The Other Black Girl

by Zakiya Dalila Harris

  “Oh yeah,” Nella murmured, as her eyes locked on the open blue jar Hazel was holding. “That’s the stuff that kind of smells like Brown Buttah.”

  “Yep. I always like to prepare my scalp before I put scarves on,” Hazel explained. “More moisture to lock in. You’ve been using the stuff I gave you, right, Nell?”

  “Of course I have.”

  The lie didn’t get past Malaika, who shot her an inquiring look. “Well, it smells incredible,” she said, reaching for it. “Can I see the label? Nella didn’t tell me she found something new.”

  Kiara’s eyes snapped up from her magazine and locked on Malaika, then on Nella, but she didn’t say a word.

  A beat passed. Finally, Hazel picked up the jar and handed it over. “Sure. Only thing is, there’s no label to see.”

  “Are you one of those people who loves to read labels, Malaika?” asked Ebonee.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Kiara does that, too. I practically have to drag her out of the grocery store; it can get so bad sometimes. We’re roommates,” Ebonee explained.

  “Hey,” said Kiara, putting her magazine down in protest. “I like to know what I’m putting in my body. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “That’s fair,” said Nella. “Hey—kind of random, but do you get Harper’s on the regular? I’ve been thinking of getting a subscription.”

  Kiara shook her head. “Whole Foods checkout aisle. I’ve thought about it, too, because that’s what my creative writing teacher suggested to do during my last semester, but it’s too rich for my blood. Besides, I already get the New Yorker, New York magazine, the Atlantic—” She paused, staring at the fingers upon which she’d been ticking off her subscriptions as she tried to remember the others. “There are a couple more. But I can’t remember which. Most were gifts from family.”

  “I hear that. That stuff adds up,” said Nella. “I work in book publishing and I’ve been blessed enough to get a discount on Publishers Weekly. One of the many perks to compensate for the low pay,” she added, rolling her eyes.

  “Hey—the pay could be worse,” said Hazel, rubbing a bit more grease on a part she’d just created. “The magazine I was working at before paid me a tiny bit less to do almost twice as much.”

  “You were in Boston, though, weren’t you? Cost of living is different there versus here.”

  “Not necessarily better, though.”

  “Which publishing house do you work at?” asked Kiara, putting the magazine down at her feet.

  “I’m at Wagner,” Nella said, at exactly the same time that Hazel said, “We work together.”

  “Ohhhh,” said Kiara, nodding slowly as she gestured for Ebonee to pass the small ramekin of Wheat Thins. “Makes sense. God, they publish the best books there. You must love it. And Richard Wagner is, like, a god.”

  “He’s pretty decent.”

  Malaika raised an eyebrow. “Really? Weren’t you just telling me that—”

  “You must be brilliant,” Ebonee interjected, staring at Nella. “It’s harder than hard to get a job there, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Even just getting an internship seems harder than getting Lauryn Hill to show up on time,” Kiara agreed, slipping a cracker in her mouth. “Congratulations! That’s a pretty big deal. You should be proud.”

  “Thanks.” Nella grinned. A tide of pride started to roll over her as she resisted telling them what Richard had said: I see how hard you’ve been working. We value you. “I’ve been there for more than two years now, and it seems like I may be getting a little more responsibility soon. Maybe even editing my own book!”

  Nella felt a light tug on one of her strands of hair, but when she looked up, Hazel’s hands were in her lap, not on Nella’s head. “So, um, what do you do guys do? If you don’t mind me asking, of course,” she added quickly, remembering that she was at a natural hair party, not a networking event.

  “It’s all good. I just finished my bachelor’s in English,” said Kiara. She did seem young, not just because of her baby face, but because she appeared to have spent maybe forty-five minutes in front of the mirror getting ready, judging by the heaps of eyeliner encircling her top and bottom lashes, her foundation, and her perfectly done matte lips. “But I’m looking at jobs right now. That’s how I met Hazel.”

  “Same,” said Ebonee, gesturing to have the Wheat Thins back. “We went to NYU together, although I graduated a couple of years ago. I’ve been interning at the Paris Review the past year.”

