Nella tried not to wonder what their court had decided as she stood up halfway to plant a kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek. “You made it!”
“Sorry. I had to go into the office because something was up with the Internet. And by the time I got to the theater, there was a long line at the ticket booth, and I just missed the first train.” Nella got a faint whiff of perspiration mixed with a little bit of ire as Owen removed his messenger bag and stuffed it under his folding chair. “What’s up, Mal?”
“Oh, the usual. Drinkin’ wine. ’Bout to get ‘cultured.’ ”
“Any luck getting our Blob tickets switched?” Nella asked him.
“Nope. The other showing is full, and even if it weren’t, the guy at the booth said their return policy doesn’t include swapping movie showtimes as an option.”
Nella groaned. “Damn, babe. I’m sorry. We’ll definitely catch the next one. And it’ll be on me.”
“It’s fine. I just better hear some really good poetry tonight. Like, for colored girls–level,” Owen said, a little less grumbly. “My soul better grow wings and fly away by the time this thing is over. Then, I’ll forgive you. Maybe.”
“I appreciate that you referenced Ntozake Shange,” said Nella playfully, “and not Maya Angelou. Ntozake’s kind of a deep cut.”
“It shows he has depth,” Malaika agreed. “Let’s keep your boyfriend, shall we?”
“I think we should.” Nella smiled and squeezed Owen’s thigh.
Owen rolled his eyes, although their banter had visibly loosened him up some. He probably would never admit it, but Nella knew he secretly reveled in the attention she and Malaika gave him. After all, Owen had come a long way from being referred to by Malaika as just “Nella’s Latest White Boy” for much of their first year together, and not always behind his back. A cross between the sister Nella had never had, and the mother that she did, Malaika had been fairly skeptical about Owen’s intentions from the get-go. She’d had enough of her own experiences with white dudes to believe that Owen would inevitably unleash the douchebag entitlement that she presumed more or less every white man had within him.
Nella understood this. Her college roommates had dragged her to so many white frat parties that, when she’d first met Owen online, it’d been impossible not to be skeptical of him herself. Being one of the only Black girls at these parties often meant being noticed immediately—and if she was alone, which was fairly often, it meant being eagerly approached. She knew what these bros saw as they walked over: a long-legged Black girl wearing a tight crop top and even tighter high-waisted jeans. A long-legged Black girl on her own, drinking. An easy target. Nella would endure the bros’ chitchat about what year she was, and how she’d gotten into the frat house (her roommate, Liv, usually; she practically lived in the student center). But to the bros’ surprise, and often disappointment, Nella would ask real questions back—not just where are you from but what are your favorite books and what’s your favorite way to get to the quad—and suddenly a bro who thought they’d eventually end up in a bathroom, the zipper of her high-waisted jeans between his teeth, was instead having a clean heart-to-heart about one of his favorite literary characters. He would find it baffling, but he’d play along, sometimes opening up more than he’d probably ever opened up at a frat party…
… Until he realized that Nella’s zipper had no intention of coming down. That was usually about the time the bro’s lights went out, his cup ran dry, and he ran off. A horse in search of easier pastures.
When Nella was a freshman and sophomore, this flip of the switch had disappointed her. In those days, she still held on to the idea that she might meet someone in college—maybe in the dining hall, when a guy asked her for the chair she wasn’t using, or on the grounds, when she was deep in thought, contemplating that A-minus. Maybe even at a frat party, eighteen-year-old Nella supposed, because this was what happened to girls in movies and television shows.
Then she graduated, moved to the city, and grew up. She downloaded a few dating apps on her phone and didn’t try so hard at bars. Many men still flipped that switch when they met her—not just white men—and eventually she found one who didn’t. From their first exchanges on OkCupid to beers at The Jeffrey, it was clear to Nella that Owen had nothing to shift to. Blessedly, he had just one gear—“thoroughly interested”—and once he’d stuck around long enough to prove that their relationship was anything but just an itch he was scratching, Nella’s feelings for him crystallized.
