Should Have Known Better

by Grace Octavia

  I walked away from her, slid my glass into the basket with the wine bottle, and picked up the basket. I felt Sasha following behind me to the house, but I couldn’t turn around. I didn’t have any reason to turn around, but I just kept reminding myself that I couldn’t. I didn’t want to look at her.

  “You’re beautiful,” Sasha said when we were halfway up the path to the back door.

  “Thank you,” I said dismissively. I felt myself swaying and discerned that the faster I got into the house the better.

  “What, are you mad at me?”

  “No, I’m just trying to get inside. It’s getting a little chilly out here.” I stepped onto the first wooden step at the back door.

  Sasha took my arm and turned me around.

  “What?” I said.

  She stole the basket and tossed it to the ground.

  I went to grab it, for fear that the glasses would break, but before I could, she grabbed my chin and pulled my face to hers. She kissed me. Spread my lips with her tongue and pushed it into my mouth.

  I pulled back, but she held my chin tightly and then wrapped her other arm around my back.

  Soon, my tongue was in her mouth, too, and I felt like the ocean was falling into me. It wasn’t like kissing a man. It was like kissing her. Her. Everything that she was, that I wasn’t. Everything beautiful. Everything strong. Everything easy. It was a delight. And I can only say that right now. Looking back. Because then I was scared and confused by that feeling. How my whole body vibrated with hers. And as soon as I felt my own hand wrapping around her back, I snapped.

  “No,” I said, pulling back from her hold. “No. What are you doing?”

  “You’re so beautiful,” Sasha said.

  “I’m not a lesbian!”

  “God, Dawn, will you relax?” she said lightly. “It’s nothing. It’s just a kiss. A little practice.”

  “I don’t need practice,” I said. “I said no.” I went to open the door, but she grabbed my arm again.

  “I’m not some crazy lesbian chick—you know that,” she said. “I just want you to be happy. I just want to help.” She paused. “I really do.”

  “Look, I know down in Atlanta, you all call that help, but it’s not what I need in my marriage right now. I’m OK. He’ll come around.”

  I slipped into the kitchen and finished off the bottle of wine the next morning. I needed something to face the folks at my breakfast table and forget what happened the night before. I kept complaining to myself about the weird kiss and the weird moment, but it was really all about how I felt. How that weird kiss and weird moment made me feel was just abrupt. I didn’t want to look at Sasha. I didn’t want to look at Reginald. I just wanted to get through breakfast, get the kids to school, and have this last moment at the nail shop with Sasha. I told myself to let it go. I didn’t think she’d actually meant anything by it. I believed what she said about the kiss being “nothing” and just wanting to help. But what I felt wasn’t nothing. It was a rush. And I didn’t know what to do with that.

  So, with the wine and the weirdness, I was in this odd kind of autopilot that next morning. I overslept again and missed R. J.’s story, only to find out that Sasha had done it again. And made pancakes . . . again. I listened to a joke about a lion named Nino Brown and laughed as Reginald tried to retell it and added in his own lines from New Jack City. I got the kids to school. I called into work. I got dressed and went to Sasha’s room to let her know I was ready for our “girl’s day.” I just needed to make one stop.

  “OK,” she said, sliding her nude toes with red polish into a pair of heels.

  I watched for a second and then snapped back to look off and away.

  “Is everything OK?” Sasha asked, grabbing her purse.

  “Yeah, just need to stop by the library for a minute.”

  “No, I mean with you. Are you OK? From last night? Because I—”

  “Sasha, it’s fine. I’m fine,” I said, forcing myself to look into her eyes. “It’s all good. I . . . I . . . I . . . I believe. I’m fine. We’re good. Let’s go have girl’s day.”

  “We’ll just be in here a second,” I explained to Sasha, turning into the vestibule leading into the library. She was walking beside me in a perfectly wrapped purple dress. I could smell her perfume again. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably an issue with the computers. I’ll call tech support.”

  “I’m fine,” Sasha said. “No rush.”

