There.
I reached for the thin slice of pages prudently, wary of keeping its fiftysomething-year-old spine intact. This was it: the old theater program from the performances of Amiri Baraka’s The Slave and The Toilet that my parents had taken me to see when I was fourteen years old. I held it in my hands for a few moments, recalling how many times my father reminded me during that ride to St. Mark’s Playhouse that Baraka was from Newark, too. Then I opened the program, stuck my hand in the flap, and unearthed the photo proof I hadn’t looked at in years.
There we were, Diana and me, posing for a magazine cover that never was. I was in black and she in rose, and we both had shoulder pads so sharp you could’ve cut your finger on them. The photographer had suggested we put our fists in the air, which we both thought was too corny, so we’d agreed to stand back-to-back with our arms crossed and our eyebrows raised—because for whatever reason, that had seemed like the more natural pose at the time. At the bottom of the page, written across our brown ankles, were the words “A New Era in Publishing?”
The punctuation of the title aggravated me now as much as it did then. Why present it as a question? I’d asked the editor in chief. The fact that we were going to be on the cover of a prestigious magazine had made it so. To me, at least.
But then I opened my mouth. Then, they pulled the cover. And what had become of this so-called new era?
I placed the proof and the program on the couch and returned to the kitchen. Just ten minutes ago, I’d wanted to reach inside my phone and tell this stranger that being an editor wasn’t worth it—that if she wasn’t careful, she might turn into someone like me. Or worse.
At the same time, I’d wanted to smash the phone against the wall.
I didn’t. Instead, I focused on the Jacob Lawrence print again, on the sturdy Black arms that would push a cart of library books for an eternity, maybe longer. And I called Lynn.
Part III
12
September 26, 2018
Malaika held a tuft of synthetic 4B hair that had been dyed powder blue up to her hairline. “You know she’s trying to fuck with you, right?” she asked, leaning toward one of the mirrors that bookmarked the aisle of hair dye products. “That’s all it is. She’s trying to fuck with you.”
Nella reached for yet another hair product, held it up to the light, and squinted. They’d walked through the front door of Curl Central almost ten minutes ago, but her eyes still hadn’t adjusted enough to its low lighting to read the jar labels from a reasonable distance. “ ‘Good Vibes,’ this one is called. Supposedly, massaging this product in your scalp two times a day will make you feel ‘good vibes, good fun, and have an all-around good time. Perfect for the beach, the bar, or for just bingeing Netflix in your living room.’ ”
Malaika snorted. “How about for the office? Because it sounds like your place needs some good vibes. Those coworkers of yours might need some, too.”
Nella imagined herself handing Sophie a jar of Good Vibes hair grease, pictured her smoothing it in between her two French braids in the ladies’ room. If such a carefree response had felt readily available to her, she might have laughed. But she didn’t. A touch of embarrassment from the marketing meeting earlier that day—and her subsequent breakdown—brushed her cheeks. She hadn’t told Malaika she’d actually called the anonymous person earlier that day, and she didn’t plan on doing so anytime soon. Malaika would judge her if she knew, and rightfully so.
“How are things, by the way? You haven’t gotten any other notes since that second one with the phone number, correct?” Malaika asked, noticing her friend had suddenly gone quiet.
“Uh, nope. No more notes since September seventh.”
“That’s good. But damn, after today… they’ve gotta be coming from Hazel. Right?”
Nella did nothing but shrug her shoulders, a gesture that Malaika either couldn’t see or outright ignored.
“She knows there’s only space for one Black girl, and she wants to be it. I think she wants you out, girl,” Malaika continued, picking up a green tuft of hair next. “She’s playing you. How else would she have snuck those notes to you so smoothly, without you noticing? And the way she threw you under the bus today, in front of everybody?”
“I don’t know. But I plan to talk to her about it tonight. Did I tell you she brought Owen up, too? By name. Even though I’m sure I’ve never mentioned his name to her. Not ever.”
Malaika’s eyes went wide. “Never? You sure?”
