by Ibi Zoboi
Della rolled her eyes. “You stupid, Junior. You don’t even like musicals.”
“If I did, they wouldn’t be the white ones.”
I stopped responding, stopped looking at him. And, to my relief, he eventually wandered away—though the word Oreo lodged itself in my chest like poison.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been told I was Black on the outside and white on the inside, but I never expected to hear it from my own family.
“What was your news, Joni?” Mom asks now, turning to me.
“Oh, um, I just—I got an A on my Spanish exam.” I ignore Ellis’s confused eyes.
“We’ll celebrate with pie,” Dad says, and then sighs when he sees our faces. “That I picked up from the bakery. You all are ruthless.”
I think about the big envelope from Spelman, how it seemed like the right choice just an hour ago. But how can I be sure about going to an all-Black school when I’m overwhelmed at the thought of being around my own cousins for a couple of days?
Mom takes the train when she travels to Missouri by herself, and Nana Paulette flies when she visits us. But Dad insists on driving. He says it’s good for family bonding, but I think six hours is too long to sit that close to anyone—especially Ellis, whose armpits reek constantly.
I sleep for a while, play one of Ellis’s video games, text with Mona and Lydia, grudgingly play Dad’s silly car games, like I spy and twenty questions—and still, the drive seems to take forever. I even look forward to the couple of times we stop at gas stations in the Podunk, Illinois, towns where everyone stares as if they’ve never seen a Black person in their life, because at least I can stretch my legs and get some air.
But the closer we get to Nana Paulette’s house, the more nervous I feel. Maybe the best thing I can do is keep my mouth shut. I’ll have to talk, of course, but the less they hear me speak, the less they have to make fun of.
Nana Paulette lives in a big white farmhouse in a small town called Bloom that’s about an hour and a half west of Saint Louis. Her closest neighbors are half a mile away, and there’s only one market, and one movie theater in town that shows one film at a time. I can’t believe Mom grew up here.
Dad has barely pulled the car into the gravel drive before Nana Paulette is on the porch, waving and blowing kisses. She’s leaning on a cane now, which she didn’t have the last time I saw her. But I’m relieved that she doesn’t look any smaller. My chest tightens when I think of her getting older.
Dad parks behind an old station wagon and Ellis bursts from the car, jogging up the front porch so he can be the first one to greet our grandmother. I step out, too, grateful for the fresh air and the promise that I won’t have to spend the next seventy-two hours cramped in the back seat next to my brother.
Nana Paulette squeezes Ellis in her thin arms. She’s not a short woman, but Ellis’s lanky form nearly engulfs her as they hug. She’s exclaiming how big he is as I walk up the front steps. Her eyes find mine over his shoulder and she winks at me, setting me at ease. I’ve always liked being around Nana Paulette. She’s sweet but not afraid to tell it like it is; and when she speaks, we listen.
“Here’s my sweet girl,” she says, opening her arms.
“Hi, Nana Paulette.” As soon as I hug her, I remember that our grandmother always smells like lavender and vanilla, and it calms me even more. Maybe I’ve been nervous about this trip for nothing.
“It’s so good to see you, baby. You doing okay?” she asks as she pulls away.
“I’m really glad to be out of that car.” I glance behind her, where my brother is leaning over the porch railing, taking in the expansive lawn. It’s so big and the house is set back so far from the street that I wonder if it can still be called a lawn. “Ellis hasn’t met a stick of deodorant he likes.”
“Shut up, Joni.” He doesn’t even turn around.
Nana Paulette leans on her cane, the other hand on her hip. “Boy, I know you didn’t just tell your sister to shut up in front of me.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he says, suddenly remembering his manners.
“And you—don’t talk about your brother like that.” She taps me lightly on the nose. “Y’all go on inside and say hello to your cousins. They’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”
I doubt that.
Ellis walks right in, but I take my time crossing the threshold, wondering who’s inside. My mom’s family is small; it’s just her and her older brother, who has a wife and three kids of his own. Uncle Marcus—Junior’s namesake—never left Bloom, and his family lives about a mile up the road from Nana Paulette.
