Black Enough

by Ibi Zoboi

  Swimming always makes them hungry. They have no idea why, but it always does. Maybe it has something to do with them holding their breath. Or maybe it’s due to the energy it takes to tread water, to stay afloat. Either way, whenever they leave the pool, they’re always empty. Famished.

  “Starving,” Jamal repeats. “I could go for a sandwich.”

  “Ooooh, like peanut butter and jelly?” Flaco chimes in.

  “I mean, that would be fine, but I’m thinking something even better,” Jamal says. “Like turkey, with lettuce, tomato . . .”

  “Some pickles,” Randy interrupts, nodding his head as if tasting the dill.

  “Of course, pickles. Some mustard. On a hero. Cut in fours.” Jamal rubs his belly as they cross the intersection at Greene Avenue. On Tompkins there’s a bodega on almost every corner. Each of them advertises deli meats with the same poster for the brand, Boar’s Head, which is the image of a perfect sandwich and above it, well, a boar’s head. And none of the boys ever notice the wolf-looking pig with the underbite. They only notice how green the lettuce is. How red the tomato. The perfect folds of meat they’ve seen cut from a football of ham or chicken or turkey over and over and over again.

  “Just like that.” Jamal slaps his palm to the glass of the bodega. Presses his fingers against the sandwich ad. “Yum yum.”

  “I mean, that looks good and all,” Big Boy says. “But I was thinking something like maybe . . . you know the beef you get with beef and broccoli from the Chinese spot?” Randy, Flaco, and Jamal look at Big Boy like he still has a used Band-Aid stuck to his head.

  “Just, hear me out.” Big Boy continues. “You take some of that beef and put that on some bread. And you put the broccoli on it too, right. Then, you put the lettuce and tomato and all that on it, but what really makes it fire is when you put the hot mustard and the duck sauce, and just a little bit of soy sauce on that thing. No mayo or mustard. Man. Oh, and you crunch up some of them dry chow mein noodles on it too, like how we sometimes do with the chips. Now, that’s a sandwich.”

  “Yo, it’s good to know that nasty Band-Aid ain’t affecting your brain yet, because that sandwich actually sounds mad tasty. Like with the tang of them sauces mixing with that beef . . . yeah.” Flaco nods.

  “Exactly.” Big Boy responds with a deeper, slower nod.

  “Or maybe even like a . . . like some pastrami or something like that.” Jamal, inspired by the beef and broccoli sandwich, revises his original idea. “And you just stack it up. Like a fistful of it, and instead of putting it on a hero or on slices, or even on a regular roll, you put it on a challah roll.”

  “A what?” Big Boy asks.

  “A challah roll. It’s like Jewish bread. Looks just like the back of your head, Big Boy,” Jamal jokes.

  “Shut up.” Big Boy rolls his eyes until only the whites show.

  “Anyway, they sell it over there on Bedford. Kid I go to school with let me taste it one time and I was hooked. Delicious. You put that pastrami on there, and then you add some Swiss cheese, and some coleslaw, a splash of hot sauce for a little heat, and a few corn chips for crunch, and boom. You got your own little piece of heaven.” Jamal slows his walk as they approach the next corner, when it hits him. “A challah heaven!”

  “Sounds like it,” Randy agrees, not realizing that everyone else is easing to a stop. Randy steps out into the street. A car zooms by and almost clips him. He jumps back just in time.

  “Yooo!” Flaco calls out.

  “Whoa!” Jamal yelps.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Randy!” Big Boy says, now yanking Randy by the arm, a delayed reaction. “Snap out of it!”

  “My bad. I’m just so hungry. Ain’t even see that car coming.”

  “Do we need Flaco to hold your hand, bro?” Big Boy asks, his panic immediately slipping back into poking.

  “Why I gotta hold his hand?” Flaco whines.

  “Because you got hands like your mother,” Big Boy says, petty, trying to clap back for all the Band-Aid jokes. “Sandwich-making hands.”

  “My mother got bust you in the mouth hands.” Flaco puffs up. “And you best believe she passed them down to me.”

  “Fine,” Jamal cuts in, extending his arm to Randy. “I guess . . . I’ll hold Randy’s hand.” They all laugh, and while passing another store, Randy slaps the glass, his turn to give another picture of a perfect sandwich a five.