Malaika’s reins had loosened, too. She didn’t stop calling him Nella’s Latest White Boy, but she did treat him as a worthwhile suitor, even started to joke about his blind spots as a white cis man in front of him. In return, Owen seemed—somewhat paradoxically—at ease. If people were making fun of him, he preferred to be let in on it, which was why Nella felt comfortable repeating Malaika’s CP Time joke directly to him.
“Guess you’re rubbing off on me,” he quipped back, laughing. “Hey, how was work? And how did it go with the literary agent? Is she going to start sending you lots of cool ‘commercial-but-still-literary shit’? Her words for the genre, not mine,” Owen added in response to Malaika’s raised eyebrow.
Nella avoided eye contact with her friend, knowing the look on Malaika’s face was less about Owen’s genre mash-up and more about the truth. “Work was fine,” she lied. “And I’ll tell you all about it on our way home.”
“That’s great.” Owen unzipped his black bomber jacket and took a good look around the space, examining first the crowd of forty or so guests, then the row of four hair-washing sinks brimming with ice and cans of Red Stripe and PBR. “Innovative. Do you think I have time to grab a drink?”
Their three sets of eyes traveled together to the front of the room, where the line of chairs that had been reserved for Hazel and the readers sat unoccupied. Another appraisal of the white people sitting in the audience suggested that Richard hadn’t arrived yet, either.
“You’ve got plenty of time,” Nella sighed.
Owen didn’t look convinced. “That’s not Hazel?” he asked, bobbing his head in the direction of Juanita. She was leaning over a patron a few rows down, laughing and still poking back hair with various glittery fingernails. The pink liquid in her clear plastic cup sloshed around in her other free hand every few moments, threatening to spill over onto her outfit, but she did not seem bothered by this. Nor did she seem bothered by the fact that Hazel still hadn’t arrived yet.
“No. That’s the woman who owns Curl Central.”
“Ah.” Owen stood up. “Okay, then. I’m going to get something to drink. You ladies doing okay?”
“Another Red Stripe? Please?” Nella squeezed his thigh again, this time a bit pleadingly. If Owen felt her nails dig a bit too deeply into his leg, he didn’t notice, because he said, “Got it. Mal?”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
Owen climbed over Nella and then the four women again, who were far less forgiving than they were the first time around. Everyone was beginning to get antsy. The people sitting in front of them had long since run out of things to talk about with their neighbors, and they had gotten to the point at which they were tired of trying. It was a quarter after seven, and Juanita had yet to make an announcement acknowledging what everyone else seemed to know: that they were running behind.
“Does he know anything about all the stuff that’s been going on at work?” Malaika asked.
“Well… I haven’t exactly told him.”
“You haven’t told him about the notes? Or how Hazel has undermined you in every possible way? How she took that front desk lady with the scarves away from you? How she’s even taken Vera—although we didn’t really want her?”
“Nope.”
“But why not?”
“The Hazel stuff, I’m not sure he’d understand. The notes stuff… I know he’ll flip and tell me to do something I don’t want to do.” He’d also chastise me for calling the phone number, Nella thought, and so would you.
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“Which is what, exactly?”
“Report it to HR.”
“And that doesn’t seem like a good idea to you at this point?”
“I told you already. I feel like I’m still kind of on thin ice with the higher-ups. I should probably figure this one out on my own.”
Malaika crossed one leg over the other and bounced her foot—a clear sign of impatience. “You wanna know something?”
“I already know it. I’m being irresponsible.”
“Wrong. Well, yes. But I was going to say that you still could have met that agent for a drink. See what time it is?”
“Please. Don’t,” Nella grumbled. She was about to check the time on her cell phone when the front door of Curl Central swung open. In clicked Hazel, looking like a literary deity in a black turtleneck, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and tight-fitting violet corduroy overalls. The young readers followed closely behind her, all flushed faces and guilty smiles as they quickly hurried into the four empty seats in the front row.
