“Get out of here,” Nikkie said in a low voice.
“He was eventually found out,” Mrs. Randolph continued. “He used to boast to his schoolmates that his father headed the largest church in Harlem. Harlem was pretty mixed in the 1920s, so that didn’t raise any red flags, but when a group of his friends from school came down to Harlem for a visit, they decided to stop by the church. When they saw that all-black congregation, they couldn’t wait to get back to the university and tell what they knew. Powell was asked to leave the fraternity, he voluntarily moved from the all-white dorm into an integrated dorm, and, oh yeah, his girlfriend dropped him.”
“Dag!” was all Nikkie could say.
“And then there was Anatole Broyard. He was the book reviewer for the New York Times in the seventies and eighties.
He started passing when he was in his late twenties, I think,
and he went to his grave passing. Even his children—”
“His children? He had children?” Nikkie broke in.
Mrs. Randolph nodded. “He married a white woman and had two kids. Even they didn’t know until ten days before he died of prostate cancer. And even then it was their mother who told them.”
“So they didn’t look like they had black blood?” Nikkie wondered out loud.
“I’ve never seen pictures of them, but I guess not. Like I said, they didn’t know.” Mrs. Randolph paused and took a good look at Nikkie. “Like you, neither Powell nor Broyard were biracial; and like you, they made a decision to pass. With Powell, it was a teenage lark; on the other hand, Broyard went to his death passing.”
“And no one outted him in that whole time?” Nikkie asked in an amazed tone.
Mrs. Randolph seemed irritated by the question. “With Powell, it seemed, the black students at Colgate knew but never outted him. It was the white students who eventually brought his charade to a halt. With Broyard, well, I think he was more like you, harder to detect. Usually African-Americans can tell right off, or after a little scrutiny, when someone is passing, but Broyard looked so white that even African-Americans had a hard time telling. There were some who knew, but most, I believe, didn’t. I think those that did only knew because they were acquainted with him before he started passing. But that’s not exactly the point I was trying to make.”
“What was your point?”
Mrs. Randolph shook her head. “Come on, you know.”
Nikkie sighed and stood up. “I don’t know. I don’t know, okay,” she said as she paced the floor. “I only intended for it to be until I got the job, but then I realized that getting the job wasn’t the only thing. Remember what you told me about the African-Americans being teamed with superstars and therefore never really making their own mark? Well, look at Jenice. Isn’t that what just happened to her? Being teamed with the illustrious Hal Richardson?” Nikkie stopped and faced Mrs. Randolph. “Well, I don’t want that to happen to me!
“And quiet as it’s kept,” she continued, “there are people who talk behind Jenice’s back and say she only got the job because she’s black. I wouldn’t want that said about me.”
Mrs. Randolph’s eyes narrowed into a squint. “You know what? I’m not your mother, but let me tell you right now if I find out that you’re one of the people who are saying that shit about Jenice, I will slap you silly.”
Nikkie put her hands up in front of her in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not saying it, but like I said, I can’t defend her against it because it’s true. Isn’t it?”
Mrs. Randolph shook her head. “Nikkie, do you actually think that you’re more qualified for this job than Jenice?”
“Well, I don’t know, but—”
“Well, you’re not,” Mrs. Randolph snapped. “And what you’re talking about is quotas, or set-asides, as they used to be called. But look around the office. African-Americans make up thirteen percent of the U.S. population, but of the seventy-five PR specialists here, only four are African-American. Now, why is that? Because people tend to hire people whom they perceive to be most like them. When Paxon and Green set aside trainee positions specifically for African-Americans, they’re not hiring people who aren’t qualified to be trainees; to their credit, they’re just making sure they don’t inadvertently discriminate against them. But all trainees pretty much have the same qualifications.”
Nikkie plopped back down in her chair. “Yeah, but it’s the label, I guess. It’s just the label. An affirmative action hire. People just automatically assume she’s not as qualified.”
“Sticks and stones, I guess. And what doesn’t kill us, will make us stronger.” Mrs. Randolph shrugged. “I can’t think of any more clichés that fit, not that those did so well. The bottom line is there’s nothing I can say about it. You’re right. The label stinks. But such is life.” She smiled. “So, okay, I did think of another cliché.”
Both women laughed.
“Look, I really don’t think you have to worry about Jenice outing you.” Mrs. Randolph started adding more items to the box, a signal that the meeting was over. “Black people tend not to out people who they know for a fact are passing, and she’d be crazy to out you when she only suspects.”
Nikkie nodded dismally. “I only hope you’re right.”
Nikkie flipped through the pages of the New York Post during the subway trip uptown to look at the apartment she hoped she’d be moving into. There it was on the infamous Page Six, a picture of Cindy. It wasn’t the first newspaper photo she’d seen of the young woman since moving to New York, and like most of the others, she was pictured at a club—champagne glass in hand—perfectly tanned and perfectly posed as she gave that delicious half-smile to the camera.
Nikkie read the caption beneath the photo: Manhattan socialite and real estate heiress Cindy Statler partied the night away at New York’s newest hot spot, Dalliance. As usual, she was the last to leave.
