The Only Black Girls in Town

by Brandy Colbert

“I think so, but I want to check, just to make sure.”

  “Should I come with you?”

  I pause. “I don’t know, Edie. I think she might not want a lot of people around.”

  “Oh, okay. Right.” She nods, gripping the strap of her bag. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah, see you later.”

  I wish I felt good about being so cool to Edie. I don’t want to be mean to her, but my feelings are still hurt by the way she snapped at me and how she brushed off my discovery about Constance after all the work we’ve done.

  But as I watch her walk away, hair hanging like a sheet over her face, I wonder if she ever heard from her dad.

  And I don’t feel good about watching her walk away, but I don’t stop her, either.

  SLEEPOVER

  WHEN I GET HOME FROM LARAMIE’S, THE HOUSE IS completely empty. No Dad, no Denise, and no Elliott, even though he should be returning home from work right about now.

  I go to the kitchen to look for a note, but there’s nothing. Just as I pull my phone from my bag to call Dad, the screen lights up. He’s calling.

  “Alberta, are you home?”

  “I just got back from Laramie’s. Where are you?”

  “Up in SLO,” he says, and his voice sounds strange, but I can’t figure out why. Too distant? Nervous? It’s… something.

  “With Elliott?”

  “No, but he’s on his way. To the hospital. I’m with Denise—she went into labor right before you got out of school! She didn’t want to risk driving down to L.A. to have the baby, so her doula is making the trip to meet us up here. Tim is still in Vancouver, but he’s trying to get on the next flight down.”

  Through all his babble, only one thing sticks out: “Denise is going to have her baby?”

  “Denise is going to have her baby,” he confirms, and I think I know now what’s in his voice. He sounds a little weepy, like he might cry at any second. The same way he sounds when we watch nature documentaries about animals in the wild with their babies.

  “Is someone coming down to get me?” I wonder if we’ll spend the night. Should I pack a bag? Will I get to stay home from school tomorrow? SLO is only twenty minutes away, but it’s not every day that someone we know has a baby. When my birth mother has a baby.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Dad says, and I can tell by the way his tone shifts into apologetic that I won’t be spending the night in San Luis Obispo. “Since Elliott is already up here, it makes more sense for him not to come down right now, or for either of us to deal with rush-hour traffic. Denise wants him in the room.”

  “Can’t I take a car or something?”

  “Alberta Freeman-Price, I am not letting you ‘take a car’ by yourself up here. You’re still my baby.”

  I huff. “So when do I get to come up?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But Elliott or I will come down and pick you up as soon as we can, okay? The baby isn’t even here yet. And I’ve called Calliope, who is more than happy to have you stay over at the B&B tonight and see you off to school in the morning. Sound good?”

  It doesn’t sound good at all, really. I think of Edie walking away after school today. Now I have to spend the night with her?

  “Dad, please. I promise I won’t be any trouble—”

  “Sweetheart, I need you to be a little more agreeable,” Dad says in his voice that means he’s trying his best to sound patient. “This makes the most sense, and I promise you’ll be up here in no time. Be good for the Whitmans. We’ll call you as soon as there’s more news.”

  Dad hangs up and I stand with my phone in my hand, looking around my empty kitchen. I can’t believe my entire family is only twenty minutes away and I have to stay here, wondering when I get to be with them. Wondering how Edie feels about me spending the night.

  I jump as the doorbell rings. When I open the front door, Edie is standing behind it, pink bakery box in hand.

  “I don’t know how to bake anything, but I stopped and got these cookies for you.” She holds the box out in front of her. “I didn’t know what kind you like, so I got one of everything. Do you even like cookies?”

  “I love cookies,” I say, staring down at the box.

  I can’t believe she went to the bakery to get these for me when I blew her off this afternoon.

  Edie is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “I didn’t mean to be rude to you at the creamery, and… it wasn’t cool. I’m sorry.”

