Such a Fun Age

by Kiley Reid

  Emira believed this light take was the consensus because of a few factors. First of all, no one got hurt. Briar was adorable and agreeable and bored with the situation, and Emira’s quick retorts often masked her fear. This was a video about racism that you could watch without seeing any blood or ruining the rest of your day. Emira couldn’t help but think of how the Internet would react if they knew she and Kelley were dating . . . had dated. (Emira ignored the four calls Kelley placed to her cell in the last two days. Zara answered his last attempt with, “Okay, so we’ve calmed down? But we aren’t ready to speak to you yet. Please respect our transition.”)

  Kelley wasn’t the only one calling. All weekend, Emira kept her phone on the charger because it buzzed every hour with requests for interviews and one appearance on a talk show called The Real. But Emira answered every call with the scripted phrases that Mrs. Chamberlain left her with. “You tell everyone that you don’t have a comment at this time, and that’s all you have to say at the moment,” she said. “We can turn this around, I promise you. We’ll go in, clear up anything that may have been misconstrued, and you’ll be out of the spotlight as fast as you were in it.”

  As it happened, Kelley was correct about the notoriety this video would bring, but on a much smaller scale than he most likely presumed. In the two days following the video, Emira received three voice mails offering employment. One was from an affluent black family in the city seeking a nanny for their three boys. One was from an online publication asking her to do a three-piece series on protecting the rights of caretakers in Philadelphia. And one was from her current employer, the Green Party office. Emira’s Tuesday and Thursday supervisor, a woman named Beverly, phoned her cell three times and left two messages: “Let’s talk about getting you in here more, okay?” After the ream of nice paper she’d spent her money on and the cover letters she’d spent her evenings writing, Emira was annoyed, rather than delighted, by the fact that a viral video seemed to make her more qualified than reference letters and a bachelor’s degree. But that didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t need it. Emira’s parents—who seemed most concerned with her outfit in the video—panicked at the assumption that she was both jobless and coatless. “Mom, it was back in September,” Emira explained. “And I do have a job. I’m a nanny.”

  The Thanksgiving invitation didn’t make her feel like family. What did was receiving a contract and 1095 tax form from Mrs. Chamberlain. In 2016, though Emira would technically be making less money per hour because of taxes, she’d still be making more money than she ever had in her life, almost $32K a year. She wouldn’t be moving into Shaunie’s old room, but if she was ever stopped by a security guard again, Emira could say she was a nanny without stumbling over a lie. She’d have a valid excuse not to go out because she’d be working twenty-four-hour shifts. And for Briar’s future preschool, her swimming classes at the YMCA, and fall ballet at Little Lulu’s, Emira’s name and number would be listed at the top of Briar’s emergency contact list.

  So on the brink of a new career and Internet persona, it seemed incredible, far-fetched, and slightly amusing when Zara returned with Emira’s backpack, closed the door behind her, and whispered, “So, we got a problem.” Zara dropped the backpack to the floor and pressed her lips together. She held her hands in prayer and placed her index fingers against her mouth.

  Emira reached for her backpack and said, “I’m sure it just fell to the bottom.”

  But Zara didn’t seem to hear her. With her right hand, Zara made a fist and pumped it in a small circle in the air. After she pressed her knuckles to her mouth she whispered, “Mira, I’m not playin’. Look at me.” Zara took a breath and said, “You can’t work here no more.”

  Emira laughed and stood with her edges toothbrush in her hand. She let her backpack fall against her ankles and leaned a hip against the counter. “Excuse me?”

  “You need to listen to me right now.”

  “I am, what is wrong with you?”

  “So I’m downstairs . . . kneeling down to get your heavy-ass backpack, and I hear your boss go into the bathroom.” Zara whispered this as she pointed down toward the floor, where just below them was the guest bathroom. “I’m getting your shit, and then I hear that woman ask if she’d done the right thing.” Zara put aggressive air quotes over the right thing. “And then that Uncle Tom Tamra woman told her, ‘one hundred percent,’ and that this video is the best thing to ever happen to you.”

