Such a Fun Age

by Kiley Reid

“Fuck it up, girl.”

  “Ayyeee.”

  From the kitchen, Josefa asked, “Emira, you want something to drink?”

  Emira watched Shaunie dip it even lower as Zara clapped double time. “I’ll literally take any alcohol you have,” she said.

  Shaunie’s two-bedroom apartment had a kitchen with an exposed brick wall and a fire escape outside the window. Josefa lived there too, but Josefa never objected to anyone referring to the space as “Shaunie’s.” It was filled with Shaunie’s things, and co-signed by Shaunie’s dad. Emira recognized the dormy-twenty-something-isms about the space—the mess of cords leaking out from the TV stand, the IKEA best-seller couch, too many recent pictures fighting for space on the refrigerator—but Shaunie’s place maintained an air of adulthood, and now her employment did too. Apparently, the management at Sony called Shaunie in at the end of the day. They told her how pleased they were with her performance, asked if she was happy working there, and then they offered her the promotion. On the seventh floor of a high-rise in South Philly, Shaunie toasted her bosses with sparkling cider in plastic cups as she did what she claimed was an ugly cry. And that was when she became the last of Emira’s friends to no longer be listed on their parents’ health insurance.

  Emira accepted a glass of wine from Josefa. Across a cutting board, Josefa pressed a knife into her sandwich and ate a leaf of basil that slipped out the bottom. The plan for the evening had been to watch Netflix, drink wine, and maybe order Thai from the place down the street, so Emira was a bit confused by Josefa’s meal. She also needed a few more minutes to accept this new information. Fifty-two thousand dollars a year?

  “So what are we watching tonight?”

  “What?” Without looking up, Josefa put the sandwich halves on a plate and licked crumbs off her finger. “Girl, we goin’ out,” she said. “You want a bite of this?”

  “No, I’m fine. Since when are we going out?”

  “Shaunie’s ’bout to make it rain over here.” Josefa pointed over her shoulder. At that moment, Zara collected the plastic fall leaves Shaunie had sprinkled to decorate the coffee table, and she threw them at Shaunie as she danced. Zara sang, “Make it clap, girl,” and slipped one leaf in between Shaunie’s waistband and her twerking behind. “If you need clothes,” Josefa said, “you can just borrow mine.”

  “Man, okay.” Emira pulled her hair over one shoulder. “I don’t know. I’m kinda beat, though.” This wasn’t a lie, but the first of the month was also stupidly close. In two days, Emira would pay her rent and watch the entire contents of her white envelope disappear.

  “Say what?” Josefa topped her own wineglass off. “I thought you only babysat on Fridays.”

  Emira held her glass with both hands. Josefa would never say something like this to Shaunie. She’d never say, Zara, I thought you only nursed today. For someone who was paid to go to school, Josefa had a strict opinion on what constituted a proper workday. But Emira wasn’t about to defend a job she kind of wished she never had. “Yeah, but we just like . . . did a lot,” she said.

  “Well, I had a huge exam today, and I think I killed it.” Josefa did a sign of the cross before she lifted her plate. “So I’m about to get real stupid.”

  Emira said, “Right,” and “Good for you,” but she didn’t follow Josefa into her bedroom.

  More than Emira hated the idea of going out, she hated the idea of Zara going without her. She knew this was a stretch, but if Emira wasn’t there, Zara could possibly realize that Emira wasn’t her closest friend, but rather the reason why the four women didn’t do more things, like take tropical trips on summer Fridays or utilize gel manicure discount days or try exercise classes like stiletto workouts. Emira wished she also wore school sweatshirts (or scrubs, or button-downs that she considered “work clothes”) that would give her periodic reasons to celebrate, or a valid excuse to say no and stay in.

  Emira walked back into the living room and carried Shaunie’s varsity jacket over her arm. She picked a piece of lint off the sleeve and said, “Hey, don’t let me forget to give this back to you.”

  “Oh shoot, I almost forgot about that.” Shaunie scrunched up her face cutely and tossed the jacket into her bedroom. With her other hand, she held her phone to her ear. “Or you can wear it again. Drinks on me tonight. I gotta work on getting Troy to come through, but Mira, just go through my closet. Take anything you want.” Inside Shaunie’s bedroom, Zara plugged her phone into the speakers and Young Thug began to play. “Babe,” Shaunie shouted over the first verse and into her phone. “Babe, guess what. You’re coming out with us tonight.”