  “I need one of them to hold my damn hand,” he says, palm-brushing his hair again. “Maybe not one of them. But like . . . a half smoke, or a Polish sausage. With some of that kraut stuff on top. I never had it, but it’s called sour kraut.”

  “It’s sauerkraut. Not sour . . . kraut. Sauerkraut. And do you even know what it is?” Flaco asks.

  “I don’t care what it is, Flaco. I want it on there. I want the kraut, and some ketchup, and some jalapeños, and some jerk sauce! That’s what I want, Flaco. Is that okay with you?!” Randy’s voice deepens to a bass.

  “Hey, hey.” Flaco holds his hands up in surrender. “As long as you okay with pooping your whole heart though your butt. If you good with that, I am too.”

  “Exactly,” Jamal adds. “You like it, I love it.”

  “Hey, Randy, you won’t have a heart, and apparently because of that Band-Aid, I won’t have a brain, but Flaco don’t even have the courage to eat a real sandwich. He talking about peanut butter and jelly,” Big Boy says. “All the delis we passing on this yellow brick road, and this fool gon’ ask the wizard for peanut . . . butter . . . and jelly.”

  “What’s wrong with peanut butter and jelly?” Flaco asks, head slightly cocked.

  “Nothing,” Big Boy says.

  “Yeah, nothing,” Randy follows.

  “Nothing . . . at . . . all,” Jamal rounds it off.

  “Okay, fine. Since peanut butter and jelly ain’t good enough for y’all”—Flaco adds a clap between each word—“you know what I’d like to try? One of them veggie sandwiches I always be seeing these white people get. It’s like a salad sandwich or something. Y’all know what I’m talking about? Spinach, and some other kinds of leaves, maybe some kale, and then they put the cucumbers on there, some tomatoes, some onions—raw and grilled. Throw some banana peppers on it, some olives, and . . . what am I missing . . .”

  “Avocado,” Jamal tosses in.

  “Avocado! Yeah, hit it with the avocado and some of that spicy mustard and put it on that crazy-sounding dark-brown bread. Y’all know what I’m talking about? The bread that sounds like a bad last name.”

  “Yeah, I know what you talking about.” Big Boy taps his forehead trying to remember. “What’s it called?”

  “Uh-oh, it’s already started,” Jamal jokes.

  “Shut up!” Big Boy squawks, his shut ups always at the ready.

  “It’s called pumpernickel.” Again, from Jamal.

  “PUMPERNICKEL!” they all shout together, then laugh.

  “So, yeah, put all them veggies on that bread. Pumpernickel!” Flaco just has to say it again. “And to top it all off . . . the Michael Jordan of all meats . . . bacon.”

  “BACON!” This time only Big Boy yells, but the rest of the boys nod in agreement. They’re coming up on Hancock Street, which means they’re approaching Flaco’s house, which sits right on the corner. Well, not right on the corner, because a bodega sits right on the corner, but next to the bodega is Flaco’s house. Behind them, a disappearing trail of water, the drops becoming less frequent with each traveled block, each passed deli.

  “Finally,” Randy says.

  “Right,” Jamal cosigns as they climb the front steps. Flaco jams his key into the lock and opens the building door, and the boys, now almost completely dry, take the steps two at a time, before barreling into Flaco’s apartment.

  “Ma!” Flaco yells, kicking his shoes off at the door. No answer. He checks the bedroom, and repeats, “Ma!” Nothing.

  Jamal, Big Boy, and Randy remove their shoes as well, then flop down on the couch in
the living room—right in front of the air conditioner—and when Flaco reappears, he’s holding a bottle of lotion. This is also tradition. The chlorine dries their skin out. Scales it, and covers it in a layer of uncomfortable white. The boys smear it over their arms and faces, in between their fingers, and in the corners of their mouths. They rub it on their kneecaps and up and down their ashen legs, the dryness fading like static coming into clear picture.

  “So, we eating?” Big Boy asks, rubbing his hands together.

  “Oh, we definitely eating,” Flaco says, heading into the kitchen.

  “Pumpernickel,” Jamal murmurs under his breath, a grin on his face.