Just like that, the tension in the room melted into a shower of applause. Someone called out, “There you are, Hazel-May!” Another person hooted, “Yasss, you go, girl!”
Nella was slow to put her hands together.
“He’s not here,” she said, having to strain a bit to be heard above the cheers.
“Who’s not here?”
“Richard Wagner.”
Malaika stared at her blankly. Not one for clapping or for waiting, she’d stopped after a few seconds and had gone back to resting her free arm across her torso.
“My boss-boss. The real reason why I came here, instead of meeting up with that agent.”
Malaika shrugged. “I thought your main mission was to confront the new Black girl. You’re not going to back out of that now, are you?”
“No. And I can have two missions,” Nella snapped, sounding a bit like a child as Owen passed in front of her once again to get to his seat. He looked at her quizzically as he handed her a Red Stripe, but said nothing.
“Y’all, I am so sorry!” Someone had handed Hazel a headset and now she was walking, TED Talk–style, across the front of the room. “I was just grabbing some food with these amazing girls and we got held up by the buses. MTA, my people, amirite?”
The crowd murmured collectively in agreement.
“Alright, before I get started, I’d just like to tell y’all a little something. Is that okay? Do any of you mind if I tell y’all a little something first?”
“Tell it, sis,” a woman—probably the same woman who’d told Hazel to Go, girl!—cried out.
“We were over at Peaches before we got here. Y’all know Peaches, right?” A cheer from a few of the audience members. “And we had a damn good meal, let me tell you. Fried green tomatoes, catfish, you name it… all the fixins. I swear, when someone asks me which has better cuisine—Harlem or Bed-Stuy—I have to betray my grandmama, God rest her soul, and say Bed-Stuy does it better.”
A few more cheers and a No she didn’t. Nella’s stomach gurgled. The cubes of cheese Juanita had set out for the event were no hush puppies, but she was beginning to regret not popping a few pieces into a napkin the way that Malaika had upon their arrival. She’d resisted because she didn’t want to have bad breath when she spoke to Richard. But now, with Richard nowhere in sight, she felt like she could eat an entire fistful of pepper jack and cheddar cheeses, toothpicks and all.
“I bet he’s not coming,” Nella grumbled, leaning over so she could whisper in Malaika’s ear.
Malaika put her hands up as if to say What can you do?
“—Peaches, with a gentleman I started working for nearly two months ago,” Hazel continued. “Richard Wagner: Do any of you know him? Maybe you don’t, specifically. But you do know his books, and you know his authors, I’m sure. You know Blue Sky and you know Going, Gone. You know Leaving Jimmy Crow. And I know you all know Diana Gordon’s Burning Heart, too.”
Someone sitting behind Nella let out a whoop. Hearing this, Hazel held up the drink that someone had handed to her at some point during her soliloquy. A smattering of others lifted their own cups in solidarity.
“Burning Heart was a shining light in a valley of darkness. Or should I say, whiteness,” Hazel continued, and a few people nodded their heads. “It took on some very difficult topics, and we are all the better for it now. So, when I finally found myself at Wagner, I took a chance and asked him how he’d feel about helping sponsor our girls. A small piece of trivia that some of you may know: Ms. Gordon and her editor, Kendra Rae Phillips, were both teenagers when they discovered their passion for the written word. It’s such an impressionable time, you feel me?
“Anyway, it felt big, what I was asking of Richard. But to my surprise, not only was he enthusiastic about it, he donated ten thousand dollars.”
The audience hollered. “Sweet Baby Jesus,” a bald-headed woman sitting in front of Nella said, to nobody in particular. Malaika tried to catch Nella’s eye, but Nella didn’t latch on.
“I am also thrilled to say that for every dollar we make tonight on hair product sales, Richard plans to match it! And—” Another round of applause befell the crowd. Hazel waited for it to peter out, smiling and closing her eyes contentedly, seasoned politician–style. Once the noise finally ceased, she continued on.
