by Alyssa Cole
Marcus’s voice pops into my head. “You’re just too difficult. Why would anyone put up with it?”
“So,” Theo says. “What do you do for work?”
“I work at an elementary school.” There. I was able to respond without snapping, finally.
“A teacher? I should have known.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you like sharing knowledge and you enjoy disciplining people,” he says.
“No I don’t. I’m actually very nice to most people.”
“Okay. Then you just like disciplining me. Even better.” He grins, then keeps it pushing before I can object. “Also explains why you haven’t been working for the last couple of months. I thought maybe you’d gotten laid off, too.”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. How did he know I haven’t been working? Though I’ve been all up in his window like it was prime reality TV, so I have no right to be weirded out.
“I work in a school office. Admin stuff. My mom knows a lot of people there, and she got me a job after I moved back here.”
What am I gonna say next week when school starts? I wonder. What am I gonna say when I get back and people start asking harder questions than “How’s she doing?”
“Your mom?”
When I sip my coffee and fall back into silence, he quickly gets the point.
“Why’d you move back?” His choice of subject startles me—I didn’t even realize I’d told him that but, yeah, I did. He’s maybe a little too observant for his own good. Or for mine.
I stop and lean back to look down my nose at him. “Why are you all in my business?”
He brushes some of the sweaty hair sticking to his forehead away.
“Because I’m curious about you. Breakup?” He bites his lower lip, studying me, then nods once. “Breakup.”
“I look like the dumpable type or something?” I turn and start walking faster, like I can escape the shame of his accurate guess. The reminder of what I’d put up with and how I hadn’t even been the one to put an end to it.
He catches up to me in a couple of long strides. “You don’t look dumpable, whatever that means. You have the eyes of someone who’s been treated worse than they should’ve been, that’s all.”
Okay, yes. He’s way too observant.
“It was a divorce,” I say.
“Divorce isn’t the end of the world, you know. I’m not judging you. In fact—”
“Drop it, Theo.”
“Dropped.”
I look down at the cracked sidewalk, up at the bottom of the LIRR tracks on the bridge that runs along Atlantic Avenue, at the short squat houses, and postwar tenements, and brown-brick projects with inspirational murals curling along their foundations.
Anywhere but at this man who apparently can tell I’m hurting with a look into my eyes. I’m not into that shit and I forgot to bring sunglasses.
He starts talking about painting a mural at one of his high schools, even though he’s a terrible artist. How he’d been in charge of painting a wolverine, the school’s mascot, and how it’d come out looking like a zombie cat creature. I nod my response, and he segues into a story about how he once lived in a town with a coyote problem. He’s not trying to force interaction, I realize; he’s giving me background noise so I don’t have to talk if I don’t feel like it.
By the time we reach the center, an incongruous glass-and-metal structure, we’re both soaked in sweat. Theo’s breathing a little heavy and the one-sided conversation has tapered off; we make a mutual sound of pleasure as we enter the air-conditioned welcome area, then laugh.
I glance at him, and he’s looking at me like he always does, with that wide-eyed interest. No pity. No scheming to use my obvious loneliness against me.
I tilt my head to the reception desk and then walk toward the woman sitting at it, while Theo heads over to the huge glass windows lining the other side of the lobby, looking out at an open field.
“Hi, how can I help you?” the young woman at the desk says just as Theo calls out, “There are tiny houses out there!”
The woman grins in response to his excitement, her smile scrunching up the freckles on her light brown cheeks. “Those houses have been here since the 1820s. They were regular-sized back then. We give tours of them, but our tour guide is on summer break so those restart next week.”
I wilt a little with disappointment. This is what I get for putting things off for months instead of walking a few blocks to do my research. “Oh. That’s . . . fine.”
“Sorry.” She actually looks like she means it. “You can explore outside around the houses if you want. And our exhibits are open if you want to check those out. We have three pretty great ones right now.”
“That works for me,” Theo says, walking over with a wad of cash. “I’ll pay the entry fee. And how much are those T-shirts?”
HALF AN HOUR later Theo is decked out in an olive-green T-shirt with the old houses screen-printed onto it in black, courtesy of the gift shop. We’ve gone through the exhibitions, which actually were useful.
The first exhibition room we entered was an overview of how Weeksville had been founded—by Black men buying property during the Panic of 1837 so that they could be afforded the right to vote. It also talked about laws that hampered the Black community in Brooklyn, like an eighteenth-century law preventing Black people who managed to buy property from passing it on to their descendants.
I’d taken pictures of useful stuff, like a map of the old neighborhood and information about some of the historical figures who had been part of it.
The next exhibition was an overview of historic race riots in New York, starting with the slave uprisings of 1712. Apparently, fires kept breaking out in Manhattan, and instead of dealing with the reality that a town made of wood structures was gonna have some fires, someone decided they were being set by enslaved people fomenting rebellion—leading to death and dismemberment for dozens of Black New Yorkers, free and enslaved. I’d immediately thought of Kim threatening to call the police on me because I didn’t let her cut me in line, and wondered if all those people died because of the historical equivalent of a Bodega Becky.
