The Other Black Girl: A Novel

by Zakiya Dalila Harris

  Opioids still sexy? Nella jotted. She’d translate it into something less cheeky when she typed it up for Vera later.

  “I agree, it will be a bit tricky,” Vera said, adding a bit of bass to her voice. “And no doubt about it, Colin is aware of that, too. But he’s planning to do a lot of Q and As on the process of writing this book, which media platforms will really appreciate. And he’s really willing to go after young adult audiences. Maybe speak at some high schools out in middle America.”

  A few seats down from Vera, Maisy—a conspicuous shade of bronze—cleared her throat. Since returning to work a few days earlier, she’d told everyone that she’d “simply needed an extra-long vacation,” although Nella had not forgotten the brief cameo Maisy had made, hustling in and then out of the office with all of those bags. “I’d just like to chime in here, too, if I may,” said Maisy.

  The right people sitting at the table nodded that yes, it was okay.

  “I read some of this—” She readjusted her position so she could make eye contact with Vera. “Like Amy, I was touched, and I told my son that I love him, and to always make good decisions—although he’s still figuring out how to say ‘mommy,’ so we’ll revisit his choices in sixteen years, I guess.” A few more overly generous chuckles; Nella gave Maisy half a titter. “And I think one thing that’s really special about Needles and Pins—and stop me, Ver, if you were about to touch upon this—is that it shows various demographics that have been hit by the opioid crisis. Not just white people, but Black people, too.”

  “Yes,” Vera said, “I was going to speak on that. Thank you.”

  Nella stiffened. It was one thing to talk about Shartricia in Vera’s office, but to have to sit through it with two dozen of her coworkers was another thing entirely. She did not want to listen to Maisy and Vera wax poetic about how good of a job Colin had done presenting diverse characters. She did not want to watch everyone respond enthusiastically. For a fleeting moment, she considered going to the bathroom, even though it would be terribly conspicuous for her to do so.

  Then, she remembered: She had an ally now. If any other coworkers happened to cast a glance in her direction to see if she’d exhibited any opinion on what was being said, it meant they would also be looking at Hazel, too. How had she forgotten she wasn’t the only Black girl in the room?

  Nella inhaled. The burden wasn’t gone, she realized. Not by any means. But at least it could be shared and laughed about later. Maybe she’d even invite Hazel to drinks with Malaika the next time they went out, and they could hash it all out together.

  She felt the tension leave her lower back again, rising through her shoulders and evaporating up to the ceiling.

  But it was a mistake to let her guard down. Because it left her unprepared for what happened next.

  First, Vera said Hazel’s name. And then Richard did, too, venturing to turn his attention toward Assistants Alley.

  “Would you mind sharing some words, Hazel?”

  Nella froze. She’d never seen Richard ask any entry-level employee to speak at one of these meetings before.

  “Sure. I asked Vera if I could take a look at Needles and Pins. I’ve been a big Colin Franklin reader for a while, and I was curious.” Hazel’s voice, an audible jolt of youth and ardor, was perfectly loud and clear and crisp. Everyone in the room had turned to get a good look at her, as though it were commonplace for an assistant to pick up the mic at a marketing meeting.

  Didn’t Hazel say Vera had asked her to take a look? thought Nella, as Oliver leaned over to whisper something in Alexander’s ear at the big table. Alexander nodded his head in the direction of Maisy.

  “And I’ll say this, if I may,” Hazel continued. “I think the Black protagonist and her family will really resonate with audiences of color, particularly those who are struggling with addiction. My parents came of age during the crack epidemic in the city in the 1980s, and it brought back memories of stories they’ve told me—and how little anybody white seemed to care.”

  Some people nodded. Amy hummed a note befit for a church choir.

  “I’ll be honest. There are a few things about Shartricia that some people might call attention to…”

  If Nella had any doubts that Hazel had cast a very direct glance in her direction, the pointed gaze of the balding production editor who was sitting in front of her confirmed it. She could feel everyone else staring at her, too.

