Love Is a Revolution

by Renée Watson

  “Thank you.”

  “Have a nice day. And come back to see us.”

  “I will.”

  When I get home, I hide the album in the back of my bedroom closet. I sit on my bed for a while, just trying to cool off from being outside in all that heat. I lie down on my back, across my bed looking up at the ceiling.

  I saw Tye today.

  I can’t get him off my mind.

  I pick up my phone, think about calling him. No, maybe a text. Maybe I should reach out and tell him how nice it was to see him today, tell him how much I miss him. I sit up and type a few messages but delete them all.

  Then, I get my notebook, work on me instead.

  GRATITUDE LIST

  1.I am grateful for Sadie because she sees me, feels me, doesn’t judge me.

  2.I am grateful for Grandma’s friends at Sugar Hill. The way they make me laugh, think. How JT is like a grandfather, how the women are bonus grandmothers to me. How we are all family.

  3.I am grateful for Aunt Liz for being the example of independence, style, and excellence.

  4.I am grateful for Blue for making music that heals my heart.

  27

  BLUE PLAYLIST, TRACK 8

  Missing You Interlude

  The sun is setting.

  It reminds me of your smile.

  How it is always so stunning

  but never the same twice.

  How even as I watch it fade away,

  still I am not ready to see it go.

  Imani tells me that Inspire Harlem is having an end-of-summer gathering for family and friends. I really don’t want to go because I know Tye will be there. And his mom. And Toya will be there. And everyone else who knows that I lied and who saw me on stage making a fool of myself reciting song lyrics. So yeah, I don’t really want to go but part of me does. I want to go because Imani is getting an award and I know it will mean a lot to her if I’m there.

  I haven’t decided yet. But what I did decide to do is donate all those party supplies I bought with Tye. Ms. Lori was so happy to have them. “Just in time,” she said to thank me. “We’ll use these for decorations at the ceremony.”

  I kind of want to go just to see how they’ll use the decorations.

  I don’t have much longer to decide because today’s the day. Right now, I am hanging out with Aunt Ebony, helping her prep for the school year. Summer is almost gone. Just a few more weeks and we’ll be back to our fall and winter routine. We are in the family den, and I am working on posters and charts that Aunt Ebony will laminate later and hang in her classroom.

  Imani comes in the room, takes the ironing board out of the closet, and says, “Mom, the potluck is in an hour—you didn’t forget, did you?”

  “Of course not. I’ll be ready. Your dad will be home soon, and we’ll all walk over together.”

  Imani looks at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to the potluck?” She is standing at the ironing board with scissors in her hand, cutting an old shirt into a crop top to wear with a new long, flowing skirt she bought last week.

  This is an event for family, and I am her cousin-sister-friend, so I should be there. I finish helping Aunt Ebony and get up and head to my room to change into something more presentable and say to Imani, “Don’t leave without me.”

  The potluck is happening at the Countee Cullen Library. It looks so different from the night of the talent show. The lights are bright, and there are long tables on two sides of the room covered with all the food families have brought. In the middle of the room are round tables, covered with tablecloths with small succulent plants in the middle as centerpieces. Aunt Ebony brought drinks and chips and dip, said it was too hot to cook. We get there just as it’s starting. Ms. Lori is at the front of the room. “Can I get everyone’s attention, please? Everyone, can I get your attention?” A hush moves through the crowd, and once it is quiet, Ms. Lori says, “I just wanted to welcome you all to our first—and hopefully annual—Inspire Harlem family potluck. We’re here today to connect, eat some good food, and honor our teen community leaders. Please feel free to help yourselves to the delicious feast that’s been prepared, and we’ll get started with the awards ceremony shortly.”

  I’m not sure if we should clap or not—a few people offer applause but most of us just start heading to the food tables. I survey the crowd to see if Tye is here yet. He is not.

  But Toya is.

  I see her in line making her plate, talking with Lynn, who is pouring the pineapple juice Aunt Ebony brought into a cup. I don’t realize that I am actually staring at them, and so when Toya waves, I have to wave back because I can’t pretend I don’t see her. They walk over to me, and Toya says, “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Like I would have told her.

  “Yeah, wanted to come support Imani.”

  Toya stands there as if she expects me to say more. Then, I see Sadie walking over, a big smile on her face. “Hey, girl,” she says as she wraps her arms around me. “My mom and dad are over there with your family, you coming?” She points across the room to Aunt Ebony and Uncle Randy. We fix our plates and head over there, waving bye to Toya and Lynn. Just as I am walking over to get a seat, I see Tye come in. He is with his mom, and he is looking across the room, his eyes searching. Is he looking for me? Is he hoping I’m here . . . ​hoping I’m not here? My heart aches, and even though this food looks so good, I don’t want to eat it anymore.

  He doesn’t see me.

  I sit down, try to act normal when Sadie’s mom asks how I’m doing. I don’t move out of this seat all afternoon. Sadie has gone back for seconds and brought me something to drink. She hasn’t asked why I’m not mingling. She knows.