  Emira held the toothbrush in both hands and waved her thumb four times across the white and blue bristles. She set it down on the counter and it made a tiny click. “Okay, no . . . hold up.” She brought her own voice down to match. “She probably means this news thing. Like—this video we’re about to shoot.” But as she said it, Emira realized that if that was what Mrs. Chamberlain meant, then that hurt all on its own. Emira was constantly pointing out the instability of her current situation, specifically so that other people didn’t have to. The implications of Zara’s allegation took their time to be hardened in her mind, and for the moment, all Emira could think was, Mrs. Chamberlain was talking shit about me? I thought we had a deal.

  Zara shook her head and held up a pointer finger. “Nuh-uh, girl. You said yes to this news thing. You didn’t say yes to the grocery store shit. That lady did something. Mira . . .” Zara trailed off as she stared into Emira’s face. “That lady leaked your tape.”

  “Okay, no . . .” Emira was saying no to this accusation, but mostly she was saying no to the idea of having another conversation in which she had to examine who loved her least: Kelley or Mrs. Chamberlain. She crossed one arm and said, “Z, there’s no way. How would she even get it?”

  “I don’t know,” Zara said. “Do you leave your phone out?”

  “Sure, but it’s not like she has my code.”

  “Do you bring your laptop here?”

  “I don’t bring my laptop anywhere.”

  “Okay, do you check your email on her laptop?” Zara pointed to the bathroom door. “Or the big-ass computer out there in the kitchen?”

  Emira placed one hand against her opposite shoulder. For about eight seconds, her face stiffened into a position of almost remembering a simple word she’d somehow forgotten midconversation. Her mind rounded to three days prior, the day she turned twenty-six, and how short she was with Mrs. Chamberlain in her kitchen. She’d logged into her Gmail to send herself an address, but she didn’t remember logging out. She did remember peeking at the time on her phone to speed up the painfully practiced conversation that she didn’t allow Mrs. Chamberlain to have. And she’d taken Mrs. Chamberlain’s money and returned six hours later to drop off her child happy, sticky, and loved. Emira considered the fact that because she hadn’t let Mrs. Chamberlain endorse or even entertain a breakup with Kelley, that the mother of two had potentially done this legwork on her own. But weren’t they cool now? Wasn’t that why Mrs. Chamberlain had hired her as a nanny? But wait, shit . . . was this the reason she’d hired her as a nanny? Emira breathed out through her nose. She suddenly remembered the first time she stayed late to have a drink with Mrs. Chamberlain. The expensive wine she’d received for free. She’d asked if Mrs. Chamberlain had an event coming up. Mrs. Chamberlain had winked and said, “When my book comes out, I will.”

  Emira looked up at Zara and whispered, “Fuck.”

  “Okay, we can talk about this later? But your understanding of technology is truly problematic.”

  “You told me that Kelley did it!” Emira shouted in a whisper. She reached forward and shoved Zara’s shoulder harder than she meant to. “What the fuck was I supposed to think?”

  Zara dramatically brought her body back to center. “Okay, listen, I fucked up.” She held both her pointer fingers up as she explained. “I had way too many mojitos and maybe I jumped to things, but I was honestly just trying to protect you. And when you get a new man or go back to Kelley or whatever I swear to God
I’ll chill out but—”

  “Shhh shh, it’s fine it’s fine.” Emira stopped her. Not only was Zara getting too loud but the sound of Kelley’s name still stung. “Are you sure that’s what she meant?”

  “Deadass?” Zara looked up to the ceiling as if she were swearing to both Emira and to God. “That is what I heard her say, and that is how I heard her say it.”

  Emira and Zara stood still in the bright white bathroom. Zara bit her lip and said, “Girl, you can’t work here.” Emira raised her shoulders and—knowing it had all been too good to be true—released them and said, “I know.”

  “Okay, fuck it then,” Zara said. She began putting Emira’s makeup back into her travel bag. “Let’s just leave. You don’t owe her shit.” A pencil shaving dropped out from an eye pencil sharpener, which Zara quickly scooped into the trash. It was as if she were trying to conceal the fact that she and Emira were ever there.