  “But overall, Colin did a really good job of bringing it home in a way that I think will connect with all readers. It’ll be fun to see how it all comes together.”

  “Thanks, Hazel, for that,” said Vera. She was beaming so hard that you’d have thought her puppy had stood up on its hind legs and started composing the next great American novel. Meanwhile, the PE still hadn’t taken his eyes off Nella. His eyes were narrowed in hard, indisputable distrust.

  Nella fake-coughed into her elbow.

  “My pleasure! Thank you for letting me take a peek. And for giving me the opportunity to speak today.” Hazel bowed her head.

  Amy bowed her head in reply. “Yes, thanks, Hazel, for your thoughts. We’ll definitely keep in mind the racially diverse angle, too. Great stuff, no?” she asked the room. It was a rhetorical question, but a few people verbally agreed anyway, not wanting to be mistaken for nonbelievers. Richard clapped his hands a couple of times.

  “Great!” Vera said. “Okay, next: Kruegler. When we first met Kitty, she was a no-name debut author with no partner, and no kids, with seventy-five thousand dollars of college debt. But when Translucent Shadows hit, all of that changed…”

  Nella reached a forefinger up to her face and pressed on her left nostril and counted to ten. The corners of her eyes were beginning to burn, and now that the PE was finally facing forward again, all she could do was focus on the back of his shiny, bare head. The tears were about to fall, she knew, and even though no one would probably notice—everyone was infatuated with Kitty Kruegler, a college dropout who’d gone on to be a professor at Princeton—crying was not an option. Showing any feeling wasn’t an option. She knew what her colleagues would say. What her mother would say. Damn it, Nell, you’re a twenty-six-year-old editorial assistant working at one of the best publishing houses in the country. You’ve got nothing to cry about.

  What Nella couldn’t have possibly explained to her mother was that the tears that threatened to flow down her cheeks weren’t tears of sadness. They were hot, heavy tears of anger and embarrassment. She locked her jaw, trying to keep from looking over at Hazel. She was dying to see what the girl was wearing on her face, but was scared that if she moved her head even an inch, she’d need to scramble to the exit—or, worse, spring from her chair, grab Hazel by the shoulders, and give her a shake in front of all of their colleagues.

  Nella sat stock-still like this for the next forty-five minutes, focusing only on her breathing and the sounds of the editors’ voices. By the time Amy launched into her usual closing remarks about the market and the social climate for books and how important the work every single person in that room was doing, the heat had left Nella’s face and her jaw had relaxed. She had so many questions for Hazel, but she knew that her best option was to keep calm and quiet. Wagner was not a good place for this conversation—it would be better to wait until they were at Curl Central.

  Resigned for now, Nella casually turned her head to the left, feeling the tightness that had formed on her left side unfurl. When she turned back, she was surprised to see Hazel staring right at her, brows scrunched and eyes clouded over, like she was thinking something through.

  Bring Owen. Coming from Hazel, this had sounded more like a command than a suggestion. But no. That wasn’t why those words had rubbed Nella the wrong way. What had confused her in that moment was the sound of Owen’s name coming from Hazel’s mouth. Nella hadn’t ever mentioned it to Hazel. Not even in passing. She was certain of that. And Owen was nowhere on her Facebook—he didn’t believe in social media, bless his free-spirited heart, and
she respectfully kept him off her page. She didn’t use Facebook like that anymore, anyway.

  Nella held Hazel’s stare, radiating as much blatant condemnation as she could. Hazel withstood all of it with an air of neutrality. Then, she slowly turned her head back toward the front of the room, the beginnings of a slow, small smile creeping across her face.

  Kendra Rae

  September 26, 2018

  Catskill, New York

  You’ve got to help me. I feel like I’m going insane.

  I took a long, deep breath, then raised my glass and took an even longer, deeper sip of my wine. I couldn’t keep running away from this voice mail. I’d done everything I could to take my mind off it. I went out on the trail for an hour; I picked up some groceries and a case of pinot noir, too. I’d even done a little writing, just to give me something to do while I drank.

