So, when the next ask came… well, I hadn’t been able to save Kenny. But maybe I could save others.
I grabbed the pages off the printer, cringing through the names of the women’s college instructors: “ ‘Quinnasha,’ ‘Rayquelle,’ ‘Kasselia,’ ” I read, shaking my head. “My goodness. We people keep naming our kids these names and yet we still wonder why we’re not getting any of the jobs?”
“Aw, shoot. Who we got now? Involuntaries?”
I looked up and registered Imani’s tall frame standing just inside the door. “Seems like that’s all we get these days,” I said.
“Mmm.” Imani crossed her arms. “Well, if you asked me—and I know you didn’t—I’d sleep a lot better at night if they weren’t Involuntaries.”
“And I’d sleep a lot better if that last big batch you concocted didn’t make these girls so darn competitive against their own,” I snapped. “I’m very concerned about how often our Lead Conditioners end up being the Last Black Girl Standing at the office. That’s not what this grease is for.”
“I know, I know, I know. How many times do I need to tell you, I’m sorry? It’s an unfortunate side effect. But I’ve been working on it, and I think I got the right balance on my newest batch. Less Terminator this time.”
“Good. Thank you.” I handed her the list I’d printed. “Here’s the latest.”
“ ‘Quinnasha’?” Imani’s tone rose higher than her eyebrows. “What the hell happened to ‘Mavis’ and ‘Cheryl’ and ‘Estelle’?”
We both giggled. “So, what do we think? Who’s the closest Lead Conditioner that can get into that college?”
Imani tapped her long, narrow chin with a long, narrow, peach-colored fingernail. “I’ll reach out to my Spelman contacts. See what they say.”
I nodded. “Great. Let me know, will you?”
“Mm-hmm. Oh, before I forget—” Imani reached into her pocket and pulled out two Ziploc baggies half-filled with a white, greasy substance. “For you. Freshly made. I’ll buy you lunch if you can guess which flower I added to this batch.” She dropped it on my desk and started for the door.
“You’re a goddess.” I wasted no time opening the bag and inhaling its contents. “Ugh, yes, please. Honeysuckle?”
“Bingo!” Imani chuckled. “God, I’ve come a long way since the first one, haven’t I? Remember how awful that stuff smelled?”
Suddenly, Kenny flashed through my mind again. But this time, it wasn’t her face I was seeing. It was her thick, dark hair divided into eight vulnerable parts, my right gloved hand smothered in the cool, creamy formula. I’m positive this batch won’t burn, Imani had promised when she’d dropped the jar off the day before.
I’d done a test run with just my pinky, anyway. Just to see.
“Feel okay?” I’d asked her, hoping she didn’t complain about the smell.
“Mmm. Just, whatever you plan to do up there—braids, curlers—don’t make me look like a fool, Di. I’m trusting you.”
I’d promised not to. Then, I’d reached a gloved hand into her hair, grabbed a piece by the root, and said a little prayer.
16
October 22, 2018
Nella had never particularly enjoyed listening to Pitbull. Not at her senior prom, and certainly not on those nights she’d spent in frat houses, glugging up party juice and bobbing her head to “I Know You Want Me” like it was delivering a vital life force into her system.
Now, huffing and puffing beside Malaika in Bop It Out Fitness, Nella despised it with every burning ounce of her being. But she did have a lot to bop out: the notes, her cover meeting outburst, the pickaninny cover that had inspired the outburst…
And then there was that possible crime she’d witnessed just two days earlier. Even if the music was terrible, struggling to straighten her back and hoist her knees in time with the beat provided a much-needed temporary distraction from her bizarre reality. It also made her feel better that Malaika, who spent most of her day breathing the same air as fitness freaks, was struggling just as much as she was.
“Before you… say anything,” her friend huffed, power-jacking with little power on number fourteen, “let me just say… I’m sorry about this.”
Nella scowled as sweat dripped into her eyes.
