Such a Fun Age

by Kiley Reid

  Emira followed Shaunie’s gaze down to the first floor, where Kelley put both of his hands on the bar and leaned over it to talk to a blond bartender. Already, Emira was madly jealous. “It’s not a big deal,” she said. “We met that night at the grocery store and I just saw him on the train tonight. I did not think he’d roll up like this.”

  Zara leaned in closer. “That’s the guy who filmed you that night?!”

  “Girl, yes.”

  “Why you so sneaky?”

  “I didn’t think he’d come!”

  Still looking over the railing, Shaunie asked, “Is he wearing an Everlane sweater?”

  Emira rolled her eyes. “Why are you acting like I know what that is?”

  Zara matched Shaunie’s posture as she eyed Kelley and his friends. A new song came on and Kelley began to nod his head and mouth the lyrics. “He’s like that one white guy at every black wedding who’s like, super hyped to do the Cupid Shuffle.”

  “Ohmygod,” Shaunie said. “I fucking love the Cupid Shuffle.”

  “This is weird though, right?” With a drink in her hand, Josefa trailed on. “I mean . . . he’s rul cute or whatever, but does someone wanna tell me why all his friends are black?”

  Emira, Zara, and Shaunie rolled their heads toward their friend. “Ummmm . . .” Emira put a fist under her chin. “I don’t know, Sefa, why are yours?”

  “First of all, rude.” Josefa put a hand in Emira’s face. “Second of all, I just got my 23andMe results back and I’m eleven percent West African, thank you very much.”

  Zara scrunched up her face and asked, “Why you tryna play one-drop rule right now?”

  “And third of all,” Josefa said, “I’m serious. I hope he doesn’t have a fetish or something. When I was on Match all these old white guys were tryna touch my feet. Asking me to call them papi and shit.”

  “I hope he does try to touch some feet. Well done, sister.” Zara high-fived Emira. “I’m gonna support you in this because unlike some people, I am a good friend. I’m also gonna grind up on his friend with the fade.”

  Josefa and Zara began to go back and forth over who would get to pretend like it was their birthday. Zara won the best two out of three in rock, paper, scissors, so when Kelley and his friends returned, they sang to her as she danced and blew out Josefa’s lighter. Shaunie generously accepted the attention from two of the four men (one of whom actually was celebrating his birthday) and Josefa got another to arm-wrestle her on the table. An hour later, Kelley tapped Emira and said, “Okay, miss. I owe you a drink.”

  Kelley followed Emira downstairs and stood while she sat at the bar. Emira could tell that her teeth and lashes were glowing pink from the lights that bordered the counter’s edge. Kelley purchased Emira’s fourth drink of the evening, and then clinked his glass to hers. “Cheers to you,” he said, “for having reserves of patience I have never known.” After she thanked him and took a sip, Kelley said, “Tell me you aren’t in college.”

  Emira crossed her legs. “No, I’m not in college.”

  “You must be a dancer, then, right?” Kelley set his glass back on the bar. “You must be classically trained to do moves like . . .” He brushed his shoulders off with pouted lips.

  “Oh wow, it’s like that.” Emira laughed. “That was a very special occasion. The kid I babysit, someone egged her house. Her mom wanted me to take her while they dealt with the police . . . so I could go to the grocery store and see more police. Get it?”

  “I got it,” he said. “And that guy wasn’t a real cop, but okay. So what do you do when you’re not babysitting?”

  Emira rested her elbow on the bar and grinned. “Are you gonna ask me what I do for fun next?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s super lame.”

  “Okay, but it’s way better than asking how many siblings you have.”

  “Fine, well . . .” she said. “I work as a transcriptionist and do some clerical work at the Green Party Philadelphia office uptown.”

  “Really?” Kelley said. “You don’t strike me as a Green Party person.”

  “I just type things.”

  “How fast can you type?”

  “I do 125.”

  “Words per minute?!”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Emira smiled. “Deadass.”

  “Damn. I could definitely hook you up if you’re looking for more work,” Kelley said. “My office pays a shit ton for transcription.”