Nikkie sighed as she closed the paper. She hadn’t known that Cindy was a minor celebrity when they first met. That night with Cindy and her friends had been one of the best in her life, but it would have been so much better if the paparazzi had been there to snap a picture of her dancing her ass off with one of the wildest party girls in Manhattan. What she wouldn’t give to have another night like that night.
She had considered looking Cindy up once she arrived back in New York, but her pride wouldn’t let her. The girl had her number and had promised to call and hadn’t. She wasn’t going to force herself where she wasn’t wanted. Still, it would be nice if they accidentally ran into each other. She’d have to see if she could arrange to do just that once she was settled into her new place.
“I just want you to know I know,” a raspy voice broke into her thoughts.
Startled, Nikkie looked at the old African-American woman sitting next to her. The woman had gotten on two stops before, and had sat down without saying anything. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “You know what?”
“You know what I know,” the woman answered with a smug look while pulling her beat-up black leather pocketbook farther up her ample lap. “You know what I know.” And as if to make sure to clear up any misconceptions, the woman rubbed her hand over her almond-colored skin. “You know what I know,” she repeated again.
Nikkie’s mouth dropped open, causing the woman to give a little laugh. She then took a book out of her pocketbook and
focused her attention on the written word, ignoring Nikkie’s distress.
When the train pulled into the next stop, Nikkie quickly stood up and got off, looking neither left nor right. It was pure coincidence that it was the Seventy-second and Broadway station, only a couple of blocks away from her destination. Nikkie tried to slow her breathing as she walked slowly up the stairs and into the daylight. She didn’t know why she was so upset. It wasn’t the first time an African-American had approached her to say that they realized she was black. But it was the first time since . . . well, since she started passing.
Chapter Ten
Sarah, what a
re you doing?”
Nicole’s roommate looked up from the sink where she was depositing the contents of a pot into the garbage disposal. “I’m throwing out the broccoli you had on the stove.”
“But why?” Nicole asked as she placed her grocery bag on the kitchen table.
“I was cleaning up the kitchen and opened the pot,” Sarah said as she started running tap water. “I saw it was really overcooked and knew you didn’t want it. It was downright mushy. Yech. I figured you didn’t have time to throw it out before you rushed out.” She gave Nicole an accusing look as she wiped the pot clean. “So what did you buy at the store?”
“Nothing,” Nikkie said, trying to hide her frustration. She’d been looking forward to having broccoli with her steak and Rice-A-Roni, and had only run out to the store to buy butter to put on her vegetables.
Sarah took another look at the grocery bag, shrugged her shoulders, and walked out of the kitchen.
It was bad enough Nikkie had to buy a whole set of pots on her own, since her new roommate was Jewish and wouldn’t let anything with pork be cooked in her pots and pans, but since moving in, Nikkie hadn’t been able to fix herself a decent meal.
It hadn’t taken Nikki long to find out that Sarah, and all of her other white friends, steamed their vegetables, and just barely did that. They seemed to like their veggies to crunch when they chewed them. And the idea of putting any kind of grease or oil into the vegetables was also foreign to them.
It was a white thing, Nikkie figured, so she tried to get used to it. But, God, she thought, what I wouldn’t give for some ham hocks, greasy collard greens, and rice smothered with gravy. She’d been excited when Susan suggested they go to Harlem one night for dinner, but instead of going to a soul food restaurant, her coworker insisted on dining at some hoity-toity restaurant that had just opened on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. Another meal with almost raw vegetables and bland rice. At least the spareribs she ordered were meaty and succulent, but the iced tea was, of course, unsweetened. And no matter how much sugar you add after the fact, iced tea never tastes as sweet as it does when the sugar is added right after it’s finished brewing.
She walked into the living room and found Sarah in front of the television watching Laguna Beach, her favorite show, at least since they took The OC off the air. How the hell she could watch crap like that and then burst into laughter when she found Nikkie watching America’s Next Top Model, Nikkie couldn’t understand. But still, Nikkie had quickly switched the channel and said she’d been daydreaming and didn’t even realize what was on the television. The same thing with the radio. Nikkie was a hip-hop fiend, but she didn’t feel comfortable listening to HOT 97, which only played rap and hip-hop. Instead, she listened to Z100, which played a mixture of rock and rap. And she never got a chance to listen to “The Wendy Williams Experience” on WBLS anymore, even though she’d been an avid fan of the celebrity gossip queen back in Detroit. It wasn’t that there weren’t any white folks who liked America’s Next Top Model, HOT 97, or “The Wendy Williams Experience,” but since the shows had a predominantly black audience, she couldn’t risk being a fan, just in case it made people wonder. The hardest part was probably not being able to watch her favorite show, Girlfriends, anymore—and syndicated reruns of Friends was a poor replacement.
Nikkie walked into her bedroom and flopped onto the couch. “This shit is getting too hard,” she said out loud to nobody as she began to file her nails.