  But I couldn’t find any peace. Not once. I just kept hearing this girl’s squeaky voice instead of my own.

  I sighed and hit Play, her frantic rant filling up my kitchen for the umpteenth time.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you keep contacting me. And, actually, I don’t even know why I’m calling you. You… stupid, creeper-stalker weirdo.”

  There was that light, snotty snort noise—the one that told me she’d been crying.

  “God, I’m a mess. My life is a mess. Owen’s been mad at me. Vera thinks I’m an unreliable assistant, and I’m definitely gonna lose my job… although truthfully, I don’t even know if I want it.”

  The caller paused again. I wiped at the drop of pinot noir that had slid off the green bottle onto the table, smearing it across the cherrywood. I licked my finger and wiped at it again, counting down the four seconds that I knew would pass before she said, “No. That’s not true. I—I do want it. I want to be an editor. How many young Black female editors are there? None.” The girl sighed. “You keep telling me to leave, but I can’t. I can’t let Hazel…” Another snort, this one more self-deprecating than the last. “Fuck, I’m not sure why I’m telling you… whoever you are… any of this.”

  I don’t know why you are, either, I’d thought on my first listen, pretty peeved, because you’re the unhinged wackadoo who contacted me. The only person I ever contacted was Trace. She was my lifeline, the vein connecting me to my money, my family, the life I had before. Everyone else, it was better to avoid—my ex-colleagues, the few friends I had left over from Harvard.

  I’d even left Diana behind, although that part was easier than it should’ve been. Honestly, I thought she’d at least offer a hollow apology to Trace for leaving me out on the vine to wither all those years ago. For making me feel like I was no longer welcome. For trying to change me.

  Shoot, don’t get me wrong—I know the timing of what I said wasn’t perfect. But it didn’t give her the right to try to do what she did.

  I listened as the girl rambled on a little while longer, waiting. And then it came: the reason why I hadn’t been able to think straight all day.

  Wagner.

  Hearing it for the fourth time didn’t make it any easier. It all came surging back: the decades I spent running away from his name; the threats on my life; the Black parents who wrote telling me I’d no longer be seen as a role model in their households. Years had passed since I’d changed my hair, found a new job, and settled into a small town in upstate New York where folks didn’t particularly feel like bothering their new Black neighbor… all to get away from that name. But then I got that voice mail from that Lynn girl saying something about Wagner and the work her “team” was doing. And now here Wagner was again, invading my life.

  What were the chances these two messages weren’t connected? That this girl wasn’t one of Lynn’s people, sent by Lynn to force my hand?

  I downed the rest of my glass, refilled it, then hit Play again, then again, until I pieced together a hazy picture: This anonymous caller worked for Vera Parini, a mousy waif of a white woman who’d been just a humble Wagner editorial assistant when I’d met her. And now Lynn—or one of her people—had given this poor girl my number. Probably hoping that she’d get me to come back to the city.

  Sighing, I let my eyes rest upon the blues and golds of the Jacob Lawrence print my father had sent me just weeks before he passed. His funeral had fallen on a beautiful day, one considerably warm for March, and had been so full that my mother had to turn people away. At least, that’s what Trace had told me.

  I didn’t go.

  “But it’s Dad,” Trace had implored the week before he was put to rest. Through the phone I’d felt her pulling on my arm the way she did when we were children and she wanted my attention. “You can hide your face. Wear a wig. Anything. Just don’t make me do this alone, Kenny.”

  I’d sucked my teeth. “They’ve been watching everyone at home just to see if I come back. They’ll figure it out.”

  To anyone else—almost anyone else—I would have sounded like a lunatic. But Trace was my own flesh and blood, my best friend. She had to understand. She saw me in those final days before I left. She saw the change, too. There was no other logical reason for all of those years she spent helping me remain out of sight from Richard, from Diana, from all of it.