  “Maybe I make a shit ton right now.” Ooo girl, you drunk, Emira told herself. The jacket on her back and hundred-dollar bills in her purse were giving her bravadoes she couldn’t contain.

  Kelley held his hands up and said, “Fair.”

  “What’s up with that, do you work in HR or something?” she asked. “The night I met you, you were like, ‘You should write an op-ed.’ Like, yeah, okay sure.”

  Kelley leaned on the bar and stared upward at the bottles and bitters. “I did say that . . . Huh.” He squinted at Emira, and asked her quite honestly, “Am I an asshole?”

  “You? Oh, for sure.” Emira nodded. “I mean . . . I don’t know from experience but like, just statistically speaking? One hundred percent. But it’s chill.”

  “It’s chill?” He grinned.

  “Yeah, kinda.”

  “I think we should get a cab.” Kelley said this into her ear. It came out in a strangely offhanded way that sounded very hilarious in Emira’s haze. It was as if he were saying, I think you’re gonna need some stitches, or, Unfortunately, your card was declined.

  Emira laughed and picked up her drink. With her straw in her mouth she said, “You’re lit.”

  Kelley folded his hands and said, “So are you, miss.”

  In the elevator up to Kelley’s apartment, Emira checked her phone. OH OKAY BYE BITCH, Zara texted. Trap trap trap trap get that l.l.bean dick gur. At the other side of the elevator, Kelley watched her with his back against the railing. Then he stood up straight and said, “Can I come over there or what?”

  Inside, on a couch that felt pricey and firm, Emira sat facing Kelley on his lap as he held the back of her thighs. The space smelled boyish and also like laundry done with detergent that was marked Unscented. Above Kelley, hung tightly against his living room wall, was a massive framed blueprint of Allentown, Pennsylvania. Emira kissed him in the glow from an opened window until he pulled back and whispered, “Hey hey hey.”

  Emira said, “Hmm?”

  Kelley rested his head on the back of the couch. “You’re not like, twenty years old, are you?”

  “No. I’m twenty-five.”

  “Yikes, okay.” He put his hands behind his head. “I’m thirty-two.”

  Emira stood up to remove her pants. “Okay.”

  “That’s seven years older than you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Emira laughed once as she moved forward to undo his belt buckle. “You’re like . . . really smart.”

  “Okay, miss.” Kelley laughed. “I’m just making sure.”

  In between strokes and kisses, Kelley pulled out a condom and placed it on the couch cushion to his left. It sat there like a peace offering or a panic button; a plastic symbol of consent. At one point, he lifted her hips and told her, “Sit up for me,” before he pressed her pelvic bone to his mouth. Emira said what she recognized as a very white expression, “Oh, you don’t have to . . .” By this she meant, I’d rather not return the favor when you’re done. Kelley seemed to understand her appeal. He laughed and said, “I know,” before he took her in his mouth again. He stopped once more to say, “Unless you’re not cool with it,” to which Emira quickly replied, “No, I am.” She balanced her hands and one knee on the back of the couch. For the second time that night she thought, You know what? Fuck it, and she took hold of the back of his head.

 
On her way back down Emira reached for the condom. That she stayed on top seemed implicit and implied.

  Later, she was still quite drunk as she pulled out her phone and texted Zara, Where you at. Kelley had put on shorts and a T-shirt, and he brought a glass of ice water to her on the couch. He went back to the kitchen to drink his own as he looked at her across an island counter. The clock on his microwave read 1:10.

  Emira reached for her shoes. “May I please have an Uber and a snack?”

  Kelley reached for his phone. “You may have an Uber. But you get a snack when I get your number.”

  Emira laughed. To her right, next to the record player, was a milk crate full of albums. “Why do you have the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack?” she asked. Other titles Emira could see were Chaka Khan and Otis Redding.

  Kelley sighed, his eyes on his phone. “Because I have the music tastes of a middle-aged black woman,” he said.