It was bad enough when she had to play the role at work; well, not so bad, it was actually kind of fun—kind of like playing a role in a movie. But now that she had moved in with Sarah, she felt like she was in a never-ending bad reality show. She couldn’t act black at work, and now that she had a white roommate—and a cousin of one of her coworkers—she couldn’t even be black in the privacy of her home. She thought back to her conversation with Mrs. Randolph. When does it end, she wondered, when would she be able to resume her life? Or would she ever? She pushed the last question out of her mind. Of course she’d eventually be able to stop passing for white. Right now pretending to be white was just a means to an end. Once she reached the end, everything would go back to normal. The problem was, she couldn’t decide what end she was looking forward to achieving. The thought depressed her. Sorely.
She was so deep in thought she actually jumped when she heard the knock on her bedroom door.
“Hey, Nikkie, you wanna go to a club tonight?” Sarah asked through the closed door. Nikkie got up and let the young woman inside the room. “I don’t know. What club? Who else is going?” “That new club in the Village, Cachet. They have jeans
night every Wednesday.”
“Who else is going?” Nikkie asked again.
Sarah shrugged. “Me and you, if you wanna go. You’ve been here almost a month and we’ve never gone out together. I thought if you weren’t doing anything, maybe we’d try out the club. You interested?”
“Um, yeah, that might be nice. What time you wanna leave?”
“I figure about nine—things are going to start early, since it’s a weeknight and most people are going to have to work in the morning. We can hop right on the subway and be there in about a half hour.”
“Cool.”
Nikkie posed in one position and then another in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She looked good, she knew she did. She wore a silk champagne-colored split sleeve that had a high waistline and a built-in bra that lifted her ample cleavage to wonderful heights. And the new House of Dereon jeans she’d bought only a few days before hugged her body just right. She turned with her back to the mirror again and stretched her neck to look over her shoulder at her posterior. Yeah, her ass looked good in the jeans. She may be thin, but she always did have a shapely and full butt.
“How do I look?” she said when she entered the living room. She did a slow twirl in front of Sarah, awaiting the compliment she knew was sure to come.
“You look good. You ready?” Sarah said as she picked up her pocketbook.
“Um, yeah.” Nikkie paused, suddenly insecure. “What do you think?” She presented her back to her roommate. “Does my butt look good in these jeans?”
“Well—”
Nikkie swung back around. “What?”
“Well, it does make your butt look kinda big,” Sarah said diplomatically.
“Huh?” Nikkie said in a confused voice.
“It might not be the jeans. They’re probably fine. But, well, you know you’re kind of, well, overly endowed back there. Not that it looks gross or anything, but you do need to be careful of what kind of jeans you wear. But then we all do, don’t we?” she added quickly. “What about me? Do these jeans make my butt look too big?” She turned around to give Nikkie a good view.
“No, you look nice and small,” Nikkie said, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice.
“Good.” Sarah turned back around with a smile. “My boyfriend says it’s one of my best features.”
Nikkie shook her head as they walked out the door. These white folks. I’m never going to get used to them.
Chapter Eleven
The club was packed—people were dancing, drinking, and making goo-goo eyes at each other. Just the kind of atmosphere that Nikkie liked. She didn’t like the fact that it was so crowded that she wasn’t going to be able to find a table, but she could get used to it. Hopefully, she’d spend the evening dancing her ass off. She inwardly laughed at her ironic thought.
Sarah had abandoned her shortly after they arrived when she “spotted some friends from work.” So much for saying she wanted to hang out with her new roommate. She didn’t offer to make any introductions, she just walked off.
Nikkie squeezed into a position at the bar and managed to catch the eye of the bartender, ordered a cosmopolitan, and then made her way around the place. She’d circled the place twice when she heard someone call her name. Someone from the VIP section.
“Oh, my God,” she said, almost dropping her drink
. There in front of her sat Cindy and Rachel, waving her over. She hadn’t expected to run into anyone she knew at the place, but especially not them. Cachet was nice, but was nowhere near as posh as Sangria, where she’d first met them.
“How are you guys doing? Where’s Tina?” she said as she sat down with them.
Cindy simply shrugged and made a face, but Rachel answered. “She couldn’t make it tonight. It’s a long story. But how are you doing?”
“I’m doing fine, thanks. I can’t believe I ran into the two of you here. I mean”—Nikkie paused—“I mean, I wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of club.”
“It’s really not, but we had to come,” Cindy said dryly. “You know how it is. The owner has a friend, who has a friend, who is a friend of mine, and they insisted we make it tonight.”
Rachel must have noticed the puzzled look on Nikkie’s face. “Club owners want people like Cindy and me—well, especially Cindy—to come out to their clubs for bragging rights. We get in for free, of course, and all of our drinks . . .”
“And drugs,” Cindy broke in with a giggle.
Rachel shot her a dirty look and continued, “. . . are on the house.”
Nikkie’s eyebrows furrowed. “But we—I mean, you—paid for the drinks at the Sangria.”
Rachel jerked her head back. “What? No, we didn’t.”
“Humph! No, we most certainly did not.” Cindy’s indignation was evident in her voice and on her face. “We wouldn’t have been there if we had to pay for anything.”
“But what are you doing in New York?” Rachel asked. “Another job interview? Oh no, don’t tell me . . . you got the job?”
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