  I feel like I’m going insane… My life is a mess…

  My phone had gone black but I kept staring at it anyway as my insides changed their tune. Suddenly, I wished she hadn’t blocked her number. I wanted the girl to call back, tell me more. Her panic wasn’t that evergreen twentysomething self-centeredness of a life not going according to plan, I realized. Clearly, whatever this girl was experiencing ran down to the bone.

  I leaned back in my chair, painfully aware of the battle between fear and compassion that was chipping away at my senses. That I even felt the tug-of-war surprised me; for so long, I’d let my desire to remain hidden dictate where I lived, where I shopped, whom I spoke to. When Lynn contacted me about all of her big theories about Wagner, and her even bigger ask, I’d told her in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested in returning to the city. It’d be crazy to risk it all now. I’ve finally found peace.

  But had I, really? Seventy wasn’t far off, and here I was, living all by myself. I had only a few friends—acquaintances—and I was two weeks late sending notes to my client. Today’s excuse? I’d gotten too wine-drunk on a weekday all by myself.

  As much as I wanted to ignore it, my cracks weren’t just showing—they were dominating. Whatever fragments of me that were left were poking hopelessly out of this lost girl’s soliloquy.

  I moved my wineglass so I could slide my laptop over and log in to Trace’s Facebook account, which she let me use whenever I was feeling particularly lonely. I didn’t know the name of the caller, but I did know whom she worked for, and whom she might work with: someone named Owen, and Hazel. But when I typed their names into the search bar, both yielded far too many results for me to comb through.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. After some deliberation, I pulled up Google and searched “Hazel” and “Wagner Books” together, expecting another avalanche of results. But halfway down the page was a link to a Facebook event hosted by a young woman named Hazel-May McCall. That very same evening, Hazel-May McCall’s organization would be holding a reading at a Black hair salon in Brooklyn.

  Among the confirmed attendees: Richard Wagner.

  And the cosponsor of this event? Wagner Books.

  This information sat strangely in my stomach, threatening to come back up with the wine I’d had for lunch. Desperately, I clicked Hazel’s photo. Her dreadlocks were her most prominent feature; next in line was how socially involved she was. But her timeline said she’d been at Wagner for barely two months.

  Either Richard had experienced a massive change of heart, or, more likely, he had An Angle. Why else would he give so much money and publicly post that he couldn’t wait “to support the importance of increasing diversity in publishing”? This was the same man who had invited me over for dinner my first week at W
agner so his fancy white wife could tell me, “woman to woman,” that I’d never make it in publishing if I didn’t tame my hair and talk like I was from Northampton, not Newark. The same man who told me a couple of years later that Burning Heart seemed “too niche” to find a real audience, but that Diana was pretty enough, and I was smart enough, and if Black people could be international pop stars, then we would certainly get some traction.

  The same man who’d angled his way into our spotlight the moment it became a bestseller.

  I considered this young woman’s dreadlocks, her hand on her hip. Was Richard sleeping with her? It was a shameful thought, but not a far-fetched one. She didn’t have that soft, easy glow he’d always gravitated toward, though. Hazel was emitting something else entirely.

  He couldn’t possibly. She wouldn’t possibly. She seemed too strong for him. Too… solid.

  But so had Diana.

  All of a sudden, my legs went to work on their own, sweeping me into my living room and leaving me at the mahogany bookshelf I’d purchased from a tag sale shortly after moving to Catskill. I was running a finger across the worn-out spines of books I’d collected over the last fifty years when I finally realized what I’d come here for.

  Ralph Ellison and Toni Morrison whispered at me to pick them up, give them another spin, but I resisted the temptation and dropped to my knees for a better view of the bottom row. There was Gordon Parks’s memoir, a biography of Billie Holiday, and a collection of other books about Black creatives. I’d never understood people who alphabetized their libraries; I only believed in arranging mine by themes—and even that could be tricky. So, I read every spine, scanning the old issues of JET and Ebony until I found a spine too small to read.