  “But we’re almost positive they’re going to offer her a full-time assistant position before the year ends,” Hazel boasted. “Sorry, I can’t help but brag, Eb—you’re a badass.”

  “Whoa, okay. Tons of literary people here,” observed Malaika lightly. “Nell, aren’t you always telling me how white the literary world is?”

  Nella raised an eyebrow. She’d been thinking the same thing. “Very white,” she said stiffly. “It would be great to have you guys in this world, too.”

  “So great,” Hazel agreed. “The two of us can only do so much.”

  “Well, I’m not into books or writing or any of that,” Juanita said proudly. “I’m working on getting my hair technician degree.”

  “Nice!” Malaika looked down once again at the jar she’d been handed. “Since you know hair—tell me what the deal is with that goop Hazel’s slathering into Nella’s hair. Is it homemade or something? Is that why there isn’t a label?”

  “That’s exactly why,” Juanita said. “And hey, I can do your hair next, after I finish with Eb. Any idea of what you want to have done tonight?”

  Malaika spun the jar around in her hand, searching for answers she wouldn’t be able to find on unlabeled plastic. “Cool! Thanks, but no thanks to the grease. Maybe some braids, since it is starting to get cold out…”

  “ ’Nita does a fierce protective style,” said Ebonee.

  “I do, it’s true.”

  Nella heard a mutter of assent come from above the back of her head, followed by, “And the Smooth’d Out really locks the moisture in, too. I recommend it.”

  Malaika shrugged, handed the jar back. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m gonna pass.”

  “How come?” asked Juanita.

  “I’m not too big on using hair products that don’t have their ingredients listed. Any products, really—but especially hair products.”

  “Yeah, Malaika is really obsessive about those kinds of things.”

  Hazel started wrapping the fabric around Nella’s head when she said this, and she didn’t have to look up at her friend’s face to know she was giving her That Look again. Malaika had a point about only using hair products she trusted. Still, Nella couldn’t muster the courage to agree with her.

  Juanita tutted as Ebonee leaned over to examine Malaika’s hair. “That must be a pretty hard rule to live by. Does that mean you shop at, like… Target?”

  Nearly everyone in the room visibly shuddered. “SheaMoisture really fucked up my hair,” Kiara said. “Fucked up all my ends. I ended up quitting Target entirely.”

  “Hey, I used SheaMoisture for years before I started using Brown Buttah,” Nella finally mustered. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Look, everyone’s hair is different. I just know mine is sensitive,” Malaika said coolly. “When I bought some unlabeled product once at a natural hair care fair in the Bronx a few years ago, that fucked up my hair and that was it for me. I knew I’d never to do that again. But I can trust what’s in my own homemade hair grease.” She turned to Hazel. “Unless you can tell me what’s in yours? Maybe then I’d change my mind.”

  The pieces of the scarf tightened around Nella’s hairline—too tight. But she didn’t say anything. “It’s a secret recipe,” Hazel said, grinning. “A friend of a friend of a friend’s mom made it, and she hasn’t told anybody what’s in it. Ever. Sorry.”

  Malaika handed the jar back. “No worries.” She still seemed as calm and as light as summer rain, but Nell
a sensed a thunderstorm brewing under her eyes after that exchange. “Nell—that scarf looks incredible on you.”

  “Yeah?”

  Kiara put down her magazine. “It does look dope. You have a great-shaped face for scarves.”

  “Really? I’ve never worn one,” said Nella, feeling—against all of her smarter instincts—flattered by the compliment. “Never for fashion, anyway. Just for bed.”

  “Let me see?”

  Nella turned around so Hazel could take a look at her work. She nodded. “You should wear them all the time,” she said. “And just think, you’re deep-conditioning right at this very minute. ’Nita, you got a hand mirror?”

  “Ah.” Juanita punched her thigh. “I knew I forgot something. I think I left it in the car. Can I get it when I’m done with Ebonee?”

  “I can take a photo for now,” Malaika said, reaching into her purse to grab her phone. But Nella stopped her before she could get it.

