“Admit it, though,” said Owen, his lips flattening into one horizontal line. “You sort of liked being the only Black girl at Wagner. Right?”
Nella had gnawed on a piece of baby corn and eyed him silently.
“Hey, don’t worry, baby. You can be honest with me, because I get it. I totally get it. Okay, so I don’t get it get it,” he added self-consciously, feeling the force of her raised eyebrow. “But you know what I mean. It’s not awful being the only minority. Whenever I’m the only straight guy at brunch with all of your friends—”
“Which happens pretty rarely…”
“—I always feel kind of… I don’t know, exceptional, maybe? Because everybody always wants me to weigh in on everything. ‘What does this text mean?’ ‘Why’d he use two exclamation points?’ ” He’d pinched his nose so he could mimic Alexandra, an online-dating-obsessive Nella had met through Malaika a few years prior.
“I get what you’re saying. But, babe… are you really comparing you being a ‘minority’ in certain situations to me being a minority in certain situations? Really? Because, just… no.”
Owen had put his fork down at this. “What I mean is, I—”
“It’s astronomically different from what I’m talking about.”
He held up his hands, visibly hurt and clearly wondering how this conversation—which had started as harmless speculation—could have taken such a turn. “Whoa, Nell. No. Who said anything about comparing? You know that’s not what I was trying to—I was just trying to—”
Nella cut him off. “Babe, it’s fine. I know what you meant.”
“Are you sure? Because I would never—”
“I’m positive,” she’d said, although it had taken her a moment to realize that she was looking not at her boyfriend but at her plate of food, which was getting cold. She caught herself, reached out a tentative hand, and squeezed Owen’s as affectionately as she could. She’d done this dozens of times in the past, times when they’d suddenly looked down and found themselves knee-deep in an uncomfortable conversation about race, and it always eased any tensions that had risen between them.
Those other conversations had felt different, though. Those conversations had been composed of much sweeter tones; equipped with alcohol or pot or the dim backseat of a late-night Uber, Nella had no problem telling Owen that she sometimes felt guilty for missing out on “Black love,” and Owen could admit that his maternal Missourian grandparents were die-hard MAGA supporters.
In the bright lighting of their painfully cramped kitchen, this conversation about being a minority and a ‘minority’ felt like too much. “I love you,” she’d said, so that she didn’t have to say anything else. Then she’d reached for her tablet once more.
“What? Are we done here? Seriously?”
“Was there something else you wanted to say?”
Owen had stared at her. “No,” he’d finally said, picking up his own phone. “Never mind.”
They’d sat like that for nearly half an hour, until Owen had risen to his feet, picked up his plate, and thrown it in the trash.
“O. I’m sorry.” Nella had spun around in her chair so she could face him. “I just really want that promotion. And I’m so close. I told you about what Richard said to me last week, right?”
“Oh, something about you having a ‘bright future,’ and how you’re ‘well on your way to being the next Kendra Rae’… yes, I think I remember,” Owen had said. He hadn’t returned her gaze, but she could see the small smile that had cut across his face.
“And maybe it is Hazel that’s driving me a little crazy,” she’d continued. “I don’t know. I just… it’s hard.”
Owen had swiped his hands on his Adidas shorts, which served as his loungewear whether it was seventeen or seventy degrees outside, and walked over to where Nella sat. He’d reached out and begun to work her neck with his blessed, blessed fingers, a white flag of sorts. “Have you tried to get to know her? Like, really tried?”
“We got lunch when she first started. And I went to the Curl Central thing.”
“That’s not the same thing. Invite her out with you and Malaika. Get to know her.” He’d shrugged. “I don’t know, it seems to me like you might want her on your side. All the connections she probably has…”
Nella had looked up at him. “How do you know about all of her connections?”
Owen had frowned. “From when we met at Curl Central; I just got the impression that she knew a lot of people.” He’d stepped back a few inches, as though taking her in for the first time. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m feeling fine. But can I ask you something?”
