Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Brandy Colbert
Cover art copyright © 2020 by Erin Robinson. Cover design by Marcie Lawrence and Jenny Kimura. Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Colbert, Brandy, author.
Title: The only black girls in town / by Brandy Colbert.
Description: New York ; Boston : Little, Brown and Company, 2020. | Summary: In a predominately white California beach town, the only two black seventh graders, Alberta and Edie, find hidden journals that uncover family secrets and speak to race relations in the past.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019022183| ISBN 9780316456388 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316456371 (ebk.) | ISBN 9780316456395 (library edition ebk.)
Subjects: | CYAC: Friendship—Fiction. | African Americans— Fiction. | Race relations—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Gay fathers—Fiction. | California—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.C66998 Onl 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022183
ISBNs: 978-0-316-45638-8 (hardcover), 978-0-316-45637-1 (ebook)
E3-20200130-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
1: BLENDING IN
2: SKINFOLK
3: PURE BLACK
4: FEMININE PERSPECTIVE
5: BIOLOGICAL
6: A YOU-AND-ME THING
7: CONSTANCE
8: COUSINS
9: KICKING
10: LIVING BEINGS
11: BEACH NIGHT
12: LOOK-ALIKES
13: POSER
14: RUBBER DUCKY
15: SURF’S UP
16: BFF
17: INVISIBLE MAN
18: GUMBOTTOM
19: BLEACHERS
20: THE ABSTRACTION
21: EWING BEACH
22: BARNEY
23: BRAVE CHOICES
24: ACCIDENT
25: SLEEPOVER
26: CALEB
27: FAMILY
28: ALL APOLOGIES
29: ALL HALLOWS’ EVE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For all the Alberts in my family
And Great-Great-Aunt Alberta, too
BLENDING IN
I WOULD BE SAD THAT TODAY IS THE LAST DAY OF surf camp if I weren’t so busy trying to ignore the worst person alive.
Our instructor, Irene, just passed out the trophies. Everyone got one, of course. They all say the same thing at the bottom: EWING BEACH SURF CAMP with the year engraved underneath. There’s a tiny gold surfboard sitting on top.
Next to me, Nicolette McKee is repeatedly kicking the balls of her feet into the sand, trophy held slack at her side. I have to see her at school and all over town because Ewing Beach is tiny. And then there’s the fact that she lives across the street, so I also have to see her just about every day of my life. But the end of surf camp means the start of school, and Nicolette is always worse when she’s around her friends.
Irene stands in front of the whole group to say how much she’s going to miss us. “I hope you’ll all come to the end-of-summer party this weekend,” she says, readjusting the knot of red hair on top of her head. “We’re gonna grill out, and we’ll have ice cream, and you can all bring your boards if you’d rather catch some waves.”
Nicolette sneers. “These aren’t even gold-plated,” she mutters. “They’re probably going to turn green in, like, a month.”
On the other side of me, Oliver Guzman holds his trophy in the air, admiring it. “Where are you gonna put yours, Alberta?”
“In my room,” I say, trying to ignore Nicolette. “What about you?”
“Our trophy case.” He shrugs when I give him a look. “My parents are into it. They like to show it off when family comes over.”
We all give ourselves a hand, Irene’s favorite way to close out each day of camp. Nicolette unzips her wet suit and starts pulling her arms out, right and then left. I bend down to slip my trophy into my bag, and when I stand up, Irene is in front of me.
“Great work this summer, Alberta,” she says, her blue eyes warm.
“Thanks, Irene.”
Then she smiles and leans in, whispering, “You were the best one in camp, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”
What? I barely have time to smile back before she’s moving down the sand toward her assistant, Jed, who’s breaking down the cardboard boxes that had held the trophies.
Irene was quiet, but by the grin Oliver gives me, I know he heard. And I really hope he was the only one. Even if Nicolette didn’t hear Irene, she can probably see it on me. I can’t stop grinning, and my chest immediately puffed up with pride as Irene’s words sank in. I watch Irene as she talks to Jed and then wanders away, but she doesn’t go up to anyone else and whisper in their ear.
“Awww.” Nicolette’s head is tilted to the side as she looks at me with wide eyes. “That’s cute, Alberta.”
I know not to take the bait, but I do it anyway. “What?”
“That Irene tries to make you feel good about yourself here. I guess it’s not like school, huh?”
I frown at her. I should walk away, but, like always, there’s something inside me that plants my feet to the ground and makes me keep listening to Nicolette McKee. I hate that something.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Oliver watching us.
“Sorry,” Nicolette says, not looking sorry at all. “It’s just that you’re, like, different here and different there, but Irene tries to make it special for you. That’s cute.”
I’ve been coming to surf camp since I was six years old. Three hours a day, four days a week for two months. I don’t need camp to surf, but it’s more fun to be with people who love it as much as I do. And I am into everything about it except the fact that Nicolette is in my surf group. She’ll take any chance to remind me that I don’t look like other people in Ewing Beach—that she doesn’t think I fit in.