“Definitely. I mentioned I had a boyfriend, but that’s it. And you know how he wouldn’t touch social media with a ten-foot pole. He hates it so much he has interns do that part of the job at work.”
“Right. So when you say you want to ‘talk’ to Hazel, do you mean…?” Malaika’s outline mimed removing her earrings one by one.
“No,” said Nella, giggling. “I mean, actually talk. Innocent until proven guilty.” The words, acrid on Nella’s tongue, came out sounding a lot more self-righteous than she meant them to.
“But you can’t—”
“I wonder what kind of chemicals go into ‘good vibes,’ ” Nella intoned, changing the subject. “Panthenol, glycerol, fructose…”
Malaika made a pft sound as she sullenly went back to fingerpicking the fake tuft of green hair.
Nella put the Good Vibes grease back and leaned closer to the shelf. She was intent on holding it together tonight. She couldn’t just run into a closet at Curl Central and leave another crazy message on some stranger’s machine.
“This line of hair products is crazy. How is this a thing? There’s one called ‘Chill Pill,’ ‘Turnt ’n’ Free,’ ‘Strut Ur Stuff’—”
“What’s in ‘Strut Ur Stuff’?”
“Probably all of the things that are in ‘Good Vibes.’ And something spicy? I don’t know.”
“Garbage for your scalp,” Malaika said dismissively. She placed the tuft of green hair back on the rack next to the mirror, dejected. “I want to do it so bad.”
“Do what?”
“Put color in my hair. Something plant-based, obviously. I’m just really craving a change, you know?”
“I do,” Nella said, recalling that hot summer day she’d walked by a barbershop in Bushwick and decided to finally cut all of her relaxed hair off. “Why don’t you just go for it? Your hair would look bomb with some blue or green, especially when you pull it into those cornrows like you do sometimes.”
“Even if I had the balls to do it, I know I’d hear about it from Igor for, like, a month. You know how he is about these kinds of things.”
Nella nodded. Igor had had a particularly hard time adjusting to the tiny emerald-green nose piercing Malaika had whimsically had done the previous summer. He’d thrown a fit, telling Malaika in no subtle terms that “her choice in nose jewelry might come off a certain way to potential clients.” Malaika had griped and groaned about it, but she’d received the message and taken out the piercing anyway. The pay was too good, and having her own place in Fort Greene was even better.
“Okay, no hair dye. But did you want to get anything else from this aisle? Like hair grease or something?”
“Girl, you know I don’t believe in buying hair grease. It’s like buying barbecue sauce.”
“You’ve started making your own barbecue sauce, too?”
“Pinterest is an invaluable resource.”
Nella laughed—a real laugh this time—and playfully smacked Malaika’s arm. “Let’s go, Mal. I want to take a peek at Iesha B.’s book before this thing starts.”
“Miss Iesha B.! Oh, yes, please.” Malaika hustled ahead of Nella, the neon pink swooshes of her Air Jordans the only visible part of her shadow. Nella followed giddily behind her. They’d spent an unhealthy amount of time poking fun at Miss Iesha B., wondering whether or not she ate steak or believed in the Illuminati, or if she’d be present at the reading that evening. It was this last reason that had gotten Malaika to attend the reading, since Nella’s plea f
or Malaika to “do it for the culture” hadn’t quite moved the needle. Not on a weeknight, at least.
“Do we have time before this poetry thing starts?” Malaika asked. “I want to see if the books are actually worth the ten bucks she’s charging.”
Nella nodded. She’d clocked both the bookshelf and the bathroom as soon as they entered, a habit she performed whenever she entered someone’s home, and she led the way to the back of the store, deftly sidestepping two other young Black women who were closely eyeing a selection of bright sprays that doubled as perfumes and moisturizers. One had a mouth full of braces; the other had a teeny-weeny fro that reminded Nella of her own shortly after she’d done The Big Chop.
“This one’s supposed to make you less anxious,” said the girl with all the metal in her mouth, whose black cabbie hat and box braids were a clear homage to Janet circa Poetic Justice. “Maybe this’ll help me with the SAT?”