He’d nodded, looking concerned about where this was going.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… Curl Central was the first time you met Hazel, right?”
Owen had blinked at her. “What?”
“You didn’t know her before that evening? She’s not someone you were talking to online before you met me?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that there was this one time when she referenced you by name—‘bring Owen to Curl Central!’—but I’d never told her your name before. So, I wondered if—”
“I’ve never met Hazel in my life,” Owen had said, his blue eyes ablaze with defensiveness. “You probably just mentioned it to her in passing and forgot.”
“I know I didn’t. I’ve hardly told her anything about you.”
Owen had flinched.
“It just never came up,” Nella had said, as though this would make it better.
His arms had left her neck. “Have you considered that most of your other coworkers know me from all of your whack holiday parties? That they could’ve said something to Hazel about me at any given time, since you’ve somehow always been too busy to mention me?”
Any chance of Nella telling Owen about everything that had happened at work had walked out of the kitchen with him. She hadn’t followed. She’d just sat there and thought about how impressed Owen was by Hazel’s connections. How together Owen thought Hazel’s shit was, and how untogether her own shit was.
Owen had a point, Nella thought now, copying Isaac’s jumping jacks even though she felt like she’d been beaten by a human-sized tenderizer mallet. Receiving mysterious notes at work and not telling anyone about them; agreeing to meet the stranger who’d been sending them; and now doing this crazy workout class so she could… what, be ready to run from someone at the drop of a dime? Her shit wasn’t together at all. Not lately. Lately, it felt like it had been scattered across all seven continents. And all Owen knew was that she was having a weird time adjusting to the new Black coworker at the office.
Nella promised herself that the moment she started to get answers, she’d explain exactly why she’d been so strung up.
“On a more positive note,” she said to Malaika now, jogging in place after she’d thrown herself down onto the floor for a burpee, then decided she wasn’t going to do that again, “Richard told me that I’m going to be getting a promotion soon.”
“No shit! I’d say ‘way to bury the lede,’ but that kidnapping you saw definitely took precedence.”
“True. Guess what else might be coming with this promotion, though?”
“I’m incapable of guessing anything in this current state of being, so please just tell me.”
“The opportunity to work with Jesse Watson.”
Malaika abruptly stopped moving, this time from elation rather than exhaustion. “What?!”
“He’s thinking about doing a book with Wagner.”
“With you guys?” Malaika snorted. “No offense, but Jesse Watson being published by Wagner Books is akin to putting mayo on corn bread.”
Nella gagged, partly from the metaphor, but also from the fact that they’d now switched to push-ups, and the late-afternoon latte she’d had at her desk had come back to haunt her. “Well, for some reason—cough, Hazel—we’ve finally made our way into the twenty-first
century.”
“Yes! Welcome,” Malaika said, bemused. She took her time rolling onto her stomach, unbothered by the fact that Isaac had already done ten push-ups on one hand. “It contains lots of woke white people. And a whole lot of Pitbull.”
Nella laughed.
“So, let me guess: They want you to do a nice little song and dance when he arrives, telling him ‘dat Wagner is one of the best places to work on earf, and dat you just couldn’t ’magine working no-whea’ else…’ ”
Nella had heard Malaika’s slave affectation plenty of times before, but never had it made her as uncomfortable as it did now. She wasn’t sure if it was the worry that other exercisers might overhear, or the fact that the slave in question here—theoretically—was Nella herself. But she clenched her jaw, waiting for her friend to finish her little soliloquy.
“Oh, c’mon,” Malaika said when she noticed Nella hadn’t found her minstrel impression particularly amusing, “we both know that’s really the reason why they asked you to meet Jesse. Not that you’re not qualified,” she added quickly, “but when have they ever let you meet someone as high-profile as him in the last two-plus years you’ve been working there?
“And he’s not even that high-profile anymore, either, since he dipped out.
“God, I wish I could hear him weigh in on that shooting that happened in the Bronx last month. And all that KKK shit happening in Indiana. Just… all the shit.”