I follow my brother’s path. The whole house smells sweet, and I smile, thinking that Nana Paulette must have baked for us. But when I get to the kitchen, I see that I was wrong. Junior is sliding cake pans out of the oven, and my throat constricts at the sight of him.
Ellis is talking to our cousin Della. She’s two years older than me and the sister of Junior, who’s my age. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, watching Junior put two pie plates in the oven. Nobody notices me until he turns around, slipping the red oven mitt from his left hand.
“Joni?” He tosses the mitt on the counter and raises his eyebrows. “Been a long time, cuz.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Six years, I think.”
He gives me an amused look. “You probably got it figured out to the day, huh? Hey, Dell, look who it is.”
“Joni!” Della practically squeals, bounding over. She was always friendlier than her brother, but I can’t help remembering how she giggled when Junior made his cruel comments. My hug back is tentative. “How you doing, girl?”
“I’m good. I like your hair.”
“Thanks, girl.” She brushes a hand over her twist-out, then looks at mine. “You still doing a relaxer?”
“No, just pressing.” I touch my bone-straight strands.
I don’t tell her that I’ve been too nervous to wear my natural hair curly because I was afraid of what everyone at my super-white school would say. They already tease me enough, saying I’m “not really Black.” Sometimes I just don’t want to draw any more attention. Our hometown is only twenty miles outside of Chicago, but they’re completely different worlds.
“Is all this for us?” I ask, gesturing to the baked goods.
“Yeah, it’s all about y’all.” Junior shakes his head as he leans against the counter. “You know you’re here for Nana Paulette’s birthday, right? She asked me to make her some things.”
“Right.” And, just like that, I already feel stupid. “Sorry. I—sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to him, Joni.” Della flicks her eyes to the ceiling. “You want to run to the store with me? Someone forgot to get enough butter and is making me go to the market.”
“Shoulda had y’all pick some up on the way,” Junior mumbles in the general direction of Ellis and me.
The last thing I want to do is get back in a car again, but I gladly agree to go with Della. Anything to get away from the sour mood that’s quickly filling the air.
The big celebration for Nana Paulette is tomorrow, but the whole family comes over for dinner tonight, too. Uncle Marcus is still tall and quiet, with an easy smile. His wife, my aunt Virna, has the same bubbly laugh I used to love, and the same tight hugs. It suddenly hits me that Junior is the only one in his family who wasn’t instantly warm to me.
Junior and Aunt Virna hole up in the kitchen to make a big Italian feast for dinner: lasagna, and mushrooms stuffed with sausage, and garlic bread, and salad. The only thing store-bought is the tiramisu from the bakery in town, and when Ellis exclaims that it’s the best meal he’s had in months, Dad pretends not to hear him.
“How’s Emma?” Mom asks Aunt Virna.
“Still loving Vassar.” It’s my cousin Emma’s last year there. “She’s vegan now.”
“You hear that, Joni?” Dad’s chin dips down as he looks at me. “You’d better enjoy all my cooking now before you have to resort to nuts and berries.”
&nb
sp; My aunt raises her eyebrows. “Are you going to Vassar, Joni?”
“No,” I say quickly, before she can get too excited. “But I applied to some schools in the area.”
“And she got into Smith, Barnard, and Occidental,” Mom says proudly.
“And Spelman,” Ellis blurts from across the table—too far away for me to kick him.
“You applied to a Black college?” Dad looks at Mom. “Did you know about this?”
I set down my fork and glare at Ellis. I really could kill him.
“Why do you sound so surprised, David?” Uncle Marcus asks, frowning at my father.
Dad frowns back at him. “We talked about where she was applying, and Spelman was never on the list.”
Mom turns to me, her eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. “Sweetie, when were you going to tell us?”
