms. Mabel looks at me, and I know that this means she’s already known the truth. I wonder why she hasn’t said anything. Not even to me. She isn’t frowning or looking disappointed, she’s actually looking kind and warm, like she wants to reach out and give me a hug, but I keep walking, following Grandma and Imani down the hall.
As soon as we get into Grandma’s, Imani starts up again. “I don’t understand you, Nala. Do you just need attention or something? What’s been going on with you lately?”
I don’t feel like I owe Imani an explanation at all. But Grandma sits down in her rocking chair and says, “Well, answer her.”
“No, I didn’t do it to get attention. I actually, I—at first I was just, yeah, I was trying to impress Tye. I like him and he’s so involved in the community, I wanted him to like me.”
“So you pretended to care about me? My friends?” Grandma’s voice has never sounded this disappointed, not at me anyway.
“No—I care about you, Grandma. I love spending time here. And yes, at first I exaggerated the truth about me being here, but the photo project . . . I—I really do want to do that. I do.”
Grandma just sighs a deep sigh. Then Imani says, “I don’t believe you.”
“Well, that’s the truth.”
“No, Nala. The truth is, you’re jealous of me. It’s not enough that you moved into my house, claiming my mother as your own. You have to have my friends too.”
And the way she says my makes me wonder if there will ever be a we again—no more Imani and Nala, cousin-sister-friends.
“Imani, watch yourself,” Grandma says.
But Imani keeps talking. “Grandma, she’s been rude to my friend Toya, and she’s got Sadie braiding her hair, and she’s tricked Tye into—”
“The fact that you are saying this just shows how selfish you really are, Imani.” I am yelling, and so I lower my voice, calm myself. “I get it now. You’re mad because your friends actually like me. You didn’t think I was good enough to fit with your friends, but I am. And you don’t know what to do with that. I mean, who are you if you’re not the cousin who does everything better than Nala?” I say. “Well, sorry to burst your I’m-Woke-I’m-an-Ally-I’m-Socially-Conscious-I’m-Better-Than-You bubble . . . people actually like me. You’re not the only one in this family who can have friends or have attention from a hot guy.”
“Everything is always about you, Nala. For once, just once, I want to have a life outside of the two of us. My own friends, time to do what I want to do. I have always had to look out for you. Always consider Nala’s feelings.” Imani’s voice is trembling like she is on the verge of tears, like a glass teetering on the edge. She breaks, crashes down into shattered tears. “You keep wondering why I don’t spend time at home . . . it’s because my own mother gives you more attention than she does me.”
I stand up, put my shoes back on. “I never, never tried to take Aunt Ebony away from you. If you didn’t want me living with you—”
“All right, enough! Enough, I said.” Grandma never yells at us. Never. “Nala, where do you think you’re going?”
“Anywhere but here,” I say. And Grandma gives me a look like I better sit myself down and fix my attitude. I don’t test her. I take my shoes back off. Sit down. But instead of sitting on the sofa, anywhere near them, I sit at the dining room table. I can still see them, hear them.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into the two of you, but you both have got to figure it out. We don’t do this.”
We. I am still a part of Grandma’s we. She’s mad at me, but not so much that she’s stopped loving me, wanting me.
“You both thinking you know everything, thinking you’re right. Well, you’re both wrong.” Grandma turns to Imani and says, “Life can’t be about trying to prove a point, or making someone feel less than you. You walking around having love for the planet, love for animals, love for every outcast, downtrodden person, but you ain’t got no love for your cousin? For your momma? Me? Since when you so high and mighty that you don’t come to family gatherings? Since when? You think you’re smart and brave and passionate? Who you think taught you to be that way?”
Tell her, Grandma, tell her.
“And Nala Robertson, you have got to start learning how to love yourself. For you, it will always be easier to love other people, to put them first and cater to them, to adapt to their needs. You want to really be something in this world—learn how to walk in a room being yourself and staying true to who you are. Yes, there’s room for growth, always. But if the change isn’t for you it won’t last.”
Imani has her head down, her arms folded.
Grandma gets up, goes into the kitchen, and brings out two bottles of Ting and sets them on the dining room table. Then, she goes back into the kitchen and shakes out plantain chips into a bowl. She sets the bowl in the middle of the table. Grandma walks to the door, slips her sandals on, and before she leaves, she says, “You two are family. Family. That alone ought to be enough for you to respect each other. You’re also two women. Black women. The most radical thing you can do is love yourself and each other.”