Nella nodded, oblivious to whatever incidents Malaika was talking about.
“So, I have to ask: Have they enlisted the services of you-know-who for this Jesse thing, too?”
Nella snorted. “Yep. Richard said he may even let her edit it.”
“What? She just got there! And didn’t you write Jesse that email? Did you tell Richard about that?”
“I thought maybe he wouldn’t appreciate that I’d gone behind his back.”
“Bureaucratic bullshit.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s fucked up.”
“Ugh. Weren’t you saying Hazel’s been, like, best friends with the boss, though?” asked Malaika. “They were all buddy-buddy at Curl Central. So bizarre. Do we think they’re…?”
“I’m still not unconvinced his mistress isn’t a Black woman… but Hazel? Ugh, I’m feeling nauseous enough without even discussing that.” Nella sighed as visions from the Needles and Pins cover meeting shuffled across her brain. “Everybody at Wagner’s obsessed with her. Not just him.”
“Well, on the bright side… you’re gonna meet Jesse, and maybe even work on his maybe-book, right? That’s pretty exciting. Even if it does mean you have to collaborate with Hazel. Maybe he’ll even want to discuss that book idea you sent him.”
“Something like that. Although Richard didn’t exactly say that I’d get to work on it. But it is looking pretty promising.”
“Promising,” said Malaika, trying to appear convinced, even though she clearly wasn’t. “Nice. And if it does become your book… you’re still gonna do it, right?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I do remember a certain person talking about how she was going to quit after a certain author went batshit on her. And how everybody at Wagner seems to be drinking the Kool-Aid. Or should I say Crystal Light?” she self-corrected, finding enough breath to laugh at her own joke.
“True. But now that I have this opportunity, it—”
Isaac clapped his hands. For the first time, the sound of his palms didn’t cause Nella to flinch. She was actually relieved she had more time to think about a response. “Now, planks. Keep those arms straight and those cores engaged!”
“Alright, it’s official,” Nella huffed, relieved that she could stop moving even if it meant more muscle burn. “This guy is a fucking monster.”
“Looking good, guys!” Isaac called.
Beside her, Malaika whispered a faint obscenity, her arms shaking precariously. Thirty seconds later, when she spoke again, they were still planking. “You do have a choice,” she said. “The way I see it, you have two. I think it’s obvious what you should do. Or at least, what you should want to do. Weren’t you thinking about quitting? Don’t you hate this place? You should want to go to the meeting and fuck it all the way up. Tell Jesse about how you dropped his name to Vera centuries ago, but everyone there thought he was too Black to drop him a line. Tell him all about Shartricia and how Hazel’s been stepping all over you to get everyone to like her. And then pull out your boom box, jump up on that conference table, and give everyone the finger to the reeling sounds of ‘Fight the Power.’ ”
Malaika had always said that she didn’t mind being a soundboard for Nella and her many Wagner grievances, and for that, Nella was grateful. Owen could only withstand so much talk about microaggressions; his eyes would glaze over after fifteen minutes of conjecture around what this or that unsigned email from Vera meant. Her own boss could be just as frustrating, so Malaika was almost always “here for it,” offering Nella words of wisdom that she considered as good as gold.
Thus, Malaika’s advice about sticking it to the Man shouldn’t have caught Nella by surprise. It was exactly what her friend had been saying since day one, ever since Nella first started complaining about her job: If you’re so unhappy, then fuck all of it. Leave. Every time, Nella would agree that yes, she should leave—and that she would, one day. That she wouldn’t turn into Leonard or Maisy or even Vera. But every time, after she’d laughed over all the different ways she could quit with Malaika, she would say that she hadn’t reached her breaking point. That it hadn’t gotten that bad yet.
But in this instance, Malaika’s advice seemed way off base. The thought of jeopardizing her career by burning all of her bridges at Wagner, after Richard had told her just days earlier that she was close to getting a promotion, seemed downright absurd. It unnerved her so much that she spent the next sixty seconds trying to keep pace with the fiftysomething-year-old woman who was showing everybody up in the row directly in front of them, rather than saying what she felt in her heart: that, Hazel or no Hazel, Shartricia or no Shartricia, she wasn’t ready to give up. There had to be another way.
