SEYMOUR
We’re less than a block away from her party now. The music is getting louder. I can already smell jerk chicken and pork from where we are. We keep walking until we’re just at the edge of the party. It’s packed with people laughing and dancing. It’s like being in a big, open-air club where the lights are real low. The whole block has a slight orange glow to it from all the candles and lanterns that people have put out. Just like on the other street, I see more kids chasing each other with flashlights. There’s even another fire hydrant going with some kids playing in it. Along the sidewalk, I see buckets of ice packed with beer and soda.
I stand there smiling at all the happiness, at how none of these people have let the blackout stop them from having a good time. I remember what Grace said to me about getting some new dreams.
“Well, this is it,” Grace says, and turns toward me.
“Thanks for letting me get you here safe,” I say.
She laughs and looks around. “I can’t believe the lights are still out.”
I don’t know what to say, but I want to say something so we can linger and talk more. “I’m glad they’re still out,” I say, wishing this weren’t the end. Wishing I was going into this party with her.
Her phone buzzes.
I know it’s time to let her get on with her life. “Guess I should go,” I say. I jiggle the gas canister. “Gotta fill up and get back to it.”
“Thanks again,” she says.
I take a step back, but I can’t quite make myself go, not without taking a chance.
“Lemme ask you something. You know how I basically confessed that you were my type?”
She puts a hand on her face. I think she might be blushing. “Yeah,” she says.
“If it weren’t for the Derrick situation, you think you’d like to spend some time with me debating esoteric philosophical podcasts about the nature of identity?”
She looks at me for a few seconds. She’s backlit by candlelight and I could be happy just standing here staring at her for a long time. She starts to say something. But before she can, a girl comes barreling up to us. She’s wearing a lot of jewelry, all of it jingling madly.
“Hi,” says jewelry girl, giving me a once-over. “You the Ryde driver who doesn’t understand cars need fuel?”
“That’s me,” I say, laughing. “You the sassy best friend?”
“The one and only,” she says with a curtsy. “Thanks for escorting my girl.”
“No problem,” I say. I’m still looking at Grace, hoping she’ll answer my question, even though I know in my heart that the moment’s gone.
Her friend looks back and forth between us a few times. “Grace,” she whisper-shouts. “Derrick’s over in the jerk chicken line.”
That’s my cue to go. “It was nice running out of gas with you, Grace,” I say. “Good luck with everything.”
“You too,” she says.
GRACE
I feel a little queasy watching him go. It’s the same feeling I get when I realize—too late—that I got an answer wrong on a test.
He disappears into the crowd.
Lana snaps her fingers in front of my face. “What was that all about?” she asks.
“I think I just got hypothetically asked out.”
“What did you hypothetically answer?”
“I didn’t,” I say and then change the subject before she can press me some more. “Where’s Tristán?”
A mile-wide smile spreads across her face. “Somewhere getting me a soda,” she says.
I pull her into a tight hug. “I’m really happy for you guys,” I say.
A white guy doing some sort of weird interpretive dance accidentally bumps into us. Lana rolls her eyes at him and shuffles us over to the sidewalk where there are fewer people.
“You look great,” she says. She adjusts my necklace and brushes my braids from my shoulders. “Ready for this?”
I grab her hand and squeeze it. “What am I doing again?”
“What is up with you?” she asks. “You’re showing Derrick exactly what he’s been missing. Isn’t that what you want?”
I nod because she’s right. That’s what I’ve been saying I want for six weeks now. Except now I’m not so sure anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing here or what I want to happen.
“The jerk truck is down there on the right,” she says, pointing down the street. He stands near a red double-decker tour bus. Weird. She wishes me luck and then I’m off.
I weave my way through the crowd, saying lots of excuse mes and I’m sorrys. The whole time I try to think of what to say to Derrick. Should it be something nostalgic? Something to remind him why we used to go out in the first place?