“I don’t know.” My neck burns hot. “I found out a couple of weeks ago, and we’ve all been so busy, and—”
“Well,” my father says, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with an HBCU, but is it the best education you can get? Listen, I know why they were created, but do we still need them today? Sometimes I wonder if those places are setting us back instead of moving us forward.”
I’m pretty sure Uncle Marcus’s eyes are going to bug out of his skull. “Negro, you did not just say—”
“Negro?” Dad looks as if he’s been sucker punched, the way I must have looked when Junior called me an Oreo years ago. “Now, listen here, Marcus—”
“Congratulations, Joni,” my aunt practically shouts. She raises her glass of iced tea, glaring at my father and uncle before she gives me a wide smile. “My sister went to Spelman, and it was one of the best decisions she’s ever made. It’s a real sense of community—a true sisterhood. I’d be happy to put you in touch.”
“Thank you, Aunt Virna.” I make eye contact with Junior as I pick up my water. I can’t read his expression, but I know he has an opinion about this.
I wonder where he applied. I wonder if he worries about the way people will perceive him—even a whole campus full of people he’s never met.
The preparation for the party the next day starts bright and early.
It was a tight squeeze in the kitchen yesterday, and this morning there are so many people that I can barely get through to grab a pastry from the box Aunt Virna brought over. I sit at the dining room table, picking over an apple strudel as I watch them through the doorway that separates the two rooms. Junior is overseeing things, and even I’m impressed by the way he keeps so many people on task. Della is in charge of the deviled eggs, and Mom and Aunt Virna are sitting at the tiny table against the wall cleaning greens and shucking fresh corn, which I haven’t actually seen anyone do in real life. Uncle Marcus and my father are setting up the tables and games outside; I guess they’ve called a truce for the good of the party.
Ellis plunks down next to me with a cheese Danish in one hand and a chocolate croissant in the other. “What’s up with you?” he mumbles, but only after he has a mouthful of food.
“What do you mean?”
He swallows. “Why didn’t you want me to say anything about that college? You were so excited when the letter showed up.”
“Yeah, well . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s not the right place for me.”
He makes a face. “How could you know that? You haven’t even been there.”
“Morning,” a voice cuts into our conversation.
I look behind Ellis to see Junior standing in the doorway. There’s a dish towel hanging from his belt loop.
Ellis responds with a cheerful good morning and I wave, my mouth full.
“Soooo, y’all just gonna sit there or you want to help like everyone else?”
I frown at him. “Can we finish our breakfast first?” Damn.
Junior looks annoyed but nods. “Make it quick? I need someone to grate the cheese before I put the macaroni on.”
“Does he have to be so pissy all the time?” I mutter when he walks away.
Ellis pops the rest of the Danish into his mouth and turns to look at Junior over his shoulder as he chews. “I dunno, I think he’s kinda cool.”
I shake my head. “That’s, like, the last word I would use to describe him.”
“He doesn’t really care what anybody thinks,” Ellis says. “And people listen to him. That’s cool.”
Whenever our parents host parties, they hire people to cook, even for small dinner parties. Mom says it cuts down on the stress of having guests and that she can concentrate on the actual entertaining. That’s the norm where we live, hiring out whatever you can: cooking, childcare, housecleaning. It’s weird to think that soon Celia won’t be part of our everyday lives. It will feel like a family member is missing.
But there’s something about this moment, with all of us pressed shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, that makes me hope I never hire out the cooking when I get older. It’s hot and cramped, but it’s almost cozy. Mom and Aunt Virna are chattering away like long-lost sisters, and Della keeps cracking jokes as she tends to the eggs. Ellis is posted at the counter with three giant blocks of cheese and a grater, and I think it’s the most manual labor I’ve ever seen him do. Junior put me to work making all the drinks: lemonade with fresh lemons and two different types of iced tea and a fizzy red punch with cut fruit mixed in.
At one point, everyone leaves to go shower or take a break or help Uncle Marcus and my father, and it’s just Junior and me. I watch as he pulls out trays and party platters and organizes everything we’ve been making.