I haven’t said anything. Just like my feet are rooted in the sand, my lips are glued tightly together.
Nicolette pauses then blinks at me, her eyes even bigger. “I mean, do you think you were the best surfer in camp?”
Dad says not to respond to ignorance with ignorance, and I know it’s never worth getting into it with Nicolette—ever—but sometimes I really want to.
“Yes,” I finally say. “I do think I was the best. I guess you just aren’t a
s good as you think you are.”
My father would probably count that last part as an ignorant comment, but it’s worth it just to see the way Nicolette’s eyes narrow into the thinnest slits. And to hear Oliver snicker.
“Whatever, Alberta.” She runs a hand over her wet ponytail, wringing out the last drips of water as she glares at me.
That—and she—is not even worth a response. I turn my back to her, tuck my board under my arm, and look at Oliver. “Ready?”
He nods and we head off together on our walk home, still wearing our wet suits. Oliver lives two blocks over from mine, and not for the first time, I wish he were the one who lived across the street instead of Nicolette.
“What’s her problem?” Oliver says, shaking his head.
I sigh. “I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.”
“You competing in the Pismo contest this year?”
“Maybe.” I hesitate. It’s a very hopeful maybe. I’m not allowed to compete in surfing contests until I turn thirteen. My dads’ rule, which I think is ridiculous. The contest is in a few weeks, and I don’t turn thirteen until next year. But I’m hoping to convince them with my powers of persuasion. “What about you?”
“Nah, not really my thing. I mean, I like surfing, but soccer’s more my sport.”
By the time we reach my street, my arm is cramping from holding my board. Maybe it’s because it’s the last day of camp, but I feel more exhausted than I have all summer. I say good-bye to Oliver at the corner and cross the street by the bed and breakfast that sits across the road from our house. Everything looks the same as always: the same HARRIS INN sign swinging from the white wooden posts in front of the porch, the same avocado tree, its branches heavy with fruit, and—
Wait. There’s a car in the driveway, and it’s not the silver one that the realtor drives. And the FOR SALE sign is gone, the one that’s been sitting in the yard for the last two months.
Someone bought the B&B? My stomach gets those excited flutters that mean something big is about to happen. Who’s going to move in? I can’t imagine anyone living there but Mrs. Harris.
Next to the B&B, little Stephan McKee is jumping up and down on his front porch, shouting at his nanny to hurry up so they can go to the beach. I roll my eyes. Stephan is five years old, and he’s the biggest brat I know. He’s always talking to his nanny like he’s the one in charge, and his parents never tell him to be nicer. I guess that’s no surprise, considering he’s Nicolette’s brother. Elliott says the entire family is cold.
Oliver and I rinsed our boards under the beach shower before we headed home, so I take mine around back to let it finish drying. Then I peel off my wet suit, hold it under the water spigot off the side of the house, and hang it to drip-dry in the shade.
When I walk around back, the door is open, letting in the breeze and letting out the sounds of Dad making lunch. I leave my surf bag on the porch, but I take out my trophy so I can put it next to the others in my room.
“How was it?” Dad asks as I kick off my sandy flip-flops and step inside. He’s busy chopping up cucumbers for the quinoa salad, but he stops when he sees my trophy. “Hey, look at that!”
“It’s not a big deal, Dad. Everyone got one.” I pad barefoot across the kitchen and give him a kiss on the cheek. “But… Irene said I was the best surfer in camp.”
Dad hoots with joy. “Of course she did! Of course you were. Good job, sweetheart. And not just because it means we’re getting our money’s worth out of that camp.” He winks at me. “Can we put this one on the mantel?”
“Maybe,” I say, turning it around in my hands. Even though it doesn’t seem important enough to go in the front room. Not like the ones you actually earn, like in the Pismo contest. “I’m going to take a shower before we eat.”
As much as I believe what Irene said, I wish I could remember it without thinking of Nicolette, too. I don’t think anyone besides Oliver heard Irene, but I wonder if they’d believe the same thing. That Irene only said that to make me feel special.
I go to wash off all the sweat, sand, and salt, then meet Dad back in the kitchen where he’s just finishing up the salad.
I grab two bowls in one hand and two glasses with another. Then I bump the cabinet door closed with my elbow. “Somebody bought the bed and breakfast?”
“Oh, I meant to tell you—I spoke to the real estate agent yesterday,” Dad says, nodding. “The new owners just got here this morning.”
After Mrs. Harris died, her grown kids arrived in three different cars, taking out boxes and boxes of stuff. Then construction workers started showing up every day, wearing fluorescent vests and hard hats as they did renovations. Everyone in town thought maybe one of Mrs. Harris’s kids would take over the bed and breakfast, especially her daughter who lives here in Ewing Beach: Mrs. Palmer. But Dad says she’s not interested in running a B&B, and the other two kids live across the country and don’t want to move to California.