  “No,” she said, a bit curtly, keeping her eyes on Malaika’s long enough to spark cognizance. “I actually have to use the bathroom, so can I just use the mirror in there?”

  “Definitely. It’s upstairs on the left,” said Hazel, pointing at the doorway through which they’d come.

  Nella thanked her and, ignoring Malaika’s pleading gaze for her not to leave, lifted herself up from the cushion. Then she slipped out of the room just as Kiara made a joke about what Camille and her boyfriend were probably doing on the phone.

  Camille, from Missoula.

  This couldn’t be a coincidence. That list of names she’d found on the printer a few weeks ago couldn’t have just been a guest list, or an author list.

  You know how you pick up friends in different places along the way, Hazel had said. As though she’d collected each of them, like a handful of Black girl Tamagotchis.

  Nella quickened her pace, taking the stairs two at a time. When she reached the top of the landing she saw three doors. The one on the left was cracked, the faint light of a candle just barely visible through the sliver. The other two doors were shut tight.

  Time was ticking. She already estimated she had about five minutes left to explore—seven, if Malaika distracted them successfully. Nella regarded the glow one last time. Then, without one more thought, she reached for the doorknob on the right side of the landing and turned.

  18

  Nella had to practically fling herself into Hazel’s room. She’d never been the type to explore spaces that weren’t hers. To be fair, she rarely had the opportunity. Being an only child meant pretty much every room in the house was fair game, since her parents would let her watch movies in their room all the time when she was little. But even when she was older and more curious, she refrained from purposely going to a room that wasn’t the bathroom, held herself back from opening cabinet doors above sinks that didn’t belong to her.

  Her reason for this wasn’t because she had a strong moral code. It was because she’d seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre far too young. She knew what could happen while exploring a place that wasn’t your own: At worst, a big dude in a mask came and dragged you into a back room so he could slaughter you. At best, you were off on a thirty-minute chase, quite literally running for your life.

  Nella wasn’t exactly sure what she expected to pop out at her when she pushed open Hazel’s door—not some man with a cleaver, but maybe something just as unsettling, like photos of her taken from a stalker’s distance. She had no reason to believe that Hazel actually gave a shit about her. Maybe everybody else at Wagner had been fooled, but Nella was able to see through the bullshit.

  She stepped through the doorway quickly, making sure to turn the knob before she shut it behind her. She didn’t think the sound of metal clicking against metal would be heard above Sade’s “Smooth Operator,” but, again: Hazel had somehow always managed to be one step ahead of her on everything since the day they’d met. What made this any different?

  She fumbled around the wall for a minute, her hand finally landing on a light switch. She flicked it, thoughts of chainsaw-wielding psychos still dancing around her brain. The shift from dark to light revealed not a torture chamber, but what seemed to be an ordinary bedroom that belonged to two twentysomethings: a Samsung smart TV was perched at the front of the room, along with a Sonos speaker, a Wii, and a WiFi router. Facing the television in the center of the room was a queen-sized bed with a maroon comforter that Nella recognized from Target—one she’d almost purchased before Owen found a black-and-gray option in the clearance section.

  Nella moved toward the bed so she could get a better view of the room. She estimated that she had about five minutes before people started asking questions—maybe fewer if Malaika lost her cool and started in on Hazel’s dreadlocks.

  No. She needed to stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong and think instead about where in this room she would hide something. It depended, she supposed, on how much Manny knew. If he knew her name wasn’t Hazel, maybe she wouldn’t need to search too deeply. If he didn’t, well—she hoped she’d have the time to dig deep enough.

  Nella threw back the maroon curtain that was set up on the far side of the room. Waiting behind it were rows and rows of clothes, all varying pieces of fabric, all quasi-foreign, obscure patterns that had to have been thought up in another decade. Nella reached out and grabbed the arm of a powder-blue blazer, then the pocket of a burlap Afropunk Festival kind of thing that just kept going and going. Romper or maxi-peasant dress, Nella wasn’t too sure, although the thought of it being the former caused a phantom itchiness to grow between her thighs.