  I take the cookies from her and tuck the box under my arm, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Thanks. And… it’s okay. I’m sorry, too. About your dad. I was just so excited about the Constance stuff, but I know how much you miss him.”

  She sighs. “It’s not just that I miss him anymore. I guess… I’m wondering if he is who I thought he was, you know? He doesn’t visit when he says he’s going to. And now he doesn’t call when he says he’s going to. And… I’m pretty sure he cheated on my mom.”

  My eyes widen. “That’s why they got divorced?”

  “Maybe? I don’t know. I didn’t believe it could be true at first. Craig still doesn’t. He’s on our dad’s side and keeps blaming this on my mom for not being… enough, whatever that means. And I keep wondering if it’s my fault.”

  “What? Why would it be your fault?”

  “My dad didn’t like it when I started dressing this way… back in fifth grade. And I started wearing black lipstick last year. I told him that it was the most me I’ve ever been, but he said people think goth girls are weird, and he didn’t want them to treat me bad because of it.”

  I can’t believe her father would say something like that. My dads don’t love everything I want to do or wear, but I don’t think they’d say people will think I’m weird. And I do feel bad for listening to what Nicolette told Laramie, and ever believing—even for a second—that Edie could be a poser, trying to fool us into thinking she’s someone she’s not. But then, even if she had reinvented her look just before she moved, it wouldn’t have made me like her any less. Edie is Edie, no matter what she looks like.

  “I guess I just… I thought my dad was, like, perfect all this time. But now… I don’t know.”

  “That really sucks, Edie.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “And I don’t think you’re weird. I think you’re probably the coolest person who’s ever lived in Ewing Beach.”

  Her light skin blushes. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I’m not just saying that! I’ve lived here practically my whole life. It’s totally true.”

  She blinks at me with eyes that look a bit scared. “Are we cool, Alberta? I don’t think I can stand to lose my only friend in Ewing Beach right now.”

  “Of course we’re cool,” I say softly. “And I’m not your only friend.”

  “You’re my only real friend.” Her eyes drift down to the bakery box. “Mom says you’re spending the night. Want to eat a bunch of cookies and spoil our dinner before we go back?”

  I pop open the box. “Only if you let me have the oatmeal raisin.”

  She smiles a big, genuine smile that travels all the way down from her eyes to her mouth. “Deal.”

  When we get to the bed and breakfast with my overnight bag and half a box of cookies, Ms. Whitman is fussing about what we’ll do for dinner, excited that I’ll be spending the night with them. “You’ll be our first guest in the B&B,” she says proudly. “This can be our soft opening.”

  Edie sighs. “Mom.”

  But her mother’s cheerfulness is so contagious it makes me feel better that I’m staying here if I can’t be at the hospital. Dad didn’t suggest I go to Laramie’s, and even though I’m still worried about her, I didn’t ask to.

  We help Ms. Whitman with dinner. She found a recipe for cauliflower Bolognese sauce that she’s been wanting to try. Edie appears less than thrilled, but her mother ignores the look on her face as she puts us to work making garlic butter for the bread and chopping vegetables for the sa
lad.

  “I think we should tell her,” Edie whispers when her mom is across the kitchen, busy with the food processor.

  I look up from the cucumber on my cutting board. “About Constance?”

  “Yeah, she can help us figure out what to do.”

  Like if we should tell Mrs. Palmer about the journals. And how.

  I’ve never had the kind of Bolognese with meat sauce, but I like this one. Even with my stomach full of cookies. And Edie looks pleasantly surprised as she takes a second bite.

  “This is really good, Mom,” she says. “I can’t even tell there’s cauliflower in here.”

  Ms. Whitman beams.

  As Edie spoons more sauce into her bowl, she glances at me, then looks at her mother. “Mom, do you know anything about Mrs. Harris?”

  “Mrs. Harris…” her mother says, looking toward the ceiling as if she’s trying to remember who that is.

  “The woman who owned the B&B before us.”