  Zara started to dig through Shaunie’s closet, and in the next room over, Josefa began to paw through her own. Emira stepped into the adjacent bathroom and closed the door behind her.

  Above the sink, Emira wondered if there was an appropriate amount of support and enthusiasm you needed to have for a friend, because if there was, then Shaunie was hitting her retainer. Every week it was something. Wasn’t it so great that Shaunie got this internship? Wasn’t Shaunie’s new boyfriend so cute? Wasn’t it so nice that we got free drinks from that old guy who loved Shaunie’s smile?

  And most importantly, why did Mrs. Chamberlain have to lie to Briar as if she couldn’t fucking handle the truth?

  At the back of Emira’s calves, on the fabric of her leggings, were leftover white pieces of fur from a dog that leaned up against her at the park that afternoon. There were dogs dressed like celebrities and vegetables, and puppies fighting to get hats and capes off their shoulders. Briar kept pointing and screaming that there were in fact even more dogs, and that the dogs she’d seen before were still there, but every so often, she looked up at Emira as if she’d come into a room and already forgotten what she needed.

  Emira couldn’t tell if her annoyance with Mrs. Chamberlain came from the ingrained Tucker standard within her (You start something, you finish it), or if it was mostly to do with missing out on dressing up with Briar. Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that Emira had witnessed Mrs. Chamberlain being an outstanding mother, and was realizing that when she wasn’t being one, it was by choice rather than default.

  Emira once spotted Mrs. Chamberlain with Briar and Catherine at the post office on a Tuesday morning. She didn’t say hi, but she watched Mrs. Chamberlain sing with Briar as she carefully placed Catherine into a complicated wrap. Briar was distracted and overstimulated by the post office lights and boxes and people. But Mrs. Chamberlain kept her nearby with precious prompts to “stay here, big sis,” to show Catherine how the wheels on the bus go round and round, to try and jump as high as she could. Mrs. Chamberlain did this all in gorgeous, expensive-looking jeans.

  What bothered Emira was knowing that Mrs. Chamberlain had that mommy it-factor. Mrs. Chamberlain could tell when Catherine was about to cry. She gave Briar goldfish in a cup, never on a plate. She could be genuinely congratulatory when Briar successfully pressed the button on the stroller’s seat belt, or when Catherine almost waved buh-bye. But only in the moments when she truly felt like it. As Catherine got bigger and cuter, and still very thoughtfully quiet, Emira noticed that these moments came further and further apart.

  And another thing? Emira considered this as she pulled her pants down and sat on the toilet. Laney Thacker was actually super fucking nice. She’d offered to help Emira twice at the birthday party, and she’d tucked in Emira’s tag at the back of her polo. And sure, she was extremely dorky and had a weird laugh and her makeup was a shade too dark, but coincidentally, not telling your child the truth about a first pet, just because you have people coming over, seemed like a very Laney Thacker thing to do.

  Someone knocked on the door and Emira said, “I’m peeing.”

  From outside Zara said, “K,” but she still let herself inside. Zara closed the door and leaned a hip on the sink. “I thought you’d be hanging from the shower rod.”

  This w
as Emira’s favorite version of Zara. Long twists on her shoulders. Navy scrubs. Orange socks with white grips on the bottom. On a Friday, Zara looked like home. In addition to her annoyance with her employer and the fact that she’d bought stupid cat ears at Walgreens for nothing, Emira felt what she knew was a childish reaction to having to share her best friend.

  Zara had two sisters, one of whom struggled with anorexia, and the other with depression, two conditions that Emira’s mother believed black people didn’t “get.” On top of Zara’s energy and humor and wit, Emira treasured her unfailing and nonjudgmental patience for her family, her patients, and Emira herself. Despite the fact that she’d known since she was little that nursing was her passion, Zara never discredited Emira, or the fact that Emira had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. Instead, Zara often covered Emira’s coat check fees, which, for some reason, greatly annoyed Josefa. Zara randomly and privately Venmo’d Emira to cover a well drink or cover charge, and when Emira didn’t feel well, Zara listened to her symptoms over the phone or via texts (she’d either respond with detailed advice or say that it was probably gas). Emira never doubted Zara’s loyalty to her, but Shaunie and Josefa could offer Zara friendship and first rounds, when Emira often ordered appetizers as her meal.

