The Other Black Girl: A Novel

by Zakiya Dalila Harris

  Nella had tried to keep her tone as neutral as possible, but the deep shrug of C. J.’s shoulders suggested she’d been unsuccessful. “No idea how it works here. I just keep the packages moving. I will say, though, that it seems like she’s as hardworking as you.”

  “Well, we know how it goes: We gotta work twice as hard to get what we want.” Nella recited the mantra, but realized the second it left her mouth that it was aggressively truer for C. J. than it was for Nella. Nella, whose mother had paid off half her student loans; Nella, who had no nieces or nephews to help with math homework when she got home from a long day of work.

  C. J. simply nodded and started to walk away, this time with a bit more purpose. His voice drifted around the corner. “Hey—you know, Hazel got here around six or something. She might be working three times as hard. Better watch out.”

  Nella sat up. She wasn’t sure if he’d really said those words, or if she’d just imagined them. “Huh? Watch out for what?”

  But C. J.’s long legs had already taken him around the corner and down the hall, leaving her painfully alone with her thoughts.

  Where was she?

  Nella stole a glance across the aisle once more, this time letting her eyes rest on the place card affixed to the outside of Hazel’s cube. Hazel’s name, etched in an unassuming fourteen-point Arial font, directly faced her own name in a faint opposition of sorts. Nella stared at the bold-faced letters for a good long while, long enough for the letters to become one thick, indiscernible black block. Then she closed her eyes again, drew in a long, ragged breath, and sighed it out. She felt even more troubled than she had when she’d left the office the night before. She didn’t like the way better watch out was still ringing in her ears—not unlike Oh hi, Nella; too much like Leave Wagner, now—and she really didn’t like how big of a deal C. J. had made about that note. Maybe he’d been right.

  And hadn’t he been right, too, about Hazel? She belonged exactly where she’d been placed, of course: right outside of Maisy’s office, which happened to be in Nella’s corner of the office. But, still—it was funny. Funny that out of all the editors who would finally hire a Black assistant, that editor had been Maisy, rather than a different upper-level employee who worked on the opposite side of the office, where things could certainly use some spicing up. It was as though some sort of providence, in the shape of a five-foot-one HR employee named Natalie, had plucked Hazel up and dropped her there, right into Nella’s—

  “Hi, Nell! Great minds think alike, huh?”

  They were words that no early-arriving employee desperate for privacy wanted to hear another employee say—especially when that other employee sounded as chipper as Hazel did. “Oh—hey, Hazel. Work was calling your name first thing this morning, too, huh?”

  “Yeah, my eyes popped open at five a.m. and I just couldn’t sleep. You know.”

  Nella did know; granted, her reasons for waking up early were likely much different than Hazel’s. So, too, had been her morning routine. While Nella had swiped at a surprise crust of drool on her chin during her commute, realizing she hadn’t looked closely enough at herself in a mirror, Hazel—fresh-faced and animated—had found time to put on mascara, eyeliner, and coral-tinted lip gloss.

  “So,” she said, shifting the huge stack of papers in her hands from one shoulder to the other, “what are you doing here so early?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, either. I had so much to do here that I couldn’t finish last night so I… I figured I’d just pop in.”

  The words in her lie tumbled out of her like a mass of disgruntled passengers exiting out of a sluggish L train at rush hour.

  “Crazy how that happened to both of us!” said Hazel, inching a bit closer to Nella’s cubicle. “Maybe it’s something in the air.”

  “Maybe. A low-pressure system, or something.” Nella wiggled her fingers.

  “Yeah. Speaking of pressure…” Hazel laughed nervously. “Can I ask you a dumb question? God, I don’t know when I’m going to ever stop asking you dumb questions…”

  “Aw, no. It’s okay,” Nella said, softening a teeny bit. “What’s up?”

  “I have this manuscript that I need to take a look at and give, like… ‘editorial comments’ on. I’m pretty sure I know what those are and how to do them—hell, they were part of the interview process! As you know. But I’m a bit worried I’m gonna screw it up.”