  Emira rolled her eyes, but Kelley didn’t catch it. Maybe Josefa was right and he did have a fetish. Emira almost asked him how many times he’d used that line, but instead she said, “You have nice things.” She was loose and tired and delighted. She looked around the room and took in the record player set, a chair that looked like it wasn’t from IKEA, a black coffeemaker on the kitchen counter that looked like it was from a wedding registry, and a bike and a tire pump leaning against the wall. Her head rolled to her left. “You have nice, adult things in here.”

  “You don’t seem like a thief but if you are, you’re terrible at it. Hassan will pick you up in three minutes.”

  “Allentown,” Emira said. She stared, upside down, at the name of the city above her head and blinked as the letters went in and out. “Who do I know from Allentown?”

  “You know me from Allentown.” Kelley made his way over to her, placed a bag of popcorn in her lap, and said, “Let’s start with your area code.”

  Emira gave Kelley her phone number as she snacked on popcorn, her right arm draped deliriously over her head. On the blueprint behind her, two streets over from where her pinky hung, was the place Kelley Copeland completely ruined Alex Murphy’s senior year. Back in the spring of 2000, before she became Alix Chamberlain.

  PART TWO

  Six

  In the vestibule of the Chamberlain home sat a small, teak table near the front door. On top was a porcelain cup that collected change, a wooden trough holding three sprouting succulents, and an upright phone charger from CB2 that was plugged in to the wall behind it. In the past few weeks, Alix had developed what she knew was an awful and invasive habit of returning home, closing the door quietly behind her, bending at the hip, and looking at Emira’s phone. The small entryway was protected by another door that entered into the main foyer, which made Alix feel as though she wasn’t quite at home, and that she wasn’t exactly looking through the phone. She didn’t know the passcode and she would never use it if she did, but the lock screen of Emira’s phone was always filled with information that was youthful, revealing, and completely addicting.

  She never took Emira’s phone off the charger, and she rarely pressed any buttons (messages and notifications would light up on their own), but three times a week she scrolled with her middle finger as she listened to Emira cook dinner upstairs and tell Briar to blow in case it was hot. A month had gone by since the night at Market Depot, and in that time, Alix had developed feelings toward Emira that weren’t completely unlike a crush. She became excited to hear Emira’s key in the door, she felt disappointed when it was time for her to leave, and when Emira laughed or spoke without being prompted, Alix felt like she had done something right. The times when this happened were few and far between, which was why Alix kept peeking at her sitter’s cell phone. She would have just checked Emira’s social media channels instead, but from what she’d gathered from searching, Emira didn’t have any.

  Emira had a group text titled Siblings where her brother and sister sent songs, memes, and trailers for upcoming movies. Emira was constantly texting Zara, labeled Kween Zara, who would often reply in clipped messages, one right after the other (No. Stop. Don’t you dare. I cannot). Zara and Emira went out nearly every weekend, and many of their texts discussed the logistics. One afternoon, Emira must have just placed her phone on the charger moments before Alix arrived, because it sat unlocked and waiting. Alix didn’t even have to scroll. Emira had texted What are you wearing, to which Zara replied Slut, and Emira had responded, Cool, same. When Alix went upstairs, Emira was playing on the floor with Briar and saying, “Okay, now you have to tell me your second favorite vegetable.”

  Sometimes there were no conversations available for Alix to read, but there was always paused music. Some of the names Alix recognized, like Drake and Janet Jackson, OutKast and Usher, but most of them were strangers like J. Cole and Tyga, Big Sean and Travis Scott. Alix ended up Googling things like Is Childish Gambino a person or a band? How do you pronounce the name SZA? One evening, Alix memorized the name of a song and later Googled it in her room. Alix listened to the first verse in her headphones, which began with Let a nigga try me, try me / Imma get his whole motha-fuckin family. Alix’s eyebrows rose up into her forehead. She looked over at Catherine next to her and whispered, “Whoops.”