But nothing occurs to me. Instead what pops into my head is Seymour doing his dumb-guy voice and encouraging me to practice my speech on him. I laugh and shake my head. He’s funny.
Finally, I make it over to the truck. Even though I’m not hungry, the smoky, spicy jerk smell makes me want to order a plate or two.
I scan the line and spot Derrick close to the front. My heart thumps hard a couple of times, but then settles down. He looks different since the last time I saw him. He’s tanned a nice, deep brown and he let his fade grow out. There’s a dumb little goatee thing happening on his face. Except for that, though, he looks good.
I walk up to him, but he’s looking down at his phone and doesn’t notice me right away. “Hey, Derrick,” I say.
His lifts his head in this sluggish way he has that always makes it seem like he’s moving in slow motion. “Gracie,” he says, and looks me up and down. “Wow, you look great.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You too.”
We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds. He recovers first, smiles, and pulls me in for a hug. “It’s nice to see you,” he says. “How come you’re here? You never used to like these things.”
And that’s when I finally figure it out—the problem with Derrick and me. The problem is that he wants me to be the same as I’ve always been. He wants me to stay the same shy girl, fresh off the plane from Jamaica, who didn’t know anything or anyone. The girl who needed him for everything. He was right when he broke up with me. I am different. I have changed.
And that’s not a bad thing.
Right then, a girl—Trish—comes up to us. I recognize her from Derrick’s social media posts. Her eyes linger on Derrick’s face, and it’s obvious how much she likes him.
Finally, her eyes bounce back and forth between us. There’s a nervous little frown on her face.
I rush to reassure her that she has nothing to worry about. “You’re Trish, right?” I say, sticking my hand out to shake hers. “It’s nice to meet you. Derrick was just talking all about you.”
She beams. “He was?”
“He was,” I say. She beams some more.
I turn to Derrick. “I gotta go, but it was nice running into you,” I say. “I’ll see you around.”
He frowns and looks like he’s going to say something else, but I’m already leaving. I duck back into the crowd and let myself get carried away for a minute.
Lana must’ve been keeping tabs on me, because suddenly she’s right beside me. Tristán is with her now and wearing the same mile-wide smile that she is.
“You finally got yourself the right girl,” I say.
He smiles even wider.
“Well?” Lana says, bouncing on her toes. “What happened with Derrick?”
“It was nice to see him,” I say, still trying to work out exactly what I’m feeling.
“Nice to see him?” she says, imitating my voice. “Woman, didn’t you just spend the last however many weeks telling me how much you miss him?”
“I know,” I say, “but I think I was wrong.”
“And you’re just now realizing this?”
“Yes,” I say.
“This is about that Ryde guy, isn’t it? I saw the way he was looking at you.”
I saw it too. He likes me. This ver
sion of me right here.
I hope I’m not too late. If I run, maybe I’ll be able to catch up to him before he gets back to his car and leaves.
I tell her my plan. “Will you come with me?”
She looks at Tristán. “You mind?” she asks him.
He offers to come with us, but she tells him to stay and help Twig hype people up. They kiss goodbye and then she grabs my hand.
“Come on,” she says.
We start squeezing our way through the crowd. It feels like the party has doubled or tripled in the last few minutes, like everyone in New York decided this was the place to be—partying in Brooklyn on a street lit only by candlelight and moonlight. Twig and another guy are on a platform, bent over a pair of turntables. Twig closes his eyes, falling into a trance with the music while the other guy sticks out his tongue at the other Jamaican girl from my class, Tammi. She fails at holding in a laugh. Nearby, Nella is perched on a speaker, smiling down at a girl I don’t know. They’re holding hands and I smile.
Two boys with bikes cut between us. It takes us five minutes to get through all the people and back to the edge of the party where I said bye to Seymour. It’s not like I expected him to still be waiting there, but I’m disappointed anyway.
Lana tugs on my hand. “Come on, let’s go find him.”
“You spent all this time trying to get to this party, and you’re leaving already?” says a voice behind me.