  The program starts, and it is moving along pretty quickly, no long speeches or special performances. Just Ms. Lori bringing up each Inspire Harlem teen one by one so they can receive their certificate while she says some nice words about them. For Imani, she says, “This young lady is beyond dedicated. She is the first to arrive, the last to leave, and she is willing to take the lead or work behind the scenes.” We all clap as Imani takes the certificate. I snap a photo, but it probably won’t look too good because I have to zoom in so much, I am sure it is blurry and pixelated.

  Then, Ms. Lori says, “Now this next person is the newest member of Inspire Harlem, and I just can’t see our community without him. He’s a compassionate and patient individual. And what I love most is that he leads by example. Mr. Tye Brown, please come to the stage.”

  We all clap, and when Tye makes it to the stage, he hugs Ms. Lori, then looks out into the audience, and that’s when our eyes connect. He sees me, and he doesn’t look away.

  Once the potluck is over, everyone stands around talking and no one is leaving even though the custodial staff have come and started cleaning. Tye and his mother are talking with Asher’s family, who are just a table away. It’s so hard to be this close to him without speaking to him, without reaching out to hug him. I go outside, stand against the brick wall, and pretend to be looking for something on my phone. And then I hear him; he must have followed me out here.

  “I miss you,” he says.

  I turn around, and he is right there, so close I can feel the heat from his body. “I miss you too.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Why do you sound surprised?”

  “Well, I mean, you’re the one who broke up with me.”

  Is this his way of saying he’d take me back?

  I don’t get to ask him because Ms. Brown comes out, carrying a to-go container, and says, “Come on, Tye.” She looks at me without emotion and says, “Hi, Nala.”

  I can barely get a hello out. I’m not sure either of them hear me say it as they walk away.

  MORE THINGS I MISS ABOUT TYE

  1.That I can’t call him whenever something good is on TV that I know he would want to watch too.

  2.That we don’t text each other good morning or heart emojis or see you tomorrows anymore. No o
ne is checking on me just to say hello, just to say hey, I’m thinking of you.

  3.That I don’t have anyone to roam New York City with. Sure, I can explore by myself or with Sadie, but sometimes—most times—I want him with me to see the street performers at Union Square, to witness the wild happenings on the subway, to share a too-big pizza slice, to grab a table at the crowded coffee shop while I order at the counter. Two is better than one sometimes. Most times.

  28

  Aunt Ebony invited me and Imani out for lunch, but I told them I think she should have a day with just Imani. Once they both leave, I go over to Grandma’s, and I realize that JT is right about Grandma. She knows that I bring him an ice cream sundae every now and then, but she isn’t saying anything. Today, when I get to her place, she absolutely sees me with the sundaes, getting on the elevator. “Going to visit JT?” she asks.

  “Yes. I was going to call you when we’re done talking.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in the lounge.” I can’t believe that Grandma doesn’t fuss at me or come with me. She just walks away and acts like it doesn’t bother her at all. She doesn’t even get on me for hiding this from her.

  I knock on JT’s door, and when he opens it, he says what he always says, “Nala, my dear, you are too kind. Too kind.”

  We sit and eat our ice cream like we always do, but today, JT doesn’t ask me any questions. He doesn’t pry about Tye or ask me about college. After a while, I say to him, “Everything okay?”

  He nods.

  “You seem quiet today,” I tell him.

  “Just waiting on you,” he says.

  Waiting on me?

  JT chuckles. “I thought we had our routine down, Nala. You know the drill. What’s on your mind?”

  I guess I just needed him to ask. I tell JT, “I need to figure out what I’m going to do for college.”

  “Tell me more,” JT says.

  “I need to write my personal essay, but I don’t know what to write about. I hardly even know what I want to study in college.”

  JT says, “You don’t have to know right now.”

  “Yes, I do. Aunt Ebony keeps asking me about the essay, and pretty soon she’s going to want to read it but I haven’t even started yet.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem.” JT gets up and throws his ice cream cup away. “Maybe you are writing it for your aunt Ebony and not for yourself.”

  Now JT sounds like Grandma. What is it with all this talk about doing things for myself? How do you know if you’re doing something for yourself or someone else?

  “Just write,” JT says. “Just write as if no one is going to read it. Write as if you’re telling yourself what you need to know.”

  We spend the rest of the afternoon helping Grandma with her puzzle. Grandma gives me the honor of snapping the last piece in. It’s a beautiful scene. Maybe a summer afternoon. Women are sitting on the porch with the backdrop of clothes hanging on the clothesline. There’s a woman holding a baby, a woman holding a cat, and children hanging on the banister, all listening to the men who are scattered around the yard playing instruments—a washboard, a bucket, a banjo, and a guitar. Even animals have gathered to listen to the jam session.

  “I’ll leave it here for a day or two and then start on my next one.”

  “You’re not going to keep it here longer?” I ask. “After all the work we did.”

  “It’s not meant to last forever,” Grandma says.