Malaika appeared to have noticed Nella’s trepidation. Because after the next set of planks, she was clearing her throat so loudly that Nella could hear it over Pitbull. “That was option one,” she clarified, her tone more sober than Nella had heard her friend speak in a while. “But we both know that’s not viable. So, what you really should do is prepare like crazy, then go to that meeting and wow the pants off Jesse Watson and your boss and your boss’s boss. Make Jesse want to work with you and only you. And then, find out if he’s really dating that purple-haired chick who was in his profile picture a few months ago. If not, give him my phone number.”
Nella brightened.
“But really,” Malaika continued, once she’d dug deep enough to find another wind from within, “sit in that meeting and be nice to Jesse. Connect with him. Do it so well that by the time the meeting ends, he’s begging you to work with him. And if it’s not you—if Richard tries to put another editor on it—then Jesse won’t accept a deal with Wagner.”
“But Hazel—”
“Ms. Hazel-Shit-Don’t-Stink-May has built her reputation of being the ‘good Black girl’ at Wagner, right? How do you think your bosses would feel if she suddenly got super… Black?”
“Ladies in the back!” Isaac screeched. “Get with it!”
Nella glowered at the floor before spinning onto her back. She hadn’t thought about it before, but she supposed it would be especially hard for Hazel to be two-faced in front of both Vera and Jesse. Jesse would be able to smell her bullshit as soon as he landed on the tarmac at JFK, would be able to take one look at Hazel comparing hair notes with Vera and call her out for exactly what she was.
Nella flipped to her stomach, then up on her hands. “You think I should go to this Jesse meeting, then?”
“I think you’ve worked too hard not to go to this thing. But go ready. Hold on unt
il you get what you want. Black it up and get Jesse to love you. Or, at least, like you more than Hazel.”
Nella’s shoulders started to burn as she tried to keep her back flat and abs tight. “But what if this whole Jesse Watson thing is just another carrot? And there’s nothing on the other side of it but, like… more carrots?”
“If that’s the case,” Malaika said, remaining where she’d fallen, “then at least you have your carrot. Maybe start thinking about making some moves. Take that carrot to a different publishing house. Don’t publishing people do that all the time? Weren’t you just telling me about that disgruntled assistant who’d been so helpful with one of his boss’s authors that when he changed jobs, the author followed him?”
Joey Ragowski. Judging from the way Vera had told her this story once—her voice dripping with caution—it was widely viewed as the ultimate assistant betrayal. Close, Nella presumed, to calling an author racist to his or her face.
“It’s not really that appealing of an option,” she said, “but definitely better than the first.”
“I know. I can’t imagine having to start over with a new Igor. But at least you’d have a sexy little Jesse Watson carrot on your arm.” Malaika chuckled. “Go get what’s yours. We all know you deserve it, but first you gotta do the work.”
17
October 25, 2018
Malaika stomped her foot. “I said ‘you have to do the work,’ ” she groaned. “I didn’t say ‘you and I have to do the work.’ ”
“What can I say? You inspired me.” Nella leaned forward and squinted at the list of silver buttons that were attached to Hazel’s front door. “Which number did I say it was?”
“Number two.”
Nella pushed the number once, waited a second, then pushed it again. “She told me to buzz this one, even though the whole place is hers. I think.”
She knew this for a fact, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She was too engrossed in envying Hazel’s home. It was exactly what she’d expected—which is to say, it was exactly what Nella would probably never be able to afford, but would almost always yearn for: a tall, beautiful brownstone, occupied by Hazel, her boyfriend, and Juanita, located a convenient five-minute walk away from the Classon stop on the G train, a three-minute walk from Curl Central, and a one-minute walk from a hip, Black-owned hybrid vintage store and bar that Nella had always meant to check out.
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