  Emira slumped as she listened to herself pee. “I’m sorry. I just had a shitty day.”

  “What happened?”

  Emira placed her elbows onto her knees. What was she supposed to say? The little girl I spend twenty-one hours a week with is definitely starting to get it. Every day I watch her grip tighter and tighter onto the feeling of being ignored by the person she loves the most. And she’s this awesome, serious child who loves information and answers, and how could her own mother not appreciate the shit out of this? And in the bottom of all of my purses are all these old bags of tea. And sometimes when I grab my wallet some Earl Grey or Jasmine will fall out on the counter, which makes me feel like I need to leave this job, and that there’s no way I ever could. In moments like this, Emira also felt that if she wasn’t careful—that if she brought Zara’s mood down with trivial things like goldfish and tea—that Zara’s patience would possibly run out. “No, it’s dumb,” Emira said. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Okay.” Zara leaned forward at the waist and whispered, “But you need to check yourself and be happy for Shaunie.”

  Emira closed her eyes. “She is so extra right now.”

  “That girl is always so extra.”

  Emira opened her right eye to watch Zara’s reaction. “I also kind of hate Troy.” Whenever Shaunie’s boyfriend came out, which was not often and took lots of coaxing and bribing, he claimed seats in clubs and bars where he could easily see the television. Whenever Emira talked to him, his eyes were half on her and half on a basketball game. He answered any and all comments with, “That’s tight, that’s tight.”

  “Girl, everybody hates Troy,” Zara whispered. “You are not special, okay?”

  Emira blew out through her lips. “I think . . .” she said, “I think I need a new job.”

  “Umm . . . fucking duh, bitch.” Zara laughed. “You’re mad depressed whenever you get done. But you need to either get a new one or keep the one you got because we are still going to Mexico for my birthday next year. I wanna go all out.” Zara clapped once after all, and again after out.

  As she was saying this, Emira was folding toilet paper in her hands. “I know, I know,” she said. But unlike Josefa, Shaunie, and Zara, Emira didn’t have vacation days or spring break. When she didn’t work, she didn’t get paid. Not only would her hourly paycheck be going toward hotels and Ubers (instead of her rent and SEPTA card), but she’d also be losing money every day she was gone, and Zara made her promise five days.

  “Let’s do this, then,” Zara said. “Let me know when and we’ll sit in front of the TV and fill out some job applications.”

  Emira pursed her lips. “Oh right, like tonight?”

  “Girl, shush.” Zara took her voice down again to say, “You need to buck up and be happy for Shaunie.”

  “Okay, okay.” She stood and flushed.

  As Emira washed her hands in the sink, the scent of Shaunie’s soap, the organic kind she got at a weekend farmer’s market, filtered up to Emira’s face. Behind her, Zara pulled out her phone and leaned her hip against Emira’s, which Emira had come to know as a very Zara way of making sure she hadn’t been too hard on her, and that it came from a good place.

  “See, this is why you need Instagram,” Zara said. “You get to be nice to people and you don’t even have to see them. Watch me . . .” Zara tilted the screen for Emira to see. In a monotone whisper, she quoted the words and symbols that she began to type. “‘OMG Shaunie. Slay bitch. Exclamation point, star emoji, black girl emoji, cash bag emoji.’” Zara showed Emira as she clicked the word Comment. Then she liked Shaunie’s photo—the one of her jumping in front of the Sony building—and a tiny heart flashed red. “Done,” Zara said. “See? We have the technology.”

  When Emira came out of the bathroom, she grabbed Shaunie’s forearm and said, “Let’s do a shot.” In the kitchen, next to the open window where basil and mint grew on the fire escape, Emira and Shaunie tipped two glasses back and made twisted faces as they sucked on lime wedges Josefa had cut up.

  “Shaunie, congratulations,” Emira said. She licked the last bit of salt off her hand. “For real. This is big and you deserve it.”

  Shaunie pouted in gratitude. She went in for a hug and said, “Thank you, Emira.”