  “Wait. Zara, stop.” Emira gripped her friend’s forearm. Her pulse quickened as the consequences jelled in her mind. “I won’t have a job,” she said. “It’s not like I can put in my two weeks’ notice. I can’t not have a job.”

  Zara sucked her top lip. “Can you live off your typing job?”

  “If I could do that, do you think I’d have this one?”

  Zara went quiet in thought. She reached up and tapped her thumb to her mouth. “Okay. Then let’s get you another job right quick.”

  “What?”

  “We gettin’ you a temp job,” Zara decided. “It don’t have to be perfect. It just needs to work right now. So who called you this weekend? You better not have told any of them no.”

  “I didn’t,” Emira said. Suddenly she was back to where she started. The idea of scouring the Internet and checking Craigslist and seeing disgusting children on the street and thinking, Could I learn to love you? put a twist inside her chest that brought her shoulders forward. Emira took a deep breath. “Okay, umm . . . this family called and said they’d take me as a nanny.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Zara wagged her pointer finger. “We ain’t doin’ this mammy shit no more. Next.”

  “There were stupid offers for essays that I could never write,” Emira said. “And then my boss at the Green Party said she’d take me on for more hours.”

  “Your typing boss?”

  “Yeah, but it’d be as a receptionist.”

  “Okay . . . ? Can you work there?”

  Emira said, “Yes . . . ?” It would be boring but she could do it. And in that moment, what seemed like the biggest selling point was the fact that she wouldn’t have to buy new clothes because everyone who worked there always wore jeans. “I mean, yeah, they’re chill over there.”

  “Okay, perfect, that’s all we need,” Zara said. “It doesn’t have to be forever. How much will they give you?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  Outside in the hallway, Laney called, “Five minutes to places, ladies!”

  Zara said, “Get them on the phone.”

  Emira bent down to her backpack and retrieved her phone. At this point it was a relief to have someone telling her what to do. She stayed seated on the toilet as she tapped Beverly’s office number, and the line began to ring as Zara continued to pack her makeup. “Don’t say yes yet. Just ask for details.” Zara zipped up Emira’s makeup bag and threw it down to her backpack. “Just be cool,” she told Emira. “We got this, don’t stress.”

  On the fifth ring, she answered.

  “Hi, Beverly? It’s Emira.” Emira tried to sound as natural as possible while whispering in the echoing space. “I got your message and I just wanted to talk about . . . your offer?”

  Beverly explained that she just got into the office, and apologized if she sounded out of breath. She went on about how she had no idea what Emira had gone through, that it might be perfect timing, that the current front desk person would be going back to school and that they’d love to have her. Then Laney knocked on the door.

  “Finishing touches in there?” she called.

  Zara bolted for the doorknob. She stuck her face in the crack between the door and the wall and grinned, “Yep! Just one more minute!” before she closed it once again.

  “Can you hang for two seconds?” Emira asked. She clicked her phone on mute. “They’ll give me sixteen dollars an hour for thirty-five hours a week.”

  “Ooohh, nuh-uh nuh-uh.” Zara shook her head and pulled out her own phone. “They fina do that so they don’t have to give you benefits.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go’n and ask her.”

  Emira’s breath quickened within her rib cage as she clicked back into the call. “Sorry, Beverly?” she said. “Does that mean I wouldn’t have health insurance?” Emira listened to Beverly confirm that it wouldn’t. She looked back at Zara and mouthed, Shit.

  “Okay, we gon’ negotiate right now,” Zara whispered. She knelt down in front of Emira and began to type furiously into her phone’s calculator. “Tell her . . .” Zara held a hand up in the air as she formed her words. “Tell her that you’re very interested in the position, and that you’d like to talk about including health coverage.”

  Emira slowly spoke these exact words into her cell’s receiver.

  “And,” Zara whispered as she typed, “that you’re willing to go down in rate.”