Both Lana and I turn around slowly. He’s holding a beef patty in one hand and the gas canister in the other.
“Ryde guy,” she says.
“Sassy best friend,” he says.
At some point I’m going to need to introduce them officially. But not right now.
Lana squeezes my hand. “I’ll be with Tristán,” she says, and takes off.
“Why are you leaving?” he asks. “Things go bad with Derrick?”
I shake my head. “Things went fine.”
“Then how come you’re—”
“I was trying to find you,” I say.
“You forget something in my car?”
Man, he’s going to make me spell it out for him. “You remember that hypothetical question you asked me before?”
His eyebrows climb his forehead and a bright, happy smile spreads across his face like sunshine.
He steps closer to me so there’s about a foot of space between us. “So you finally have an answer for my hypothetical?” he asks.
“I do,” I say, closing the distance between us.
The lights come back on, and all around us, everyone cheers.
Acknowledgments
DHONIELLE CLAYTON
This book was born during the COVID-19 pandemic. The world paused and we all felt like we were in a metaphorical blackout, fumbling around in the dark, trying to make sense of everything happening around us. But out of the chaos came this light, this beautiful little love, our novel. I am grateful for this tether of creativity when death and uncertainty swirled around me.
First, I’d like to thank my niece, Riley Clayton, who inspired the entire idea. If it weren’t for our marathon movie watching/TV binging, and you asking me why Black girls didn’t get big love stories, this book wouldn’t exist. Thanks for giving your aunt a challenge. I hope I continue to rise and meet every one of them. I love you, kid. You are one of my heart chambers.
To my ladies: Tiffany D. Jackson, Angie Thomas, Nic Stone, Ashley Woodfolk, and Nicola Yoon, you made my dreams come true. Thank you for your trust, for your hearts, for your time, for your talent, and for your willingness to jump headfirst into the dark with me. We made beautiful light together. It will see me through for a long, long time. This experience has been the highlight of my career. I am so happy to be leaving behind this book in the world with you all.
To Molly Ker Hawn: Thank you for being a dream maker with a lion heart. Your leadership, your wisdom, and your spirit helped make sure this book found its place. Thank you for taking such great care of me—of us.
To Mary Pender: You are the best partner in crime. Thank you for all that you do. You are a magic maker!
To Rosemary Brosnan: This editorial experience has been so amazing. You pushed me and made me dig deep. My writing has been transformed by your touch and wisdom. Thank you for the push.
To the Harper team: Suzanne Murphy, Erin Fitzsimmons, Courtney Stevenson, Ebony LaDelle, Patty Rosati, Audrey Diestelkamp, and team. Thank you for all that you’ve done for this book. It takes an army to launch a book, and I’m so happy to have this squad behind us.
To Mom and Dad: Thank you for the endless support, the wisdom, the food, the care. You listen to every complaint, soothe every wound, and breathe life into every dream. I wouldn’t be me if you weren’t you. I’m forever grateful to have witnessed your love for each other (and felt your love for me) so that I may write love into my work.
To the superhero librarians of the New York Public Library—Louise Lareau, Jenny Rosenoff, and Sue Yee: Thank you for your detailed insight, which helped make this story as accurate as it can be. You are the titans of our society. I feel proud to be one of you. I know the Children’s Center moved right as this book was being written, and I appreciate your help in making this dreamy little love story work despite that. Thanks for the troubleshooting.
To the readers: Thank you for the support and I hope you keep your heart open to receive all the love the universe has in store for you.
TIFFANY D. JACKSON
I’d like to thank the captain of our ship, Dhonielle, for forcing convincing me to do this, even when I said this wasn’t my lane. You always manage to help me believe in myself. To the Squad, I’m sorry for my “bright” idea to split up my story, which of course created more work for us all, but it came together beautifully. To Rosemary Brosnan, I’m sure it took a lot to wrangle us all, but you did it effortlessly, like a true Queen. To Molly Ker Hawn and Mary Pender, thanks for all that you do and continue to do. To my family, I love you. To that heffa COVID, you brought us together, but I’m fighting you on sight. And to NYC, you will always be my first love.