“I know, it’s great. Money is great. But there’s one more thing. Something even more lasting, and more valuable. Richard Wagner has also pledged to rethink the way editors at his company hire new candidates. He’s going to do this by focusing on new criteria. By using a more holistic approach. And he’ll be doing a full analysis of every book Wagner has bought in the last ten years to see how it compares with the demographics of our country.
“Y’all—for those who aren’t aware of just how much the publishing industry has struggled to address its diversity problem, this is huge. Huge. Wagner has been predominantly white for some time, and, well… we all know we’ve been waiting for our next Burning Heart for far too long.
“And since Wagner is at the front of the curve, it will no doubt impact the way other publishing houses think about publishing, too! My people—this is Just. The. Beginning.”
“Wow.” The lilt of surprise in Owen’s voice was barely audible over the thunderous ovation that had seized the audience. He grabbed Nella’s knee as he said, “That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”
Nella nodded, even as her blood turned cold. For the second time that day, she felt her eyes start to burn as people clapped their hands high above their heads. Those with plastic cups smacked their thighs wildly, cheering Hazel on. Even Malaika was smiling and snapping her fingers the way she did whenever she listened to The Read.
Nella was supposed to be ecstatic, too. No, not just ecstatic—she should have given Hazel a standing ovation, complete with foot-stomping and hip-shaking and one of those two-fingered mouth-whistles that she didn’t know how to do but always wished she did. Or she could have really made a statement by strolling up to the front of the room, grabbing the mic from Hazel, and spilling all the sweet tea. She could tell everyone all about how she’d tried and failed to start a diversity committee at Wagner, about how the one time her coworkers were particularly attentive toward the notion of diversity was during Black History Month, when they’d asked her to blackify Wagner’s Twitter and Instagram accounts during the month of February. She could tell them all about the small group of people who were making big decisions about which books were and weren’t worth publishing, and how this, in turn, affected which kinds of books the public would see on bookshelves for years to come. She could tell them all about which titles hadn’t made it through the front gate, simply because that small group of decision-makers could not foresee a certain demographic buying it.
She could tell them about Shartricia.
A few times—mostly when Nella first started working at Wagner—she’d tried to advocate for books written by Black writers about Black people. Kindly, she’d been ove
rruled. White voices of dissent came not just from Vera, but also from other editors, as well as Amy. Their reasons were vaguely specific enough to quiet her qualms—at least, they were until the next time she met up with Malaika to rehash the latest. Over drinks, she’d deliver her best imitation of these white voices—which, for some reason, often meant putting on a posh British accent, even though none of her coworkers were British. From a financial standpoint, this book just doesn’t seem worth the gamble. I just didn’t connect with the characters. The writing just wasn’t strong enough.
Nella found this last excuse particularly amusing, since it was a phrase that could be and often was said by literally anyone who read anything, ever, at Wagner. As if all writing weren’t subjective; as if anyone who read an early draft of any book could be 100 percent sure that it would become a bestseller. The way her colleagues would “run numbers” had surprised her—how they compared books they were thinking of buying with books that had already been published, as though culture were something static and predictable, as though one set of past numbers could dictate any future success.
But Nella had kept her mouth shut. Slowly but surely, in the hopes of making the ride a bit smoother—in the hopes of getting a promotion—she’d accepted every excuse. She’d picked her battles, if she dared pick any, wisely. After all, that was what she had been taught: to stand still for so long that when you started to run, they’d be so dumbfounded that they wouldn’t even follow. Well, that was what Nella had been doing. Standing still.
And now here was Hazel, miles ahead.
In that moment, it didn’t matter that her new coworker had single-handedly discovered how to turn the status quo upside down in just a couple of months. Nor did it matter that Hazel had found a way to open the door for other people of color at Wagner. All Nella could think was that she felt redundant.
Utterly and painfully redundant.
* * *
It was impossible to get Hazel alone after the reading. Nella tried twice.
The Other Black Girl: A Novel Page 21