The final part of the exhibition talked about the Draft Riots of 1864, where the Irish began hunting Black people through the streets of New York, killing indiscriminately and burning down an orphanage. The people of Weeksville had taken in and protected Black New Yorkers who’d made it across the East River.
Theo’s face had been pale during that exhibit, and we had split apart at one point, the awkward historical fact that white people really seemed to enjoy hunting Black people whenever the whim struck them making chitchat just a bit strained.
We’d reunited at the last exhibition; it featured photographs of people from the Weeksville neighborhood over the course of its history. Black families posing in front of fireplaces. Black teachers teaching at the African school. Barbershops and restaurants and a whole thriving nineteenth-century neighborhood, and it had just . . . disappeared.
Now I sit on a bench while Theo snaps photos of the old houses outside, and I scroll for answers to a nagging question that none of the exhibitions answered.
“Where did the people of Weeksville go?” I ask. “They’d worked hard to buy property and gain the right to vote. They’d spent decades building a community, only to pick up and leave?”
“Maybe there were better opportunities someplace else?” Theo guesses, turning his camera on me and fiddling with the focus on his lens.
“Some people would leave because of that, but not everyone. It’s not like it was easy for them to just move. They weren’t welcome most places and had a hard enough time holding on to what they already had,” I say, trying to keep the snap out of my tone, because it’s not him I’m frustrated with. “You don’t just give away everything you busted your ass for.”
I’m scrolling blindly now, trying to maintain my cool.
“But, look at our neighborhood—”
&nb
sp; “I’m gonna go sit in the AC.” I head back toward the reception area, fighting against the sudden pressure at my tear ducts.
I head to the bathroom, splash water on my face, then grab a cold water from the vending machine and a seat at one of the round tables scattered around the lobby. After taking a few sips, I hold the water against my neck and just breathe. I can’t keep going off on Theo. It’s not fair to use him as my emotional punching bag—I know what it feels like, everything you say pushing some invisible button in a person you’re just trying to get along with.
He isn’t even getting paid for this shit. And even if he is pushing my buttons, even if his presence does make things awkward sometimes, it’s nice to have some company. It’s particularly nice that said company can ask questions about my past but doesn’t actually know anything about it. I can breathe a little more freely with him, even though he probably thinks I’m an uptight heifer, mostly because even while feeling freer I’m acting like one.
The door from the outside opens and Theo strolls over to the woman at the desk. I watch as he makes goofy small talk, the way she slowly looks away from the computer screen and turns her attention to him. Smiles. Gets drawn into conversation.
It’s not flirtatious, exactly, it’s just Theo. There’s something about his openness that makes you want to let him in.
After a few minutes he strides over and sits down next to me, but I keep my eyes averted since I still feel foolish for storming off.
“Eastern Parkway,” he says.
When I glance at him his gaze backflips away from where condensation is running from the water bottle down into the valley between my breasts. I pull the bottle from against my neck, take a sip, and try not to look smug. Drea was right—this shirt does make them look great.
“They built Eastern Parkway through the Weeksville cemetery,” he says, then moves his hand in a horizontal motion. “Just kind of razed right through it, apparently. Some people left after that. Others left after they started putting the streets onto a grid system, which again meant more razing and change.” He sighs and starts fidgeting with the camera. “And then white—well, white now—immigrants started moving in. So maybe I wasn’t so wrong about it being like our neighborhood. But you were right, too. People don’t just leave en masse for no reason.”
He suddenly turns and snaps a picture of me.
I lower the water bottle from my lips. “What the eff, Theo?”
“Sorry,” he says, looking at the camera’s display screen. He’s not sorry. “Couldn’t resist.”
He turns and shows me the photo of myself with the bottle held near my mouth, lips moist and slightly parted. My braids are pulled up from my face, showing the smooth stretch of my deep summer-brown skin over my cheekbones and the darker circles under my eyes.
I look . . . attractive, I guess.
But tired.
I look like my mom.
“So what’s the plan, boss?” he asks as he pulls the camera back and glances at the screen one more time before turning it off. “How does all this fit into the tour?”
“Well, I don’t think we’ll walk all the way over here during the block party, but I want to mention this neighborhood, since it overlapped Gifford Place at its peak. But I’m probably gonna start way before that with the Native Americans who lived in the area—”
“That’s a pretty broad lens.”
“—and then talk about the enslaved Africans who helped the Dutch build their initial farm holdings on the land they stole from the Algonquin.”
“The Dutch? Not the British?”
“Weren’t you supposed to look up the Dutch West India Company?” I ask, shooting him an annoyed look.
Theo’s eyes are warm. “I didn’t get around to it. But I’m kind of glad I didn’t, because I like when you pull out your ruler, especially now that I know you only do it for me.”
He stands up and walks away, like he’s just pulled some smooth move and I’m supposed to sit here all flustered. I scoff. If this is his idea of flirtation, he better hope I never actually decide to give in to my curiosity, because he’s not ready for this jelly. The only reason I feel this buzzy sensation is because I need a nap. And the fluttering in my stomach is because I need food.