“Nahhh,” her friend replied. “Go with the Serenity Spray instead. My sister swears by it. And you know she got into Fordham Law.”
Nella held back a knowing chuckle at the idea of a spray that promised serenity in a world doomed by horrific school shootings and senseless church bombings and irreversible global warming. But as she and Malaika turned a corner, her amusement at their earnest exchange deepened to envy as she thought of all those youthful years of hair she’d lost out on thanks to chemical relaxers. How big her fro would be now if she hadn’t hated her roots so much then.
She couldn’t dwell too hard on this, though, because Malaika suddenly stopped and let out one loud, ear-piercing shriek.
“Sweet lord. It’s even better than I imagined it would be!”
Nella moved forward to see what Malaika was freaking out about. The squeal had been well earned. Standing tall in front of them, showered in a bright beam of white light, was a laminated, life-sized cardboard cutout of Miss Iesha B. herself. Atop each side of her head were two honey-colored buns that were the size of Cinnabon rolls. Her lips were freckled with rose-gold glitter lipstick, and she had one gloved hand on her hip while the other held a blow-dryer with its nose pointed up, Blaxploitation-style. If not for the Kente-cloth-patterned smock that was tightly tied around her waist, or the speech bubble coming out of her mouth that said “I’M HAIR TO HELP,” Nella would have assumed this woman was not Miss Iesha B. at all, but a heroine from a graphic novel.
“What in the…” Nella said, trying to keep her giggles contained.
Malaika started to cackle with reckless abandon. “Shit, do we think they sell this apron here? I’d rather spend forty bucks on that instead of the book.”
Nella’s shoulders were shaking. “Shhh. One of them might hear us.”
“ ‘I’m hair to help.’ What else do you think they came up with? ‘I’ll be hair for you’? ‘Iesha B. here, your friendly neighborhood psycho-hair-apist’?”
“Mal!”
“I’m sorry. This is just too funny. I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice still at full volume. She turned around so she could position herself for a selfie. “I gotta send this to my cousin. She’s studying cosmetology.”
Embarrassed, but not quite enough to shush her friend again, Nella picked up a copy of Black Hairapy: Ten Ways to Key into the Power of Your Locs, skimming its pages for the kernels of truth that the copy on the Curl Central website had promised Miss Iesha B. would deliver. The writing wasn’t bad, but judging by the font—three times too big in her opinion—it was pretty obvious that the book had been made in someone’s basement. She turned it around to study its spine. It was a Wagner-inspired habit that drove Owen just a little bit bonkers every time she did it, especially when they were in someone else’s home, and she felt a touch of relief that he hadn’t arrived at Curl Central just yet.
Nella put the book down, ready to hop into the photo with Malaika and Miss Iesha B., when a voice trilled, “Remember, all proceeds go to the school!”
They turned around quickly, busted. It was Juanita Morejón in the flesh, looking just as she had in the photo Nella had seen of her online, high-waisted skirt and crop top and all—except this time, her ensemble was decorated with black-and-white horizontal stripes. “And all purchases come with a half-priced drink!”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Nella said, smiling brightly and holding out a hand. “That’s awesome. Juanita, right? Nella. I work with Hazel at Wagner Books.”
“Oh! You’re Nella. It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you,” Juanita said. Before Nella could prepare herself, Juanita was pulling her into an unexpectedly tight embrace that she didn’t think she’d earned. The hug was soft and smelled a lot like cocoa butter, and the familiarity of the scent put Nella a little more at ease. “Hazel isn’t here yet. I think she was taking the Young, Black ’n’ Lit girls out for dinner before they read tonight. Isn’t that sweet?”
She hesitated far too long, prompting Nella to contribute a reluctant “cool.”
“But we are both so glad you could make it. She mentioned that tonight you had an important meeting with an agent?” To accentuate this last word, Juanita held up her long, pointy fake fingernails, which glittered and twitched in full spirit-finger mode.
“We ended up rescheduling. Turned out the person I was supposed to meet with couldn’t do any other time today, and I didn’t want to miss this.”