  “What you say you wanted? Pastrami, right?” Randy asks Jamal, his voice punctured by a clanging in the kitchen.

  “Hell yeah,” Jamal replies. “Even though I can’t front, that beef and broccoli sandwich sounded like a winner.” The sound of cabinets opening and closing.

  “I was all for it, until Randy started running off about the Polish sausage with the sauerkraut and the jerk sauce,” Big Boy confesses. The sound of the refrigerator door, unsticking, resticking.

  And then Flaco returns from the kitchen with four bowls, a box of cereal, and a half gallon of milk.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I got sugar.”

  Oreo

  Brandy Colbert

  My little brother is holding my acceptance letter hostage.

  And I’m going to kill him.

  “Ellis, do you want to live to see high school?” I snap, jabbing him in the ribs. “Stop playing around and give me that.”

  The problem is that at age thirteen, Ellis is already six feet two, which is a whole twelve inches taller than me. Which means that when he reaches his long, brown arm up to the ceiling, I have no chance of rescuing what’s pinched between his fingers.

  He squints up at the large, pale-blue envelope, holding it to the light even though the fixture is turned off. “Spelman?”

  “It’s in Atlanta, dummy.” I stand on the tips of my toes and stretch my arm, but it’s useless. He’s like a tree.

  “I can read,” he says. “What is it? One of those Black colleges?”

  “You sound like Dad.” Sometimes our father says Black like it’s a bad taste in his mouth. Which is weird since all of us who live in this house are Black, including him.

  That’s enough to kill Ellis’s mischievous mood. “Whatever, Joni.” He drops his arm, tossing the packet on the counter.

  I already know I got in, unless Spelman is in the habit of sending thick envelopes when you’re rejected. But I have to see the words with my own eyes before I believe it. That’s what I did with the letters from the other three I applied to, though I was already well aware that a thin envelope probably meant I didn’t get in.

  Ellis opens the fridge as I smooth a hand over the front of the packet. I take a deep breath before I slice the letter opener across the top. This is the school that I never told my parents I was applying to because I didn’t want to endure their questions; it’s the school that sent confused looks across my best friends’ faces when I mentioned it.

  “What’s an HBCU?” Mona asked, pronouncing the letters deliberately as if she was sure to forget them as soon as they left her mouth.

  And after I answered that came Lydia’s question. It was simple, at least on the surface: “Why?”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know how to explain that applying to an HBCU seemed like the right thing to do even though it scared the hell out of me. That I truly couldn’t remember the last time I’d been around more than a handful of other Black people who weren’t my immediate family. That sometimes, because of that, I feel like a fraud within my own race. It was bad enough admitting that to myself, let alone to my white friends. All I know is that it was a good fear. The kind of fear that made my stomach flip with excitement as I clicked Send on my application.

  Ellis parks himself across from me at the counter just as I pull out the contents of the envelope. He leans over the paper, talking only after he’s taken a huge bite of a sandwich. “What does it say?”

  “Stop being gross. And back up. You’re getting crumbs on my stuff.” I look up, eyeing his snack. “Where’d you get that?”

  He puts his hand up like suddenly he needs time to chew before he answers, but his stalling tactic doesn’t work on me.

  “Did Celia make that for you?”

  He finally swallows. “Yeah. So? She wanted to.”

  “So? Ellis, you know what Mom said. We need to stop relying on Celia so much. We’re too old to have a nanny now. Even you.”

  He looks down at the sandwich. “What’s the big deal? I could’ve made it myself.”

  But he knows it’s a lie because he stuffs his mouth again immediately. Celia’s sandwiches are works of art. We’ve both watched her make them countless times over the years, and like everything else she does for us, they’re created with precision and care.

  “The big deal is you’re going to have to get used to not having her around anymore.”

  Celia is retiring in a couple of months so she can spend more time with her grandkids. And because I’ll be leaving in the fall and Ellis is old enough to stay home alone now and feed himself, our parents decided not to hire another nanny.

  I look down at the paper, see my name and address in the top left corner under the date. And under that:

  Dear Ms. Franklin:

  Congratulations! It is an honor to welcome you to the 137th class of Spelman College . . .