  Emira never really understood hugging someone in the middle of a conversation, but this was Shaunie’s night so she squeezed her back hard. She smelled the creams in Shaunie’s hair, from products that had names like Beautifully Mixed and Half & Half. Shaunie stayed close after Emira backed away.

  “And between you and me, well . . .” Shaunie looked toward Josefa’s bedroom door. “You know what, I’m sure she already knows. But I’m probably gonna start looking for a one-bedroom or a studio.”

  “Oh, for real?” Emira was shocked, and then she was jealous, and then she wondered, Is that what we’re supposed to be doing right now? ’Cause if it is, I ain’t there.

  “I’ve obviously loved living here . . .” Shaunie kept her voice down despite the fact that Josefa could be heard speaking with her sister behind her closed bedroom door. “But yeah,” Shaunie said. “I just think it’s time. But, more importantly, you should take my room. I want it to go to someone who I can come back and see. Besides Josefa obviously.”

  Emira currently lived with a classmate from Temple (a graduate student who stayed at her boyfriend’s apartment from Wednesdays to Sundays) in a tiny fifth-floor walk-up where the rent was $760 each, soon to be $850 in 2016. She had a twin bed, and only one of the stove burners worked, but it was just fine for now. Shaunie’s apartment was better on all accounts. There was a coffee shop nearby, the bedroom windows opened up to sky and not concrete walls, and it wasn’t in Kensington, it was in Old City. But there were all these parts of Shaunie’s apartment that made it Shaunie’s apartment regardless of location, and those would all leave with her. The HBO her father paid for. The framed prints on the wall that were painfully commercial (bridges, sunflowers, a New York skyline). A spice rack that was alphabetized, and a flowery oven mitt that hooked onto the fridge. Shaunie had a stereo system in her bedroom and a record player in the living room. When Emira’s roommate wasn’t at her boyfriend’s, the two of them played music in the kitchen from a bowl they called the “phone bowl.” If they put it on top of the refrigerator, it seemed to echo best.

  “That’s a really amazing offer,” Emira said. “What’s your rent again?”

  “Oh, it’s not bad at all.” Shaunie shook her head. “Only $1150 each. Plus utilities. Total steal. Oh shit, Troy’s calling me. Babe, hi.”

  Zara emerged from Shaunie’s room holding a slinky red dress against her s
houlders. “I’m trying this on.” Shaunie waved a hand at her and said into her phone, “Boy, I’m not taking no for an answer.” Shaunie started undoing the buttons on her blouse in the living room and held the phone between her ear and her shoulder. “You know what? Imma send you a picture and then I want to hear you tell me no.”

  Emira finished the rest of her wine.

  “Zara, will you take a photo for me?” Shaunie walked into her own bedroom.

  “Girl, why you have to beg him like this?” Zara said. She threw the red dress onto Shaunie’s bed.

  “Just lemme change bras real quick, hang on.”

  Emira took a breath. She grabbed her phone from her purse, braced her hands against the wall, and crawled out the kitchen window. She hugged her elbows together on top of the fire escape and crossed her legs beneath her, careful not to kick the planted herbs. Kelley answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, are you okay? Let me get somewhere quiet, hang on.”

  It was cold outside, but she wasn’t about to climb back in for her jacket. In the receiver, Emira heard men’s voices in the background above Earth, Wind & Fire. This was the first time she’d ever called Kelley.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Hi, sorry,” she said. “Sorry, you sound busy over there.”

  “No, I’m just at the last event of this conference,” he said. “It’s just a bunch of tech guys drinking Long Island Iced Teas.”

  “Oh, gross. Okay.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “No, nothing.” Emira shifted so her socks covered as much of the grates below as they could. She leaned her back against the wall to Shaunie’s apartment and looked down to the sidewalk, where a deliveryman repeatedly buzzed an apartment door. “Sorry, I don’t really have anything interesting to say. I just had a really shitty day.”

  “No way,” Kelley said. “I did, too.”

  “Really?”

  “It was the worst. Tell me yours first, though.”

  Emira told him all about Mrs. Chamberlain, Spoons, and how she began her afternoon by showing a teenage clerk a picture of a dead fish. When she told him that they missed the Halloween party, that her days taking Briar to ballet were over, Kelley said, “Nooo! Not the Halloween party at Lulu’s!”