“I’ll also say… you owe me,” Malaika gasped. “I feel like… I haven’t seen… you in years.”
“I… know… time flies… when you’re being stalked… at work,” said Nella. “Not so much… when you’re listening… to Pitbull.”
Malaika eked out an apology. “Beyoncé Cardio… was filled by… the time… I looked at… the schedule… this morning. This was… the only open class.”
“I wonder… why!” Nella said, although, she supposed, as she took stock of the burning sensation in her thighs and the prominent sheet of sweat that had already accumulated around her waist, a Beyoncé class probably would be even harder. The woman did have thighs of steel, after all.
So did Isaac, their perfectly tanned fitness instructor, who was now pumping his fist twice to the beat and bending his knees. “And now… SQUAT! IT! OUT!”
Nella obeyed. She lowered her torso, albeit delicately, and took a “break” so she could check out the rest of their class. The forty-by-twenty-foot room was hardly full; eight or nine women and one extremely serious-looking old man had decided to spend their Monday evening exercising with a demonic workout instructor in the Flatiron District, rather than doing something sensible, like restocking their wine supply or doing a crossword. Maybe that was what Nella should’ve been doing instead. What if the kidnapper on the loose stormed into the gym while she was mid-squat, looking to snatch Nella next? What if the kidnapper was waiting outside for her, prepared to pounce the moment she and Malaika went their separate ways?
What if it wasn’t a kidnapper, though?
Nella had never seen a kidnapping in real life before—at least, not that she knew of. Through the glass door of the burger restaurant, she hadn’t been able to see the look on the bald-headed girl’s face. Nor could she see how tightly that hand had been grabbing her arm. Nella just knew that the hand had been one of their own. Black. And she also knew that, apparently, none of the passersby had felt moved enough by what was happening to say or do anything. Which meant maybe the bald-headed woman hadn’t been screaming… which meant maybe she’d known she wasn’t really in danger?
Nella put an end to this line of thinking very quickly. No, of course passersby wouldn’t say anything. This was New York City. And she was a Black girl.
Whatever had happened, the girl’s name was still a mystery—so she couldn’t report much of anything to anybody. She was sure of this; she’d practiced calling an anonymous tip line enough times while she was in the shower. “Here’s what I know: A bald-headed young woman sent me these strange notes in September. Then she started texting me strange things about my coworker who, by the way, is also really strange. And that bald-headed girl and I were supposed to meet up, but then she got put into a car… but not before she threw her phone into a garbage can. Moments after said car drove away, another strange, hooded person dug the cell phone out of the trash can and ran away.” In this hypothetical explanation, she’d leave it there.
But there was more.
Hours after the kidnapping, as she lay on her bed replaying what she’d just seen, she got a call from the cell phone she’d watched get picked up.
She thought about declining it, but Owen wouldn’t be home for another hour—she had time.
She held it up to her ear, thinking it might be the Marvin Gaye doppelganger from Starbucks. But the fraught voice that filled her ear sounded like it belonged to someone’s grandmother. “Nella. You answered. Thank you.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry you had to see all of that. We weren’t really prepared for… There have been some people watching you, trying to look out for you. But I guess not closely enough. I told them to be more careful,” she added, more to her
self than to Nella.
“Who’s ‘they’? Who are you? And what happened to that girl who got shoved into that car? Do you know anything about that? And what about her friend—that Black bearded guy? Where is he?”
“I can’t answer any of that. Just know that we’re trying to help you. I’m working on it. I need you to know that, and I need you to keep this conversation between us, okay? Don’t tell anyone at work about it.”
“You’re working on it?” A bang had clattered from somewhere out in the hallway—likely the neighbor bringing his bike up the stairs. “How do I know you’re not the person I was told to watch out for? And what’s Hazel’s real name?”
The line went silent. “You aren’t supposed to know that yet,” the voice said, exasperated. “Hm. Okay… you have two options. You can write me off as a lunatic, or you can find out who Hazel really is.”