  Emira wanted to ask her friend, Am I? Am I willing to go down in rate? She currently made sixteen dollars an hour. And Briar wouldn’t be there, so honestly, what was the point? Emira realized then that she never would have actually worked at Body World Fitness as a childcare manager, even if they had offered the position to her. She would have stayed with Briar for as long as the Chamberlains would have her. But Mrs. Chamberlain had finally gone too far and it was no longer a private matter. Emira heard Mrs. Chamberlain in the hallway say, “Are they almost done?” Emira repeated Zara’s words verbatim. “I’m also willing to go down in rate.”

  In Emira’s ear Beverly said, “Alright, let’s chat about it . . . where could you meet us at?”

  “Ummm . . .” Emira looked to Zara. “Where could I meet you at?”

  Zara looked back down into her phone. “So if you go down to fourteen an hour,” she whispered, “it’s the same offer of 29K but with the addition of benefits.”

  “Okay, could you guys do . . .” Emira knew that her words did not match the professionalism of the situation, but she pushed past her novice and embarrassment and threw out the number. “Fourteen an hour?”

  “Emira, hang on,” Beverly said. Emira heard voices in the background before Beverly returned. “They’re telling me that we can do thirteen an hour if we throw in benefits. I know that’s rough, but if you stay on for six months, I’m sure I can get you more.”

  From the way she said this, Emira could gather that Beverly genuinely wanted her for the job, and that she’d offer more if she could. Emira’s professionalism had dropped into necessity, and it was a strange relief to see that Beverly’s had too. Emira covered the phone and said, “They can only do thirteen.”

  Zara twisted her lips. “Does that include dental?”

  Emira winced. “That doesn’t include dental, does it?” She listened to Beverly verify that it didn’t, and shook her head at Zara. “How much is that?” Emira whispered.

  Zara flipped the phone around and showed her the number $27,040: a few hundred dollars less than she was making now. Zara nodded and said, “Tell her yes.” Emira hesitated and Zara reached out her hand. “Mira? It’s just for now,” she said. “This is a real-ass job. You want this on your résumé.” Zara pointed to the phone at Emira’s ear. “You don’t want this.” She pointed to the door behind her and shook her head. There was a fierce desperation in Zara’s eyes, and it told Emira that her friend was worried for her, and that she had been for some time.

  Just then, Mrs. Chamberlain knocked and sai
d, “Hello?”

  Into her phone, Emira said, “I’ll take it.”

  As Zara zipped up Emira’s backpack, Emira bent down onto her knees next to the toilet and cupped her hand around the mouthpiece (“Okay, thank you so much, Beverly . . . okay, thank you!”). The second she clicked Off and stood up straight, Zara opened the door and shielded herself behind it.

  “You guys okay?” Mrs. Chamberlain peeked in the bathroom. “Oh, Emira. You look so pretty. We gotta hustle downstairs because they’re about ready. You okay?”

  Emira took a breath and said, “I’m great.”

  Laney appeared next to Mrs. Chamberlain, clapped in the space below her chin, and sang, “Places!”

  Laney turned to go back downstairs, and when she did, Mrs. Chamberlain looked at Emira with a wide-eyed expression that said, God, she’s a lot, am I right? The quickness of it was so sharp and pointed, and the ease of it revealed years of practice. Emira swallowed as Mrs. Chamberlain playfully rolled her eyes before she followed Laney downstairs.

  Zara slowly pushed the bathroom door closed once again to reveal a face of urgency. “If we gonna go? We gotta go right now.”

  But Mrs. Chamberlain’s bite-sized dig at Laney set off something in Emira’s blood and joints, and as she looked back into the mirror, Emira said, “No.” She twisted her head from side to side to make sure her foundation blended properly across the arc of her jawline. She threw her hair behind her shoulders and checked the whiteness of her teeth. “I’m still gonna do it.”

  “Say what?!”

  “Listen to me.” Emira turned to her. “I’m doin’ this thing, okay? But as soon as I give you a look, I want you to make a scene.”

  Zara shook her head in reluctance, obligation, and stoic confirmation. “Mira, don’t play with me ’cause you know I’ll start some shit.”