“Where are you going to school this fall?” I ask, setting my cutting board in the sink. It’s littered with citrus rinds and lemon seeds.
His back is to me. He pauses, then says, “I’m not going.”
“Are you taking a gap year?”
Junior laughs, but it’s not a nice laugh. “A gap year? Is that what all your fancy friends call it when their parents pay for them to go travel in Europe?”
My eyebrows knit together. “I never said anything about Europe. Or my friends.”
He turns to face me. “Oh, maybe they’re the type to go volunteer in Africa for a few months so they can feel better about themselves?”
“What is your problem, Junior?”
“I don’t have a problem,” he says, though the heat in his eyes tells me otherwise. “I just call it like I see it.”
The tension is interrupted as the back door creaks open. Della walks into the kitchen and stops, looking back and forth between us. “What’s going on?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Junior says before he leaves the room.
I have just enough time to shower and get ready before the guests start showing up. Nana Paulette has invited a few neighbors and friends, and by the time everyone arrives, it’s a full-fledged celebration.
I guess one advantage to living in the country is that you can play your music as loud as you want and nobody cares. It takes a while for Ellis to get the wireless speakers working, so in the meantime, Della’s friend Terrence opens the doors to his car and starts blasting hip-hop (“What you know about Wu-Tang?” he hollered when he turned it up), making what feels like the entire earth shake. The car is long and old, and it would get triple takes from the neighbors where I live, but it’s in impeccable condition, with a pool-blue paint job and white leather interior.
“How does he get the wheels so shiny?” I ask after Terrence has left to get a drink. I stare at the blinding silver in the center of the tires.
“Wheels?” Della laughs. “You mean rims?”
“Yeah.” My face and neck flush. I knew that.
“This car is his baby,” she says, shaking her head at the same moment Aunt Virna calls for us to put on something else or turn that mess down.
Della slides in to fiddle with the volume, then perches on the passenger seat and looks at me. “You don’t seem like you like being here, Joni.”
Is it so obvious?
“I guess I just feel out
of place sometimes.” I touch the shiny blue paint with my index finger and immediately pull it back when Della shoots me a look.
“Terrence will kill you if he sees you smudging up his car. Just got it detailed.”
“Sorry.”
“But why do you feel out of place? ’Cause of Junior?” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t even pay attention to him. He’s always mad about something.”
“But it’s more than that. Last time we were here . . .” I feel silly bringing up something that happened so long ago, but it still bothers me. It still hurts. Especially since he seems to feel the same way now as he did back then. “He called me an Oreo.”
Della bursts out laughing, showing all her teeth.
“Thanks,” I mumble, looking away.
“I’m not laughing at you,” she says. “It’s just—Junior has a lot of opinions, but I wouldn’t listen to most of them.”
“What do you mean?”
She looks behind me and I turn to see Junior walking hand in hand with a girl. She’s pretty, with dark skin and long black braids that hang to the small of her back.
“He has a girlfriend?” I couldn’t be more surprised. He’s not a bad-looking guy, but I can’t imagine anyone would put up with his surliness if they didn’t have to.
“Yeah, Lita. She’s real sweet.” Della looks at me again. “But don’t worry about Junior, okay?”
I stare at her, waiting for her to explain.
Della sighs. “He might listen to our dad too much.”
What’s wrong with Uncle Marcus? Of course I noticed how he didn’t let my father get away with disrespecting HBCUs, but they’ve bickered like that before. And I like that my uncle stood up to him.
“You tell anyone I said this and I’ll deny it till the day I die.” Her eyes are serious as she looks at me. “But . . . Daddy’s got some issues with y’all.”
Issues? I stare at her.
“He thinks your mom ‘started acting white’ when she left Bloom.” Della makes air quotes with her fingers. “That she lost touch with her roots because she wanted to go to a big city and make a name for herself. He thinks it’s bougie that you have a nanny and that you live in a town with so many white people when Chicago is right there.”