“No. When did Gwen find out about this?”
“Friday night, apparently. She packed up all her things over the weekend and word has it she’s already in Missouri.”
I sat with this explanation for some time. Gently, I asked, “When is she coming back?”
“Unclear when. Or even if. She’s been trying to work at a national publication for years now. And she’s not getting any younger,” Reagan loud-whispered.
I groaned. “Fuck. Great timing. I just finished a really important piece and I want her to take a look at it, like… now.”
“Aw, yeah—that sucks. But don’t worry!” Reagan said, patting my arm. “River says they’ve already hired an interim editor to take Gwen’s place. Actually… that might be her?”
My eyes followed Reagan’s. A young Black woman appeared to have entered from the parking garage side of the office. Holding a tote bag in one hand and a coffee cup in another, she’d already passed the potted ficus and the politics editor’s empty desk; now she was strutting past Printer Row, her hair cropped and glistening, and her sights set on me and Reagan.
“Sick! Another…” Reagan glanced at me, caught herself. “… young person.”
I didn’t speak. I was too concerned with this woman’s long, pronounced strides. She was making too confident of a beeline toward us for someone on her first day. Like she already belonged. Like it wasn’t a big deal that her shoes were four-inch heels, shoes that I’d never seen her wear before.
And her hair… oh, her hair. Wispy, fine, the color of a roasted almond. Fashioned into a chic, asymmetrical bob that was perfectly, painfully, straight.
“Ladies,” she said, casually running her fingers through the back of what could only be a full lace weave. “Hello. How are you this morning? I’m Delilah Henson—Gwen’s interim replacement.”
Reagan responded convivially. I only muttered my own response as I examined her painted-on eyebrows, her heavily contoured skin. When she waved, she brought a nauseating, syrupy odor with her.
“Could one of you please tell me where Gwen’s office is?”
She was looking at me, but I’d already returned my attention to that bounce-back email. It was the only thing keeping me anchored to my chair. Your email was not delivered because the email address you entered could not be found.
Reagan pointed at the small metal slab into which Gwen’s name had been engraved. “You’ve come to the right place! It’s right here.”
“Perfect.” The woman held up her coffee cup in gratitude. “And now, sorry, one more ask—can one of you tell me where Shani Edmonds sits?”
Reagan pointed me out before I could tell her not to. “She’s right here, too!”
“Stellar! Shani, we have so much to talk about. Gwen mentioned you’ve been working on a very important article that you’re planning on finishing today? I would hate for it to get lost in the transition.”
“Look at you, already hard at work!” Reagan said admiringly. “I’ll leave so you two can get acquainted, but Delilah, let’s do lunch? I’d love to chat more!”
“Yes! I’d love that, too. Name the time and the date and the place and I’ll be there with bells on, honey.”
And then we were two.
I swallowed as I slowly looked up at the Black woman again. Her teeth shone an impossible shade of white; her eyes, which were as dark and flat as her hair, were too glossy to reveal the veracity of her smile. But then she spoke, her polished, practiced tone striking an all-too-familiar chord within.
“Now, Shani, tell me…” Nella came closer, put a cool hand to my shoulder. “What’s it really like here? You can be real with me, sis.”
Acknowledgments
There are so many people without whom this book wouldn’t be possible. First, a big, big thank-you to the amazing team of people who helped me turn my childhood dream into a reality. Stephanie Delman, my lovely agent who believed in this project from the very beginning: thank you for your dedication, your faith, and for always being just one text message away. I couldn’t have asked for a sharper or more thoughtful agent than you, and I couldn’t have asked for a more supportive agency than Sanford J. Greenburger. A special thanks, too, to my two fierce foreign rights agents, Stefanie Diaz at Greenburger and Vanessa Kerr at Abner Stein, who both helped transport The Other Black Girl to lands I’d only dreamed my novel would see.