  Nella relaxed. “It’s not a dumb question! I can email you a sample of what I send Vera when she asks me to read something. Although, it might be more helpful for you to look at that assistant guide for Maisy, since I’m pretty sure her editorial style is radically different from Vera’s.”

  “Actually, whatever you send me might just do it. The letter is for Vera, not Maisy.”

  Nella’s voice caught in her throat. “Vera?”

  “Vera sent me a book that she’d like me to read. She wanted to get my opinion on it.”

  Nella froze. She still wasn’t fully comprehending what Hazel was trying to tell her. After a moment, she said, “Please tell me it’s not the Colin Franklin.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, thank God.” Hazel laughed. “No, it’s another one. The Lie. You’ve read it, right?”

  Nella furrowed her brow. “No. What’s that?” she asked, trying in vain to recall something with that title that had graced her inbox in the last few days.

  “Oh, sorry—I thought you’d started it already. Leslie Howard’s new book. She’s one of Vera’s authors, isn’t she?”

  “She is, yeah. Vera just… hasn’t sent it to me yet.”

  “Weird. Maybe she sees how overwhelmed you’ve been, with all the Colin stuff…”

  “When did she send it?” Nella interrupted, a band of sweat beginning to gather at her hairline. She scratched it away.

  Hazel looked concerned. “Last night. I ran into her at the end of the day yesterday and I remembered how you told me it’s good for me to ask other editors what they’re reading, get to know their tastes, that kind of thing. I did that. Then she offered to send me a book that she got in yesterday afternoon. I thought that meant she’d send it today, but she sent it to me at eleven p.m. last night. Is she one of those editors who works twenty-four seven and on vacations, too? If so, I feel bad for her kids.”

  Nella ignored the part of Hazel’s soliloquy that worried about Vera’s kids, who were nonexistent, and zeroed in on the first part instead. “Yesterday afternoon” could mean anything, and if Vera had been shut in meetings all day, which wasn’t atypical for her, Nella could see this slip being utterly insignificant. But she’d seen Vera multiple times, had spent at least one accumulative hour with her by the time she’d left the office for the day.

  “Nella?” Hazel clicked Nella’s cubicle wall with her pinky nail. “You okay?”

  “Hm? Yeah. I just think she forgot to send that to me.” Nella looked away from Hazel and moved her mouse to wake her computer. Once her screen lit up again, she found the strength to face Hazel once more and caught her staring off, a faraway, indiscernible look in her eyes. After a second or two, she snapped her eyes back on Nella.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking… she sends you everything her authors write?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well… my first thought… and I could be wrong, but I can’t help but think that she’s still holding a grudge against you for that Colin thing.”

  “The thought crossed my mind, but—”

  “And it’s maybe not even a conscious grudge. Right? That would explain why she didn’t forward the book to you. She’s still feeling a way and she doesn’t even realize—”

  “I haven’t checked my email since I left the office yesterday. I bet it’s in there and I just haven’t seen it.”

  Another lie. In reality, Nella checked her email compulsively. She had looked at her email on her way home from McKinley’s, around midnight—just to see if the person who’d left her the note had also contacted her by email, too.

  “Got it. In that cas
e, I’m sure it’s in there! I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Me? Oh—I’m not worried.”

  Nella hadn’t intended for her own voice to have such an edge to it, especially when Hazel had been so hopeful and reassuring. She didn’t feel much like apologizing, though. Not now, and not when forty-five minutes passed without her cube neighbor speaking another word.

  By then, the air had clicked on and other Wagner employees were finally starting to trickle in by ones and twos, swishing cups of coffee and grumbling about train delays and asking if you’d seen the latest review on this or that book. Office doors that had been closed for sixteen hours were creaking open; desk phones were whining for attention; the bassline of “Stand Back,” Bridget’s favorite morning song, could be heard near and far. The entire floor seemed more charged and far less scary than it had felt when Nella first arrived.