ANGIE THOMAS
God, thank you for getting me through 2020, and thank you for the bright spot that was working on this book during that roller coaster of a year.
Dhonielle the queen, thank you for lovingly dragging me into this and challenging my drama-loving self to write a love story. It’s an honor to be a part of something so special. To the ladies, I’m so happy to create this beautiful book with you. Because of us, Black kids will know that they deserve the biggest love stories too. To Molly Ker Hawn and Mary Pender, thanks for being our rocks on this journey and making sure this book was taken care of. Rosemary, thank you for making us dig deep to ensure this story is the best it can be. To the amazing Harper team, thank you for holding us down. To my mom, Julia, you’re the real MVP. And to the readers: I hope you find the love you deserve. Your own story awaits.
NIC STONE
First, to Dhonielle Clayton: Thank you for coming up with this harebrained idea and inviting me along for the ride. You da best. The Mollies: Molly Ker Hawn and Mollie Glick: Obviously agents with your name get s*** DONE. To Rosemary Brosnan: Thank you for taking a chance on us with this thing, and for whipping it into shape. To Jay Coles, Terry J. Benton-Walker, and Julian Winters: Your insights into this very much not #OwnVoice story (for me) were utterly invaluable, and I appreciate you all more than I could ever express. Pete Forester: Shout-out to you for helping my Southern ass get the NYC stuff right. To Nigel Livingstone: Again, you created the space and time for me to work. Even in the thick of a global pandemic. And to Michael Bonner: Much appreciation for allowing me to turn your delightfully quiet living room into my kid-free office so I could get this joint written. Love you all!
ASHLEY WOODFOLK
Writing a book like this one was a dream come true. I got to work with some of my closest writer friends on a book unlike any I’ve ever read, but that is somehow also something I’ve been passively looking a
nd longing for, for years. It wouldn’t have been possible without Dhonielle roping us all into it, and I’ll forever cherish the hours of brainstorming, the group text chain where we chatted about book stuff but also, literally everything else. So thanks to D (and the rest of the Blackout Bunch) for going on this adventure and inviting me along. Big thanks to my agent, Beth, for fielding millions of questions and answering all my panicky texts, and to our fearless leader, Molly Ker Hawn, who none of this would have been possible without. Thank you to Rosemary Brosnan for seeing something special in each of our stories, and working to shape them while appreciating and celebrating their differences. This book was a light in the middle of a very dark year, one that felt a bit like a blackout in lots of ways, and I’ll be forever grateful to have been a part of its revolutionary joy.
NICOLA YOON
In the history of years, 2020 was the absolute longest. Still, there were bright spots, and getting to write this book with five of the most talented and fearless authors working was one of them. Thanks so much to Angie, Ashley, Dhonielle, Nic, and Tiffany for all their brilliance and imagination. Extra, extra special thanks to our fearless leader, Dhonielle, for roping us all into this project with her incredible idea. Her passion and dedication are boundless. Thanks to our wonderful editor, Rosemary Brosnan, for whipping our stories into shape, and to super agents Molly Ker Hawn and Mary Pender for whipping our deals into shape. Huge thanks to my indefatigable agent, Jodi Reamer, for always knowing all the things. And, of course, thanks to the loves of my life, David and Penny, just for being. You guys are always my brightest spots.
About the Authors
DHONIELLE CLAYTON is the New York Times bestselling author of the Belles series and the coauthor of the Tiny Pretty Things duology, which was made into a Netflix original series. She is COO of the nonprofit We Need Diverse Books and the owner of Cake Literary.
TIFFANY D. JACKSON is the New York Times bestselling author of Grown; Allegedly; Monday’s Not Coming, a Walter Dean Myers Honor Book and Coretta Scott King–John Steptoe New Talent Award winner; and Let Me Hear a Rhyme.
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