  She let it go so she could check the other side of the closet, where she found a pair of forest-green men’s sweatpants, then a kelly-green pair of running shorts, then a Green Bay Packers T-shirt. Your boo thang might have “good” hair and might be a dope AF artist, she thought to herself, shining a light to see whether or not the footwear on the ground was actually just footwear (which it was), but it seems like he has one fashion setting: basic.

  Nevertheless, she counted the pairs of Nikes and Adidas before deciding she’d finally seen enough. She pulled back and contemplated other obvious hiding places, looking for some kind of work desk or a haphazardly left laptop. There wasn’t a ton of furniture. And then she realized—for the first time—that there weren’t a hell of a lot of things in Hazel and Manny’s room at all. There weren’t any books scattered around. No photobooth snapshots from so-and-so’s wedding. No overflowing dirty clothes hampers. Just the bare minimum: a bottle of perfume lined up next to a bottle of lotion next to a blue tube of deodorant, some of her unlabeled hair grease, and a small cup of bobby pins. Tidiness devoid of any personality, not unlike her cubicle desk.

  Strange.

  Stumped, Nella looked to the bed again. It was worth a try. She fell to her knees, the plush burgundy carpeting cool beneath her fingertips as she slid her head beneath the frame. When nothing of note jumped out at her, she used her phone as a flashlight. Still nothing.

  Okay, fine, she thought, pushing herself up off the floor. I suppose that would have been too easy.

  She felt herself beginning to panic, and then waver. Time was running out. Was any of this worth it? What had she expected to find?

  She looked around the room again, hoping for a Hail Mary. Then she noticed the two glass doors beneath the television screen, clocked a few bottles of what looked like hair grease, and—more notably—a manila folder lying next to them.

  Boom.

  Nella had begun making her way over to the glass doors when her phone began to vibrate. Please be Owen calling. Please let him be asking where I am. Did I tell him where I was? Anybody but Malaika. Anybody but—

  Two coming up for bathroom. Code Kente.

  Two… at once? Why two? This wasn’t the club. This was a hair party.

  Nella sent back a simple K and tried to stay relaxed. She knew that the two girls coming upstairs would return downstairs with the news that she had not been in the
bathroom. But she also knew that “Code Kente” meant that nobody suspected anything yet—or, at least, it seemed like no one suspected anything. It simply meant that she might have company.

  A bead of sweat trickled out from beneath Nella’s scarf and down her forehead. Then, like a certified prowler, she lunged for the light switch so that whoever it was didn’t tell Hazel that she’d forgotten to turn her bedroom light off—or worse, went to turn it off themselves. I needed to take an impromptu phone call in a private area, she could say, if caught, and if they needed extra convincing: It’s my mother. She’s sick.

  Aided now by nothing but her flashlight and roughly two-thirds of the courage she’d felt when she first crossed this threshold moments earlier, Nella returned to the cabinet and grabbed onto one of its knobs, making sure she left not one fingerprint on the glass. Then, she extracted the manila folder and began to leaf through it, turning over what seemed to be various magazine clippings.

  But just as she was about to put the folder back, close the cabinet door, and figure out an exit strategy, her fingers found a non-glossy page. And then another. A little more careful concentration of the beam on the stack of pages revealed that one-quarter of the folder’s contents were regular pieces of paper, eight and a half by elevens.

  Nella refrained from letting loose a hysterical cheer, but when she came across the rows of wallet-sized faces—all familiar, all in varying shades of brown—she allowed herself a soft one. There they were: Kiara, Ebonee, and according to the name next to the photo, Camille. Next to each of their faces were a city, a three-digit number—a labeling system?—and countless handwritten notes.

  She’d been right.

  Nella’s first instinct was to run and tell Malaika. Malaika could distract Hazel, and then Nella could tell all the other girls downstairs…

  Tell them what? She didn’t know what to tell them, really—and she knew she didn’t have time to read any of the notes. Not now. So she listened to her second instinct and took a photo to save for later. Then, not nearly satisfied, she continued to leaf through the pages, speeding up when she heard the vague sound of a toilet flushing a few feet away.