The real estate agent has shown it to a few people, but no one has lived or stayed there since June. It’s the end of August now, which means the new owners are moving in just at the end of the busy season. Once the tourists stop coming, Ewing Beach looks like a ghost town.
“Do you know anything about the new neighbors?” I ask, putting silverware next to our bowls as Dad brings the salad to the table. I love quinoa salad. Unlike my best friend, Laramie, who says it feels like chewing on bugs. Laramie’s family doesn’t eat a lot of grains… or salad. Their mom works a bunch, and they eat a lot of fast-food burgers and mac and cheese from the box and her brother’s culinary concoctions, which are only edible about half the time.
“I was trying not to be too nosy,” Dad says, spreading his napkin over his lap.
I do the same. “You didn’t find out anything?”
“Well, I found out two things that may be of interest to you,” he says in a singsongy voice that drives me crazy. He only uses it when he’s trying to prolong the suspense, and it always ends up being more annoying than intriguing.
I take a bite of salad and wait for him to go on. He really drags it out, chewing another couple of bites. When he takes a drink of water and then dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin, I can’t take it anymore.
“Dad! What did you find out?”
He laughs. “Okay, okay. Well, I think it will be of great interest to you that, number one, the new neighbors have a girl just your age.”
I nearly drop my fork on the floor. “What? Really?”
There hasn’t been anyone my age on this street since we’ve lived here. And we’ve been here since I was two years old. I’m twelve now. It doesn’t take long to get anywhere in Ewing Beach, but having a friend right across the street is something I’ve wished hard for and never expected to happen. Well, there’s Nicolette, but she’s a year older and definitely not a friend.
“Yup, she’ll be in seventh grade next week, just like you.”
I keep picking up forkfuls of quinoa, but I’m too excited to eat. I have a billion questions. Questions I am sure Dad doesn’t know the answer to, like what is her name and can she surf and is she a vegetarian, too? But there is one more that he can answer.
“What’s the other thing you know about them?” I ask. “You said there were two things.”
“Ah, yes. Are you ready?”
“Dad.” I give him my most exasperated look. It’s not as good as Elliott’s, but I think it’s close.
“They’re black!” he says in a voice so boisterous he sounds like the announcer on The Price Is Right—Elliott’s guilty pleasure.
“What?” I frown, sure that I didn’t hear him right.
“Finally, we won’t be the only ones on the street.”
Which means that finally, I won’t be the only black girl in my entire grade.
I rinse the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher, making sure to not leave a bit of food on the bowls or silverware. My other dad, Elliott, is picky about the kitchen, from the way th
e dishwasher is loaded to how the glasses are lined up in the cabinet (the lip of the glass should be down, not up).
As I scrub quinoa from the bowls, I think about the new neighbors. There aren’t many black people in Ewing Beach—barely any besides me, Dad, and Elliott. There are two boys a year older than me and a girl in the grade above them, but I’m the only black student in my grade. All the other black people in town are the same age as my grandparents and dads, or they’re little kids who toddle around on the beach with diapers under their swimsuits. Even most of the tourists are white.
And now we’ll have black neighbors? One who is a girl the same age as me? I have an overwhelming urge to find out everything about her. But Dad says we need to wait until tomorrow to introduce ourselves. Give them some time to settle in.
I have plans with Laramie, anyway. Her brother is working at the ice-cream shop today. She texted earlier and said I should come downtown because he always gives us a free cone when he’s there.
I stick my head in the office/guest room. “Okay if I go down to meet Laramie at the creamery?”
Dad’s frowning at his computer screen, but his worried eyebrows go back to normal when he looks at me. “Of course,” he says. “Just promise you won’t get butter pecan.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I like it.” Which means I know I’ll never be disappointed.
He groans and looks to the ceiling. “How did I end up raising a daughter so set in her ways? Have you seen the flavors they’re getting in down there lately? Balsamic swirl! Strawberry rhubarb! Olive oil!”
I scrunch up my nose. “No, thank you.”
Dad and Elliott are foodies, and I like most of the stuff they make, but I don’t try new things very often. And I’m okay with that.
“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “Guess I’ll have to live vicariously through someone a bit more adventurous.”
“Bye, Dad.”
“I’m heading over to the gallery soon. Make sure you’re back before dinner, Alberta,” he calls after me.
I wheel my mint-green beach cruiser around the front of the house and look once more at the B&B before I push off. The car is still in the driveway, but I don’t see anyone outside. I think back to the Fourth of July, when the construction workers and real estate agent were gone, and Laramie and I tried to break in. Well, not break in. Not really. We just wanted to see what the place looks like now. But every door was locked tight, every window shade drawn shut.
The Only Black Girls in Town Page 1