  We go back to her apartment, and even though I am not hungry, Grandma makes fried plantains for us to eat. I don’t think I’ve ever come over without her feeding me. I sit on the sofa, and it just feels good to be together, Grandma in the kitchen, no words being spoken, just the two of us hanging out. It reminds me of when I was little and I’d sit on her living room floor, coloring book and crayons spread out, making something while she was in the kitchen cooking up something. I look at Grandma’s Bible, see which passage it’s open to today, have my three-minute church service. It’s placed on 1 Corinthians 13. I start reading.

  Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. . . . And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

  I take a photo of the thin paper. I’ll copy these words in my notebook. How is it that these words have existed for so long and I have never heard them? How is it that these words are easy to say, easy to believe in, but so hard to actually do?

  “You ready to eat?” Grandma says.

  She fixes a plate for me, and we sit at the dining room table and eat. When we are finished, I promise to come back in two days and work on the next puzzle. I hug Grandma, and as I am walking out of the door, I tell her, “Imani said she’s coming over with me next time.”

  “I’d like that,” Grandma says. “I’d really like that.”

  After leaving Grandma’s, I make my way to the library, and as soon as I get inside I get to work on my personal essay. I don’t know what I want it to be about, but I take JT’s advice. First, I look through my lists and think about all that happened this summer. My lists are all over the place, and a lot of the bullet points I would never share with a panel of strangers who are deciding my educational future, but finally I feel like I’m onto something when I decide to write about what I’ve learned this summer, all the things I am learning. I look through my notebook and see all the lists I wrote about Tye, about loving him. I only have a few pages left. I turn to a blank page, start another list.

  3 THINGS I LOVE ABOUT MYSELF

  1.My hair. After experimenting with different styles, I’ve come to love it for the many ways it can transform, for the story it is always telling.

  2.My skin. It is dark brown and looks good in yellow and green and any shade of blue and also white and also gray, and its scars heal like no pain ever happened, and it glistens under the sun, and in the winter it soaks up shea butter and cocoa butter, and this summer, this summer it soaked up kisses, so many kisses imprinted in this skin of mine.

  3.My mind. It is its own. Even though sometimes it is tempted to change, falter. Deep down it is sure, made up, full of ideas and thoughts and sweet memories and an imagination that built faraway places when I was a child, places I transformed into playlands: under tables, in the back seat of the car, on fire escapes and stoops. My mind. It is strong and holds all of who I am. It is still forming and growing and in so many ways, still the same. My mind. It is expansive, and there is so much room to fill, so much more to know.

  29

  I am setting up for Aunt Ebony’s party, lighting the tea lights in the center of the table. Aunt Liz and Imani are arranging the flowers and decorating the space. Uncle Randy has hung white Christmas lights above our heads in a crisscross pattern. It feels like the sky has dropped down, that the stars are hanging so low I can touch them. Aunt Ebony’s photo album is on the gift table with a wrapped box from Uncle Randy. The box is huge, but when I move it to make room for the cake, I realize it is not heavy at all. I wonder what he’s up to.

  The elevator dings, and that is the beginning of guests arriving. There are two teachers who work with Aunt Ebony, a few friends she’s had since she moved to New York, and of course Grandma. JT is with her, and everyone is acting like this isn’t a big deal, but it definitely is a big deal. Asher and his parents are here too. And I think about Tye even more when I see them. He would’ve come tonight if we were still dating. I think Uncle Randy would like him.

  The only person we are missing is my mom.

  Aunt Liz asks about her. “She’s coming, right?”

  “She’s always late, you know that.”

  Aunt Liz sighs. “That girl.” She checks her phone for the time. “I hope she gets here before Ebony. Randy will be here any minute.”

  Aunt Liz tu
rns on some music—a mix of old-school R&B songs that Aunt Ebony loves and some reggae classics. Just as I light the last candle, Imani shouts, “My dad just sent me a text. They’re on their way up.”

  Grandma says, “She’s knows about this right? We aren’t yelling surprise, are we?”

  “She knows. He just wanted to make sure everything was set up.”

  Just then the elevator dings again and Aunt Ebony walks onto the deck. Her face lights up when she sees us all gathered and waiting for her. We all shout out, “Happy Birthday!” and walk over to give her a hug.

  The dinner is formal, because Aunt Liz would not have it any other way. There are servers, and everything comes out looking like it was made by a top chef. We are just midway through the main entrée when finally my mom comes. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she says as soon as she steps off the elevator. She walks over to Aunt Ebony first, gives her a side hug and kisses her on her cheek. “Happy birthday, Eb. Girl, you looking good. You know what they say, Black don’t crack.” Mom looks the table over and realizes there are assigned seats. Her name is at the seat next to mine. “Okay, Liz. I see you. Doing it up for your sister, huh? This is fabulous.”

  Mom sits down beside me. “Hey, Nala. You look nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  For the rest of the dinner Mom dominates the conversation, telling stories about Aunt Ebony and Aunt Liz and how it was growing up with all girls in the house. I am laughing trying to imagine them as teenagers coming from Jamaica to live in the States, how it must have been hard for them to leave their friends.