  I exhale. My heart is a bass drum pounding in my chest. It’s part fear, part excitement. A thrill. Because I think I’m about to do something that scares me—something huge. And that’s not something I do often.

  If ever.

  Dinner is . . . edible.

  In addition to being our nanny since I was little, Celia used to make dinners a few nights a week. Mostly because our parents work long hours in Chicago, Mom as an architect and Dad as an attorney, and sometimes they’d get home just before it was time for Ellis and me to go to bed.

  They’re usually home earlier these days, and they try to pretend like they’re some sort of culinary wizards. Dad, especially, seems like he has something to prove. He won’t start with anything easy—he’s always going for a meal that absolutely confounds him, like coq au vin or paella. It’s absurd and it makes me miss the nights when they were only responsible for bringing home takeout.

  “How’s the fish, Ellis?” Dad asks.

  Ellis takes a long drink of water and gives our father a thumbs-up. He’s been pushing the overcooked halibut around his plate this whole time, which is a clear sign the meal was unsuccessful. Ellis will eat just about anything you put in front of him; I don’t think he’s ever not hungry.

  “We have some news,” Mom says, spearing a piece of asparagus.

  “So does Joni,” Ellis says when he realizes it’s safe to put down his glass.

  Mom looks at me with her eyebrows raised. “You do, sweetie?”

  “It’s okay—you go first.” I kick Ellis under the table. I am excited to share my news, but I want to do it when I’m ready, not because he can’t keep his big mouth shut.

  “We’re going on a little trip next weekend.” Mom glances at Dad with a smile I can’t figure out, and I wonder if that means they’re going somewhere alone.

  “All of us,” Dad says when he sees Ellis’s hopeful face.

  This is weird. They both work so much that we haven’t been on a family trip in ages. The closest thing we’ve had to a vacation in years is a long weekend we spent in Door County last summer.

  Mom finishes chewing a tiny bite of fish, tries not to make a face as she swallows, and wipes her mouth. “Mama is turning eighty this month, so we’re going to Missouri to celebrate with everyone.”

  “Missouri?” Ellis scrunches his nose.

  “It’s been too long since we’ve all been home.” Mom smooths her hand over the edge of her placemat. “It’ll be lik
e a mini family reunion.”

  “Your cousins will be there,” Dad says cheerfully.

  That’s not exactly a selling point. I remember the last time we went to Missouri, though I wish I could forget. I was twelve and Ellis was seven, and our cousins teased us mercilessly—about the way our voices sounded and the music we didn’t know and, it seemed, every single word that came out of our mouths. I shrank into myself until I couldn’t become any smaller, learning right then and there that “words can never hurt you” was total bullshit.

  “Cool,” Ellis says, and he’s so unbothered he even manages to get down a couple more forkfuls of halibut. He must have been too young to remember the way they mocked us.

  I push my plate away. I’ve lost my appetite, thinking about being around my cousins again. What hurt the most was that I liked them so much: they’re loud and they’re fun and they seemed to know a little bit about everything—things our parents actively shielded us from, like sex and R-rated movies and violent video games.

  I loved being around them, soaking up all their energy, until my cousin Junior called me an Oreo.

  My friends and I had recently gotten into Broadway cast recordings, and I’d been listening to them nonstop: Les Misérables, Chicago, Wicked, and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I asked my cousin Della if she had any of them when we were sitting in her room one day, going through her music.

  I didn’t see my cousin Junior at the door until he said, “That is some white shit.”

  My head snapped up immediately. “What?”

  “Broadway—those shows are white as hell. What about The Wiz?”

  “Ooh, I love The Wiz,” Della said dreamily. “I helped with the costumes last year when our school put it on.”

  “I’ve never seen it,” I said quietly.

  “Not even the movie?” Della stared at me in shock.

  “No.” My voice was even smaller.

  “Bet you never seen Dreamgirls, either,” Junior went on. Then, when I didn’t answer: “The Color Purple?”

  I shook my head.

  “Damn, you really are an Oreo,” he scoffed.

  I stared at him, my mouth hanging open at the way he spit out the word. Worse than any curse word I’d ever had thrown my way. Bursting with so much venom, it stung for weeks.