Lindsay Sagnette, my brilliant editor and champion: Our hours-long chats and your insightful notes exceeded all of my wildest dreams. Thank you, always, for your endless encouragement and your invigorating spirit. Fiora Elbers-Tibbitts: Your diligence—and all of the instrumental work you put into keeping the gears of this book turning smoothly and efficiently, even during a pandemic—have been essential. Milena Brown and Ariele Fredman: To say you are the best hype women is an understatement. Thank you times a million for spreading the word about this book near and far, and in such meaningful ways. So many thanks, also, to Libby McGuire, Dana Trocker, Gary Urda, and the phenomenal Simon & Schuster sales team for pulling out all the stops when it came to publishing The Other Black Girl, and to Jimmy Iacobelli, Jill Putorti, Tamara Arellano, and Carla Benton for the care and time you spent making it beautiful inside and out.
I am so grateful to everyone at Atria for being so careful and considerate when it came to every detail and decision of how this book was published, including licensing an iconic work of art by Temi Coker for the cover. And I am so grateful to you, Temi, for entrusting us with your work.
Additionally, I’d be remiss not to say that I was granted the utmost good fortune of having two additional editors help me push this book to new heights: Chelcee Johns and my UK editor, Alexis Kirschbaum. Chelcee, thank you for taking each and every single sentence of this novel to heart, and for being so generous with your time and your talents. I can’t thank you enough for your help. Alexis, your enthusiasm was palpable all the way across the pond, as was that of Amy Donegan, Emilie Chambeyron, Jasmine Horsey, and everyone at Bloomsbury. It has been such a pleasure working with you all, and I feel so lucky to have you on my team.
In addition to crossing continents, The Other Black Girl has also been given the opportunity to cross mediums. Thank you so much to my very helpful film/TV agents at UTA, Addison Duffy and Jasmine Lake, and to Tara Duncan and my entire team at Temple Hill, for showing me the ropes and believing in this story’s potential to reach even wider audiences.
Bits (okay, maybe really large chunks) of my own experiences are woven throughout this book, and the writing I submitted in my nonfiction MFA workshops, as well as to my steadfast thesis adviser, Zia Jaffrey, helped me work through many of these experiences. Thank you to everyone in the New School creative writing program who read these often raw and very personal essays. Having your eyes and your ears was invaluable, as were the friendships I made there. Alison: Your notes on my early draft were instrumental. You are one of the most generous writers and friends I have ever known. Sincere: Your enthusiastic response when I first messaged you the embryo of this idea on Google Chat while I should have been working was clutch. Thank you for helping me spot OBGs, and for giving me the space to be my unabashed, Blackity-Black self.
Genevieve, my former work wife and dear friend: I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t have you to laugh and kvetch and make bad Nespresso coffee with during my publishing days. Thank you for your incredible support then and now. And thank you, too, to all of my former colleagues and authors who cheered me on when I left publishing to write this book. I printed out your kind words and still have them to this day.
Grisha, my wonderful partner: It’s not always easy living with your partner in a studio apartment, and I imagine it’s less easy while there’s a pandemic raging outside and your partner is a self-conscious writer like me. This book could not have happened without you. Thank you for talking me through tricky plot points and pulling me through moments of wondering if someone would actually want to read this book. You were right. Meow.
This is for both of you.
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About the Author
ZAKIYA DALILA HARRIS spent nearly three years in the editorial department at Knopf Doubleday before leaving to write her debut novel, The Other Black Girl. Prior to working in publishing, Harris received her MFA in creative writing from the New School. Her essays and book reviews have appeared in Guernica and the Rumpus. She lives in Brooklyn.
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Interior design by Jill Putorti
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover illustration by Temi Coker
Author photograph by Nicole Mondestin
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harris, Zakiya Dalila, author.
Title: The other black girl : a novel / Zakiya Dalila Harris.
Description: First Atria Books hardcover edition. | New York : Atria Books, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020048720 (print) | LCCN 2020048721 (ebook) | ISBN 9781982160135 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781982160159 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A783293 O85 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.A783293 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048720
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048721
ISBN 978-1-9821-6013-5
ISBN 978-1-9821-6015-9 (ebook)
The Other Black Girl: A Novel Page 36