  “Oh, of course.” Ms. Whitman reaches for a piece of garlic bread. “Well, not really. I know that she passed away here, and she lived a long life, and she was sentimental.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, twirling spaghetti onto my fork.

  “Her family didn’t take a lot of her things. It wasn’t junk, but mementos. Things that clearly meant a lot to her, from years ago.”

  “Well.” Edie pauses and looks at me again before she goes on. “I think we found one of those mementos. Or, a few of them.”

  “Journals,” I say. “A whole box of them, up in the attic.”

  Edie sets down her fork. “They don’t have her name in them, but we think she was using a fake name.”

  “We think she was passing. For white,” I add when I see the confused look on Ms. Whitman’s face.

  She slowly chews the rest of her garlic bread, looking back and forth between the two of us. “Girls, slow down and start over. You think Mrs. Harris was pretending to be someone else?”

  We start from the beginning, and while I’m telling her about what was in the journals, Edie runs upstairs. When she comes back, she has a few cradled in her arms. Including the last one, where Constance mentions Ewing Beach.

  Ms. Whitman wipes her mouth, pushes her plate aside, and opens one of the books. Her eyes scan over a few entries in a row. She looks up at us. “How many of these did you read?”

  “A lot. From, like, 1955 to this last one,” Edie says, opening the 1968 journal.

  Ms. Whitman is quiet, smoothing her palms over the fragile, yellowed pages of the books. When she looks up at us, her eyes are shining. “Oh, girls. You read all of these?”

  Edie and I exchange a look.

  “Sorry,” Edie says. “I know they’re personal and I’m not supposed to read people’s personal things. But they were just up there… and they’re so old, we figured whoever they belonged to isn’t still alive, anyway.”

  “No, no, I’m not mad.” Ms. Whitman narrows her eyes, thinking. “I’m just trying to figure out how we could confirm it’s her.” Then she says, “Oh, of course!” again, and hops out of her seat.

  “Mom?” Edie says, but Ms. Whitman is already heading down the hallway, mumbling to herself about some kind of paperwork.

  She returns empty-handed. “We need the title to the B&B.”

  Edie and I just stare at her, puzzled.

  “It’s a record of everyone who ever owned the house and a bunch of other information that most people don’t read unless they have a reason to,” she says. “Mrs. Harris left the house to her kids, so the sale went through them. I don’t have her name on any of my paperwork.”

  “Well, where can we find it? This title?” Edie tears nervously at her garlic bread.

  “The county clerk’s office, usually,” her mother says. “But I’m thinking… since you’ve been working with Mrs. Palmer, maybe we should go up there and ask her ourselves.”

  Edie raises her eyebrow. “You mean, just… ask her? If her mom was passing for white?”

  “We’ll do it a bit more eloquently than that,” Ms. Whitman says. “We can tell her we found something that we think was her mother’s and would like to return. She might end up telling us herself… if she knew.”

  “Can we go tonight?”

  Her mother looks at the clock in the dining room. “I think it’s too late for tonight. Everything closes early here. But we can go tomorrow, for sure.”

  “You won’t go without me, will you?” I ask. I want to see Denise and her baby as soon as I can, but I don’t want to miss out on talking to Mrs. Palmer. Or watching Edie’s mom talk to Mrs. Palmer, I guess.

  “I promise we won’t do it without you, Alberta,” Ms. Whitman assures me.

  “How could we?” Edie adds. “You’re the one who figured it out.”

  Dad checks in before I go to bed to say the baby still hasn’t come, but Tim is on a flight down to SLO. I’m disappointed. I really wanted the baby to be born by now so I could maybe go up there tonight. Now I’ll have to suffer through school all day tomorrow, wondering when it’s going to happen. How am I supposed to sleep with all of this going on?

  Ms. Whitman says I can have my pick of rooms. They’re nice rooms. A few of them are ready for guests with crisp sheets and plumped pillows on the beds, books on the nightstands, and vases on the bureaus, waiting for fresh flowers. But they all seem too big. Too far away from Edie and Ms. Whitman. So, creepy as Edie’s bedroom is, I still think I’d rather sleep up there with her poster of that cranky guy and the bird than by myself.