  But out of all the information she’d gathered in the past few weeks, what was most intriguing as a future point of connection was the fact that Emira was definitely seeing someone new. Someone she’d labeled in her phone as Kenan&Kel. One afternoon—Alix saw this on her way out—he’d said, Maybe next time let me know that you don’t drink coffee, weirdo. On a Wednesday evening he’d said, Is basketball something you’d be interested in? And one time, Emira had sent a screenshot of her conversation with him to Zara, to which Zara replied, That boy doesn’t play. The messages between Emira and this new person were of that cool and careful variety that only exists at the beginning of something, as you try to exude spontaneity and effortless humor, and space out responses to appear busy and even-keeled. Alix was dying to ask Emira about him, to know if his name was Kenan, Kel, or neither. She wanted to cross a threshold where Emira would offer up information on her own, and more importantly, trust Alix to keep it. And tonight, after seeing Emira’s newest message (Excited to see you tonight, Miss Tucker.) inside her dirty and rubbery pink phone case, Alix decided to make this happen.

  Alix walked upstairs into the kitchen. Briar looked up from her drawing and said, “Mama? Mama this is not a scary ghost, okay?” Alix put her purse on the counter and realized that the room had turned very sweet and warm. That morning, she had put out pumpkins and gourds at the center of the table and hung fall leaves (collected from the backyard) over the windows that looked out onto the street. Briar colored a picture of a very friendly ghost next to a plate of cucumbers, garbanzo beans, and plain pasta. On the fridge were new art projects: a googly-eyed witch made out of felt, and a purple paper that read BOO! The letters were colored in so nicely on one side that it was clear Emira had “helped” Briar complete it. Alix took off a drapey cardigan sweater, kissed Briar’s cheek, and received Catherine from Emira, who was already holding the baby up.

  “You guys have a good day?”

  “Yeah.” Emira picked at dried food on the knee of her jeans. “I think we did pretty good, huh, B?”

  Briar held up a crayon and said, “You do it.”

  Emira sat down next to her. “I do what now?”

  “Let’s say ‘please,’ Bri,” Alix said. “Emira,” she added, “do you drink wine?”

  Emira carefully accepted a crayon from Briar. She blinked and said, “I mean . . . yeah.”

  Alix took two glasses from a cupboard and thought, Yeah, you do. She sat down, and with a bottle of wine in between her legs, she somehow managed to uncork the bottle while holding Catherine. When Catherine looked up at her, Alix said, “Hi. Did you miss me or what?”

  Alix told Emira she could take the wineglass into the bathroom with Br
iar, that she did it all the time. She hadn’t eaten since lunch (she’d lost five pounds since her very loving and supporting intervention) and as she sipped her glass of wine, cleaned up toys from the kitchen table, and listened to Emira give Briar a quick bath, she sensed those lax and wonderful feelings of decorum leaving her body. She lit two candles on the kitchen counter. She turned on a playlist with Fleetwood Mac and Tracy Chapman. And as she turned off the bright kitchen lights and left the chandelier blushing over the table, Alix recognized that she was very much courting her babysitter. But the evening reminded her of Fridays with Rachel, Jodi, and Tamra. She hadn’t poured a glass of wine for another woman in months.

  Emira emerged with a few picture books beneath her arm, a glass half full, and Briar in tow, changed into her pajamas and wrapped in her tattered white blanket. Emira stopped at the kitchen counter and took another sip of her wine. “This is really good,” she said.

  “I like it too.” From the table, Alix held up her glass and looked at the color. In her other arm, Catherine was receiving a bottle, which Alix administered with one hand. “Are you a wine person or no?”

  “I mean, I like it,” Emira said. She set her glass at the other end of the table, then took the books from underneath her arm and set those down too. “But I’m used to drinking like . . . boxed wine, so yeah, I’m no connoisseur.”

  There were moments like this that Alix tried to breeze over, but they got stuck somewhere between her heart and ears. She knew Emira had gone to college. She knew Emira had majored in English. But sometimes, after seeing her paused songs with titles like “Dope Bitch” and “Y’all Already Know,” and then hearing her use words like connoisseur, Alix was filled with feelings that went from confused and highly impressed to low and guilty in response to the first reaction. There was no reason for Emira to be unfamiliar with this word. And there was no reason for Alix to be impressed. Alix completely knew these things, but only when she reminded herself to stop thinking them in the first place.