  Vera ambled in at her usual time, her light blue raincoat speckled with raindrops, hood still pulled tightly over her hair. “Oh, great, you’re here before me!” she exclaimed, looking at Nella with such astonishment that she wondered if she’d overlooked another smear of drool on her face.

  But Nella didn’t let the backhanded greeting get to her. “Good morning, Ver. Is it raining out now? It looked like it might a few hours ago.”

  “It’s been raining the last hour or so, I think. Pretty nasty out.”

  “Yikes. That stinks. Oh, by the way—Gretchen called this morning, around eight.”

  Vera paused at her door. “My goodness. So early! What could be that important that an agent has to call that early?”

  “She was calling to ask about the signing payment for—”

  “For crying out loud, we just bought that book last week. Doesn’t she have anything else to worry about? Like why Mickey’s book isn’t selling with people in the forty-to-fifty bracket?” With a dismissive flourish of her hand, she turned the doorknob to her office. “These agents! I swear. I know you meant well, but you know you don’t have to answer the phone that early. Next time, just ignore it, okay?”

  “You got it,” Nella called, even though her boss was now in her office and therefore out of earshot. She chuckled in spite of herself. Now, this was the Vera she had grown to know and love. Perhaps their relationship hadn’t been ruined, and Vera was trying to keep Nella free for some other big project.

  Pleased and somewhat relieved, Nella strolled over to the kitchen and made herself her second coffee of the day. As she listened to the Keurig burble and groan, she thought about the various ways she might casually ask Vera about the new Leslie Howard. She could lead with it when they first sat down for their usual fifteen-minute morning meeting, casually, like it was something she worried she’d forget if she didn’t. Or she could drop some jargon and ask Vera if there was anything she was reading that Nella should “move to the front of her pile.”

  She’d decided on the second approach as she made her way back from the kitchen, set on making a pit stop at Vera’s doorway to ask if it was a good time to do their morning catch-up chat. But as she walked by Kimberly’s office, then Maisy’s, something gave her pause. This something was Hazel, who had popped up from her own desk, notepad in hand, determination in her raised shoulders.

  She was making a beeline straight for Vera’s office.

  But before she officially set foot inside, Hazel paused and looked directly at Nella, who expected some kind of What can I do? She called me in! shrug. Some kind of apology.

  There was nothing of the sort. Just a cold, hard look. And with that, Hazel swooped into Vera’s office, her notepad held high like a successfully caught wedding bouquet. “Vera! Girl. This Leslie Howard book is so. Freaking. Good. I can’t wait for you to read it.”

  Meanwhile, Nella’s head hung lower than a defeated bridesmaid as she shuffled the few remaining feet back to her desk. “You’re sure I’m not interrupting your work?” she heard Hazel say, her words thick with careful self-effacement. “I’d just love to chat with you for a few minutes or so.”

  Nella fell into her seat, dejected. She heard Vera’s cheerful come on in loud and clear. She heard her eager, energetic tone—a tone that her boss hadn’t used with her in she didn’t know how long.

  And then—finally—she heard the sound of a door closing.

  Shani

  August 14, 2018

  Rise & Grind Café

  Midtown, Manhattan

  I didn’t recognize her at first. Usually, on days like that one—days when I wondered how the hell I’d gone from working at one of the most respected magazines in media to sweeping straw papers off a café floor in Midtown—the sound of the front door meant nothing to me. The door scraped open, the door scraped closed; a few minutes later, this would happen again. The outcome was always the same: a smile; a nod. Do you have WiFi? What’s your bathroom password? Do you guys take cards?

  The day had started off like that. Carelessly, I’d glanced at her once—her striking hair; her high-collared tunic; her flashy gold hoops—and presumed she was yet another New York millennial doing far better at life than I was, and looked back down.

  What can I say? She blended in so well. And I was pretty sure she would have continued to, had it not been for her voice—a little husky and a little too flirty with Christopher, my twenty-two-year-old boss. I didn’t recognize the hair, but I recognized the way she flipped it so far back that she almost broke her neck. I recognized the way she giggled and pretended not to know the difference between a latte and a cold brew, even though I’d heard her speak so spiritedly about her knowledge of coffee with all the higher-ups at Cooper’s magazine.