“But—”
“Do some more digging.”
The call ended.
With this, Nella had contemplated smashing her phone with a saucepan and hiding under her favorite blanket. But before she could go anywhere, it pinged. The woman had sent her an image and the words, “Taken this past summer. Keep digging.”
When Nella enlarged the photo, she’d made out a young, short-haired Black woman wearing a sweatshirt imprinted with the words COOPER’S MAG, and when she increased her screen to full brightness, she could see the girl’s shining brown eyes clearly. They were filled with mirth and a sparkle of something else—ambition—and although she didn’t have an eyebrow piercing or long, flowing locs, Nella recognized that Lena Horne nose and that go-getter glint.
Nella’s fingertips had gone numb from gripping the phone too tightly. The call, the photo… it was all too much and yet still not enough to quell a small, sneaking feeling of curiosity. What had happened to that bald-headed, Black Pantheresque woman? Who was looking out for Nella, and why?
And who the hell was Hazel-May McCall, really?
“It’s hard out there, right?” Isaac barked, pointing at the room’s one tiny window. “Isn’t it hard out there? It may be hard in here, but it’s even harder out there. I want you to give me everything you’ve got. Squat. It. OUT!”
“Oh lord.” Malaika squatted down low once, and then a second time. “I had no idea this was going to turn into a therapy session.”
Nella squeezed out an otherworldly groan of protest that she herself didn’t altogether recognize.
“Although maybe you do need one,” Malaika continued. “Especially after what happened to you Saturday.”
Nella tried to scoff, but her lack of breath made it sound more like regurgitation. She asked, weakly, “What do you mean, ‘after what happened’ to me?”
“You know, when you froze. When you were this close to finding out who’s been creeping on you—like, literally, this close—but you let her go.”
Nella rolled her eyes. “Do we have to do this again? Now? While we’re listening to shitty top-forty music? I came here to bop it out, not in.”
Malaika’s squats had depreciated; now she just looked like she had to go to the bathroom. “Yes, we have to do this again. Shit, Nella… you were supposed to get the license plate of that car. You were supposed to get into another car and follow the bald chick’s car. But you didn’t follow the bald chick, and now you’re back at square one.”
“Well… not exactly.”
Keep this conversation between us, the woman on the phone had said, but what did she expect Nella to do? Sit with this new knowledge on her own? “Before the bald-headed girl disappeared, she told me that Hazel’s name isn’t really Hazel. And after that girl disappeared, I got a call from the phone she ditched.”
Malaika froze. “Wait. What?”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? What did the caller say?”
“That I needed to find out about Hazel for myself. Do some digging.”
“And that was it?”
“No… she also said that she and some people have been following me, too. But that they’re looking out for me.”
“What the fuck?” Malaika panted.
“I know, I know. But this woman sounded like she was being for real.”
“I don’t even know what to say anymore, Nella. This whole thing is getting scarier and scarier.”
“How do you think I feel?! I’m being fucking followed!”
Malaika ignored this. “I just think you should be careful, that’s all,” she said. “What if these people who’ve been watching you are on the bad side? What if it’s someone who’s in this class right now?”
Nella glanced around the gym again, her eyes falling on the convulsing man at the front of the room. “I doubt it. And we don’t know which side is the bad side,” she reminded her.
“All I’m saying is, you need to take everything this new person is texting you with a pound of salt. Why is she suddenly telling you all of this stuff now? Why wouldn’t these people have said something before, instead of sending you these cryptic notes?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t able to ask her,” Nella admitted, irritated by Malaika’s questions. She was confused enough by the worries bubbling in her own head without having to add Malaika’s to the brew. “But I feel like I’m finally starting to get somewhere here. Can’t we agree that’s a good thing?”