Malaika coughed beside her—not because she was uncomfortable with not having been formally introduced to Juanita, but because she’d been particularly vocal about Nella’s sacrifice.
For a bunch of high school girls you’ve never met? Malaika had asked.
For the culture! Nella had repeated.
“This is my friend Malaika. She didn’t want to miss this, either. She’s a huge fan of poetry.”
Two out of three of these statements were untruths, but in the dimmed lighting, Nella knew Juanita couldn’t see the treacherous look Malaika was throwing her way. “Welcome, welcome, welcome! So glad you could come, too,” Juanita said, pushing back one of her long curly tendrils with her razor of a pinky nail. For whatever reason, Malaika did not receive a bone-crushing hug; it was better this way for the both of them, Nella knew. “Please—if you have any questions about any of our products, let me know. If this is your first time here, though, I highly recommend scheduling an appointment with Miss Iesha B. before doing anything else. She’ll happily tell you which products you might try in order to get through your hair ups and downs.”
She stopped speaking for a moment and peered closer at Nella’s hair. “And, just so you know, we have plenty of deep-conditioning moisturizers and sprays that will zip your roots right up, too.”
Nella’s hand flew up to her scalp, which did, now that she thought about it, feel a bit dry.
“So great to meet you both! One last thing: If you Instagram anything—please, if you can, remember to tag Curl Central. But be sure to try to leave any drinks out of the photo,” she added hastily, “since we don’t have a liquor license yet. You feel me? Great! See you ladies soon.” Juanita clapped her hands once, then made her way over to the high school girls who were still debating on the Serenity Spray.
Nella felt her roots again, then looked over to see which face Malaika was wearing. It was hard to tell, since she wasn’t quite in Miss Iesha B.’s spotlight. But before Nella could ask, Malaika snorted once and said, “She looks like a Real Housewife.”
Nella snorted, too. “She doesn’t have a liquor license, and she’s serving alcohol in a place where high school students will be reading? No judgment, but… judgment.”
“Judgment,” Malaika said. “But I’m also just a little bit here for it.”
* * *
Not altogether atypically, Owen showed up two minutes before the reading was supposed to start, after nearly every seat had been filled. Nella waved at him, first casually and then, when this method did not work, spasmodically, until he noticed the three center seats that she and Malaika had secured in the back row.
; “Leave it to one of the only white people at this event to show up on CP Time,” Malaika observed as Owen made his way over to them.
“Didn’t Jesse tell us to give up ‘CP Time’?”
“Oh god, yeah. ‘Time is yet another construct that was created and upheld by people who don’t look anything like me. Some constructs are valid. Other constructs are constructed just to prevent other constructs from being constructed.’ Whew, he was definitely…” Malaika took a hit from an imaginary blunt.
Nella laughed, continuing where Malaika left off in her best old Black man impression. “ ‘Therefore, my brothas and my sistas, we need to stop and think every time we use the phrase “Colored People Time.” Each time we use it, we’re merely reinforcing the stereotype that there is just one kind of “time,” and that there is a problem with Black people not adhering to this particular kind of time. I show up when I show up. It’s my prerogative. I make my own constructs.’ ”
“Man, fuck that. Talking about CP Time is as natural to Black folk as worshipping Angela Bassett. There’s no denying it. Maybe that’s why he’s taking a break from social media now—because he finally accepted that all of that is a construct, too.”
It was a fair point, but Nella was more interested in Owen’s progress than continuing the riff. It had taken him far too long to get past a Black bookish couple who were deep in the throes of a heated debate; now, the only thing in his way was a group of four eclectically dressed Black women. As he climbed over them politely, offering apologies galore, each one of them looked up at him with curiosity, trying to figure out where this young white man—red-faced and brown-haired and one of now two white people in Curl Central that evening—was aiming to sit. When he stopped by Nella and Malaika, the woman sitting on the far end of the row said something in a voice too low for Nella to hear. Another woman responded spiritedly, using her hands to help illustrate whatever point she was trying to make, and they all nodded in consensus with raised eyebrows.
The Other Black Girl: A Novel Page 20