  I practically dropped my broom. Yes, this girl looked more like a woman of the world than she did the last time I’d seen her in Boston—more Zara now than her J. Jill style then.

  But it was her, alright.

  My first instinct was to walk up to her and beat her with my broom. Anybody who did what she did deserved to be bludgeoned by a girl with a broom in a Midtown café.

  But I didn’t. Even after what happened in Boston, I still had some pride left. I also had new knowledge: She was frustratingly clever, with artful timing. If I didn’t want to be bested in this new city, I knew I’d have to think three steps ahead. In Boston, my biggest mistake was being three steps behind.

  What was it Lynn had said to me on the Red Line? I saw you two last night, you know. Something like that. Of course, I’d ignored her. At first. But she just wouldn’t let up. “I know you don’t know who I am. But I just want to tell you that you’re fucked.”

  I’d glanced over at her just a little bit—the amount of glancing you need to do in order to confirm that someone is in fact talking to you, because she wasn’t “Lynn” to me yet; she was just a weird stranger interrupting my morning commute. And when I saw that it was this Black lady who sort of looked like my aunt Krystal—if Aunt Krystal had been brave enough to rock a septum piercing, that is—I asked her to repeat whatever it was she’d just said instead of telling her to leave me the fuck alone.

  “I said I saw you two last night. At Pepper’s.”

  “How do you know I was at Pepper’s?”

  “And from what I overheard,” she’d said, ignoring me, “well… it doesn’t look good for you.”

  At that, I’d folded over the corner of the New Yorker story I’d been reading and said the first thing that came to my mind. “Sorry,” I said, after I’d thought I’d gathered enough context clues to make a fair assumption, “but I don’t understand. Are you two dating, or something? Because that’s not what that was last night. We were just getting drinks, hanging out. We work together.”

  Lynn had stared at me for a moment. Then she’d laughed, a long, loud laugh that drew the looks of half of the commuters sitting nearby. I’d taken that time to actually give her a once-over, assessing the black headwrap she was wearing on her head and the sunglasses that covered up any hint of an expression.

  Now? I’d say I was searching for some sort of confi
rmation that she was crazy, yet harmless. But at the time, I was also searching for some kind of sign that she was a woman scorned.

  “Who are you?” I asked at last. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to come join us.”

  “ ‘Us’?” I looked at the jaundiced old man who was peeling a hard-boiled egg in the seat directly behind her. “Is he in your crew, too? Or do you have some more desirable imaginary friends here on the train who I don’t know about?”

  She hadn’t found this funny. She’d just shaken her head. “You fucked up, girl. You said too much.”

  That was when she started rummaging around her small brown leather purse. It was this whole big production—or at least, it must have appeared as such, because a twentysomething white guy nearby who happened to be holding the same issue of the New Yorker I held was giving us his attention. I started to smile at him in solidarity, but before my lips could complete the motion, the mysterious girl cleared her throat, evidently displeased. And when I looked back at her, she was frowning at the white man—at least, that’s what it seemed like she was doing beneath her sunglasses.

  I felt the piece of paper tuck itself into my hand before I heard her say, “Take this.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said, my face growing hot, “but I’m not into—”

  “Shani,” she had said, firmly. The sound of my name in a stranger’s mouth loosened my grip on both the piece of paper and the magazine, which fell onto the dirty floor of the T. “You need to get over yourself. I’m not trying to fuck you, for fuck’s sake. I’m just trying to help.”

  The train came to a slow stop. “I have to go back to Harlem tonight. But text me at this number after you leave work. You’ll want to after today. Trust me.”

  She’d slipped off before I could get her name from her, leaving me no choice but to stoop down, feel around the pair of Sperry boots I’d bought upon discovering how unforgiving Boston winters really were, and retrieve the stained card.

  Lynn Johnson resists, it read. Google told me even less when I searched for her on my work computer. I intended to let the incident go.