“But were you able to find anything about pink crescent scars online? Because it sounds a lot like a cult,” Malaika pressed, but then she must have finally heard herself, because she quickly added, “Okay, okay, fine. It’s a good thing. I’m just worried about you, that’s all. And I don’t appreciate these people fucking with my best friend.”
Nella felt a pang that was so sharp and so shameful that it had to have been that of guilt rather than a charley horse. The weirdness that had arisen between her and Vera since Hazel’s arrival was really taking a hit on Nella’s personal life, and the worst part of it all was that she’d barely noticed how much of an impact it had had on Malaika—not until now, when Nella had no work emails to entrap her, no new manuscripts to distract her. These days, Nella barely had time to see anybody anymore; she felt an ongoing obligation to say no to all non-work-related activities and yes to all the work she could be doing instead—because there was always work to be done. So much work, in fact, that she would sometimes get so tied up that she’d forget to say anything at all in response to Malaika’s texts.
Then there was Owen, with whom Nella hadn’t spent any meaningful time in weeks. The dinners they did eat in tandem often consisted of her turning pages over takeout Chinese or Indian or Thai as Owen scrolled through his phone, reading email after email. Nella hadn’t thought he’d noticed. Earlier in their relationship, she was the one who’d had to fight for his attention—the one who’d had to wrench his cell phone or the newspaper out of his hands as she’d set the table. Owen had always been an avid reader; this had attracted her to him in the first place, and once his startup really began to take off a few months after they started dating, this quality stepped up considerably. “You know social justice doesn’t take breaks for dinner,” he’d joked after she’d picked up his tablet, hurled it onto the couch across the room, and asked him to grab a couple of beers from the fridge.
Owen hadn’t done this when Nella had gone into aggressive assistant mode. He’d let her read her manuscripts in peace during their meals, had said no worries when she’d decided to forego an episode of The Sopranos because she had to finish something for Vera. He’d even forgiven her for missing family time with his moms. But Owen wasn’t dense. He was good at reading the room—another quality Nella had admired in him—and the week prior, as he’d popped the greasy plastic cover off the basil fried rice one evening, he was finally ready to say something about it.
“It’s the new girl, isn’t it?” he’d asked, rather plainly.
Nella had already impolitely started in on the steamed bok choy, had already even more impolitely opened up her tablet so she could
continue reading the contemporized, queer reinterpretation of Lord of the Flies that Vera had asked her to take a look at that evening. It had been as good as the agent had promised it would be, maybe even better, so she couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit ruffled when Owen pulled her out of it.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Nella had said, reaching her fork out so she could snag a rogue green bean that had fallen onto the table. She’d skipped lunch that day—again—and rued the notion of any vegetable getting left behind.
“What I mean is, you’re busting your ass at work because of the new girl. Am I right?” Owen finally handed her the container of fried rice and started to push his food around his plate with his plastic fork.
It was an act that produced a loud, scratchy sound that Nella could feel in her gut. But instead of calling him out for it, she’d just clenched her teeth and spooned rice onto her own plate, waiting for the scraping noise to cease.
“Hazel has nothing to do with any of this. I’ve just realized I’ve been slacking. I’ve gotten too comfortable in my position at Wagner, and I really need to step it up.”
“Bullshit. Come on. This new Black girl’s gotchu shook.”
She’d had to keep herself from smiling. “First of all, you can’t use my own people’s slang against me,” she’d joked. “And second of all, Hazel isn’t new anymore, not really. She’s been at Wagner for three months.”
“Didn’t you say that you felt like ‘the new girl’ for the first six?”
“That was different. I was the only Black girl then. The only Black person,” she’d corrected herself, “never mind the only Black girl.”
“That’s what I’m saying. She blew up your spot.”
“I’m pretty sure no one says ‘blow up your spot’ anymore.”
“The guys that I work with do.”
Nella gave him the chuckle that she knew he’d been fishing for. Most of Owen’s coworkers thought “Hey Ya!” was Outkast’s best song.
The Other Black Girl: A Novel Page 29