We sit and sit. Me sipping the grapefruit soda Grandma left out for us every few minutes and nibbling on the chips. Imani stays in the living room on the sofa. Thirty minutes have passed, and we haven’t said anything to each other. But I can see that Imani’s shoulders have relaxed, that her eyes aren’t burning a curse through me anymore. Her phone is buzzing; so is mine. But we don’t answer them. Somehow, I think we both know that Grandma would not approve of us answering a phone call or responding to a text. Not now.
We sit and sit.
I finish my soda.
Forty-five minutes.
Grandma is still gone, and we still haven’t said a word to each other. I see Imani’s eyes looking at Grandma’s open Bible. She is reading it, I can tell. I wonder what it says today. Every now and then, our eyes meet and linger on each other, and when I look at her, I see past what she said today, past how cold she’s been all month. I see way back to when we were kids and summers were spent splashing in fire hydrants and spending all our allowance at the Coco Helado carts. I see her greeting me at the door when I showed up at her doorstep soaking wet with rain and snot and tears, how she hugged me even though I was wet and falling apart. How she was the one to say, Mom, can she live here?
I see all of that. She is still that person too.
I’ll hold on to that, hope she has some good memories about me to hold on to.
21
I am lying in my bed waiting.
The sun is awake and bright and enveloping my room. It is time to get up, but I stay in bed because I hear Imani moving around and I don’t want to see her. Not yet. Last night we never did speak, not even when Aunt Ebony picked us up from Grandma’s, not even when she asked us what was going on. We were silent the whole way home, and I went straight to my room (with nothing to eat, by the way) and went to bed.
This morning, I am listening to Blue and she is getting me in a better mood. I sing along, distract myself from the fact that I really need to use the bathroom. And I mean in that first-thing-in-the-morning kind of way that is really hard to hold. But I wait. I twist my legs shut, hold it. I can hear everything Imani is doing. First, her five-minute shower and now she must be drying off. I hear the mirror to the medicine cabinet open, then close. She must be getting her hair products out. There is a pause, and the medicine cabinet opens and closes again. Then, finally, the bathroom door opens and she walks out. I hear her bedroom door open, close.
I wait.
The door opens and closes again. Imani runs back to the bathroom, grabs something, and rushes back to her bedroom.
I don’t move.
There’s music playing from her room, and I figure she must be getting dressed. Soon enough I’ll be able to get up, go to the bathroom. If not, I’ll have to get over it because I am too old to wet the bed. I stand up, pace the room (does that really help?), and try to distract myself while I wait for her to leave. I do not want any accidental hallway run-ins. I pull the cord to the charger out of my phone and check my notifications. No text from Tye, no missed calls. I toss the phone back on the bed.
The doorbell rings, and I hear Imani running down the stairs. Then, Asher’s voice is booming through the house with Aunt
Ebony’s. They all talk for a while. I can’t make out what they are saying, but their voices are loud and constant. Then, the front door opens, closes.
Imani is gone.
I run to the bathroom, don’t even close the door.
Relief.
I shower and get dressed and listen to see if Aunt Ebony is still here. I hear her walking back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, so I decide to stay upstairs a little longer. I am not ready to talk with her either.
I sit on my bed, pick my phone up, and scroll through Instagram. Sadie has posted a photo of me, her, and Imani at her house from the day she braided my hair. I tap the heart to like it and keep scrolling. I am looking to see if Tye has posted anything.
Nothing.
I go to his page; maybe I missed it. I look over his posts and see he hasn’t been on since the last picture he shared—the one of me and him at Brooklyn Bridge Park. I don’t like it or make a comment. I just stare at it. Tap it and zoom in on his face. His eyes are smiling in this picture. I wonder if I’ll ever look into his eyes again, ever be in his arms like that.
I go to Inspire Harlem’s page, and there are no new photos here either, just the recap of the community block party. I swipe through them: a photo of Asher and Tye setting up, one of the massive crowd, and there’s even a photo of all the tote bags on the table, stuffed and ready to go.
Seeing this photo makes me realize I never looked inside my tote. It’s been on the floor of my closet since I came home that day. I go to my closet, get the bag, and dump everything out. There are coupons to local stores, bookmarks, stickers, hand sanitizer, and tons of brochures. There’s also a postcard-sized flyer that has Inspire Harlem’s core tenets listed with a mural behind the words.
Remember Harlem.
Honor Harlem.
Critique Harlem.
Love Harlem.
I pin it to the corkboard that hangs beside my desk. I stand in front of my mirror, put my braids up in a ponytail, and pick my phone back up. I scroll and scroll. Still no posts from Tye. I think about leaving a comment under the picture, but what can I say?