I get up and follow him, and as we head out the woman at the entrance calls us over. “You know where you can go if you’re looking into the history of the neighborhood? The AME around the corner. Our archivist is always tapping their historian on the shoulder for something or another. Kendra Hill is her name. She’s basically a walking encyclopedia of this area.”
“I know Ms. Hill,” I say through a pasted-on smile. “She’s a friend of my mother’s. I can call her and set things up.” I turn to Theo. “Wanna head there tomorrow if she’s free? And if you’re free.”
I wince internally; just like that and I’m already assuming he’ll be there to help. I haven’t learned my lesson at all.
“I’m free,” he says. “I said I’d help. So I’m going to help.”
I scramble for a snarky response, but the only thing I come up with is a quiet “Thanks.”
I’m tired.
I need help.
I’ll take it.
Gifford Place OurHood post by LaTasha Clifton:
OMG, check out this Secret New York article! It’s about how there used to be secret tunnels under the Medical Center!
Amber Griffin: Wut?! The mole people are real??
Candace Tompkins: No mole people. The hospital was a factory for a little while after the sanitarium closed down, and there were underground passageways. They were used to transport shipments back in the day.
LaTasha Clifton: What kind of shipment needs to be carried underground??
Candace Tompkins: They didn’t want to bother the rich people who lived in the neighborhood.
Amber Griffin: I don’t buy it. MOLE. PEOPLE. PERIODT.
Chapter 9
Theo
WHEN I WAKE UP FROM A BOREDOM-INDUCED NAP, THE LATE-EVENING light is throwing shadows that highlight the raging boner tenting my boxers.
It feels wrong having this thrum of excitement in my veins for the first time in months, and not for Kim, but not as wrong as it should.
I shouldn’t be popping wood over Sydney. She’s just my neighbor. The end.
My dick jumps and I heave a frustrated sigh, then roll groggily out of bed and head to my bathroom on autopilot. When I turn on the tap in my shower it makes a sound like a smoker’s hacking cough followed by a clang somewhere—still no water, of course.
I crack my front door and drop my head as I poke it out, half from defeat and half listening for any of the usual sounds that bounce up from downstairs when Kim is home.
Nothing.
My body unclenches at what the silence signals: No tiptoeing around. No waiting for the anvil I’d thought I could evade to finally drop out of the sky like in the old cartoons Mom would put on, volume high, to keep me busy when her latest boyfriend came over. Sometimes in the cartoons, the heavy objects falling out of the sky were unavoidable acts of malice. More often, the character about to get walloped had set his own anvil-smashing in motion through some combination of greed, hubris, and stupidity.
Yeah. I guess I hadn’t paid enough attention to that part.
I wrap a towel around myself and head downstairs to shower off my sleep sweat—it’s still hot as fuck in my room and I feel sticky and sluggish.
I’m relieved at the thought that Kim is gone, again, even if she is with someone else. Maybe I should be raging and trying to win her back, but all I can think of is how nice it will be to cook dinner on the stove tonight, like a grown-up, instead of eating Cup Noodles rehydrated with water heated on the hot plate in my studio. Maybe I can turn on her AC, relax, and finally look up this Dutch West India Company stuff I told Sydney I would research.
When I step into the living room, I realize I was wrong.
Kim is there, wearing cute little khaki shorts and a silky white
shirt that shows she’s still an adherent of “freeing the nipple” and hers are basking in said freedom. Her hair is down around her shoulders in loose waves.
She looks great, all beachy summer fun, but when her gaze passes over mine, it’s coldest winter. The room is freezing, too—she’s gotten an additional air conditioner after giving me shit for wanting one.
I would laugh, if my balls hadn’t drawn up into my body from the look she gives me when her head swivels in my direction.
It’s blank; no happiness, or even disdain. If I’d been a mouse that scampered in, she would have shown more feeling about my presence.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly, tightening the towel around my waist. I glance at the rolling suitcase she’s carefully zipping up. “Going somewhere?”
“My parents said I should come out to their place in the Hamptons,” she says. She has to clarify because they also have a place in Martha’s Vineyard and one on the Carolina coast. “They said it would be smart to get there early before all the Labor Day traffic. It’s super hot there, too, but at least there’s an ocean breeze.”
“Oh. That’s cool.” I hadn’t thought we’d spend the holiday together, but I’d assumed we’d both be miserable separately but in each other’s general vicinity, like we’d spent the last holiday. Miserable is the last thing she’ll be, up in a big fancy house with catered food, a sea breeze, a pool, and—
I really am an asshole. My girlfriend is leaving suddenly, probably cheating on me, and I’m jealous of the lobster rolls and amenities she’s going to enjoy.
“Is he going to be there?” I ask.
“David?” She tilts her head. “That doesn’t really matter, does it? Because when I get back, you’ll be gone.”
She says this so casually I almost don’t catch what she means.
I’m getting kicked out.
I should do something. Get angry. Make a scene. Instead, my hands grip the towel at my waist and I kind of just freeze there like a roach when you turn on the kitchen light.
“What the hell, Kim? Just like that?” I ask, but it’s not really a question, and in reality just like that has been coming on for months.