  We blow up an air mattress and Edie’s mother brings up sheets and extra pillows. “You’re sure you’ll be okay up here, Alberta? The beds really are comfortable.”

  “I’ll be okay. Thank you, Ms. Whitman.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, the offer stands. Good night, girls.” She kisses Edie on the forehead and squeezes my arm before she goes back downstairs.

  I figure Edie and I will stay up talking for a while, the way Laramie and I always do during sleepovers. And it always takes me longer to fall asleep in a strange place. But we both must be so exhausted by everything that’s happened, because we fall fast asleep.

  I wake to my phone buzzing on the pillow beside me.

  I look around, confused about where I am. The room and night sky are still dark. But then I hear Edie snoring lightly in her bed and I remember.

  I look at the lit-up screen. It’s Elliott.

  “Hey, Al,” he says when I pick up. His voice is low, but he sounds happy. A little emotional, even. “The baby’s here.”

  I sit up on the air mattress. “Since when?”

  “Just about a half hour ago—the official time was 2:02 a.m. It’s a boy.”

  I grin. “What’s his name?”

  “Caleb Elliott Kaplan.” He sounds proud.

  “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” I whisper, settling back on the mattress.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. You doing okay? Sorry the baby didn’t come earlier. We all wanted you here.”

  “I’m fine. Can I come up tomorrow?”

  That means we have to hold off another day on talking to Mrs. Palmer, but I don’t think I can wait to see Denise and the baby.

  “You sure can. Dad will pick you up at school.”

  “Are you coming home tonight?”

  “Eventually. I think we’re all too excited to do much of anything right now besides stare at this beautiful baby.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  “Good night, Al. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I say, closing my eyes.

  CALEB

  DAD IS SO GIDDY ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL THE next afternoon, he barely stops talking. I don’t think he got very much sleep last night. As happy as he is, there are bags under his eyes. And he keeps sipping from a giant travel mug of coffee every few minutes.

  “I can’t believe they gave the baby Elliott’s name,” I say, thinking back to his late phone call. I’m not feeling so full of energy
myself. I kept waking up the rest of the night, excited about something and forgetting why. Over and over again. By the time Edie’s alarm went off, I was exhausted.

  “He’s pretty touched,” Dad says with a small smile. He must feel me staring at him, because he finally looks over. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Alberta?”

  “It’s just… are you sad that she didn’t name the baby after you?” I’m scared that he’ll tell me it’s too rude of a question, but I want to know.

  “It’s sweet of you to think of me, but no, I’m not,” he says. “Denise and Elliott knew each other before I ever came into the picture. They just have a certain… something, you know? I love them both very much, but I’d never try to pretend that we all share the same friendship. Besides, Denise gave me the greatest gift of all when she gave me you.”

  “Dad,” I say, looking down at my lap. But it makes me smile.

  I get nervous when we turn into the hospital parking lot. I don’t know why. I don’t come to hospitals very often. Or ever, really.

  “Ready?” Dad says, already out of the car. I’m still looking at the building.

  Inside, there are people crowding the hallways and waiting rooms, and it smells too clean, as if everything has been dipped in bleach. I walk close to Dad, like if I hang back too far I’ll get trapped in here forever.

  I don’t know what to expect when we get to Denise’s room. Will she be hooked up to machines or woozy from medicine?

  Dad knocks on the door and I hear Tim’s voice telling us to come in. When we walk through the doorway, everything looks totally normal. Denise and Tim are in the room, looking just like Denise and Tim. Only their faces are just so happy. Like they haven’t stopped smiling for the past twelve hours. They look like Elliott sounded last night.

  Denise’s face lights up even more when she sees us. “Alberta, we were just talking about you,” she says from the bed, where she’s propped up against a pile of pillows. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.” I stand in place until Dad gently presses my back, pushing me toward the bed.