  I waved at a few familiar sleepy faces as we headed behind the help desk. Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Harris sat on opposite ends of the main floor.

  “Hello?” I called, stepping into the back office with Sasha still behind me.

  We almost ran right into Sharika as she was walking out of the back office.

  “Oh, I was just on my way up front,” she said, her leg half wrapped around the desk where she was clearly sitting and on the Internet.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I rushed right over here when I got the message about the emergency. What’s up? Kids run the Internet down again?”

  Sharika was quiet; she pushed back on her heels and put her hands on her hips. She looked right past me and at Sasha.

  “Is that the woman from the news?” Sharika asked and it was rather off because Sasha was right near her and could hear the question.

  “Oh, where are my manners? I apologize.” I backed up so Sasha and Sharika could shake hands. “Sasha, this is my coworker Sharika Freeman and Sharika, this is my college roommate and soror, Sasha Bellamy—she’s visiting from Atlanta.”

  They exchanged weak smiles and shook uneasily offered hands.

  “You have that show on CNN? Comes on late at night.”

  “That’s me,” Sasha said, smiling. “You watch?”

  “No. I watch A. J. Holmes.”

  Sasha’s smile flatlined.

  “You know him?” Sharika asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Sharika, what’s the emergency?” I jumped in. “You said you needed me to come by.”

  Sharika slid her hand back onto her free hip and slowly shifted her focus from Sasha to me.

  “We have an emergency,” she said.

  “I gathered as much, as you said that over the phone,” I said anxiously. “Now, what is it? Is there something wrong with the computers?”

  “No, that’s not it. Much better!” Sharika led me and Sasha back out to the main desk.

  We stood in the middle of the help desk area, following Sharika’s eyes and looking out over the floor.

  “It’s them,” she whispered to me. “Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Harris.” She pointed from one to the other and looked at me. “They’ve been at this all morning.”

  I looked at Mr. Lawrence sitting in his usual seat near the dying fern at the end of a row of tables. He had no old, upside-down newspaper and was just staring hard across the room at Mrs. Harris, who was pretty much doing the same back at him. He sucked his teeth at her and she rolled her eyes at him. And then they did it again.

  “You two are looking at those old people?” Sasha asked and I nodded. “They sure don’t look happy.”

  Sharika looked Sasha up and down as if she’d intruded on some private conversation. And, in Sharika’s mind, Sasha was. Sometimes Sharika read about drama; other times, she created her own. She was either an actress or the ringmaster.

  “So, what do you think, Dawn,” Sharika asked. “I think they look angry about something.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “But how is that an emergency?”

  “Well, after what happened in the bathroom the other day, I don’t want any drama up in here,” Sharika said. “Lord only knows what those two have going down.”

  I watched as the pair exchanged angry glances again. A teenager sitting directly in the line of fire got nervous and moved to a different table.

  “What, you think she slept with one of his friends? He stole her money? Come on, they’re old. It’ll pass,” I said.

  “But I don’t want it to pass in her
e,” Sharika said. “The county already thinks we’re a joke. The last thing we need is another fight. And I was reading this book like last month about an old couple who got into a fight in an animal hospital and—”

  “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” I offered. “And if you really think it’ll be a big deal, I’ll speak to Mrs. Harris on my way out. How about that?”

  “I guess that’ll work,” Sharika said and I turned in time to see her cutting her eyes at Sasha again.

  “Wonderful. Hey, Sasha, why don’t you go and wait in the car for me.” I handed Sasha the car keys. “I need to check something on my computer really quickly before we go.”

  “That’s fine.” Sasha took the keys and smiled at Sharika. “Great meeting you.”

  “Yeah, the pleasure was all mine,” Sharika said vacantly.

  After Sasha walked out, I pulled Sharika by the arm into the back room.

  “What was this about?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that I call in to take a personal day and you say there’s an emergency and it’s just Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Harris giving crazy eyes across the room? That’s not an emergency.” I held up my hand signaling to a girl who’d just walked up to the counter to wait a minute until we came out. “And then, what was all of that with Sasha?”

  “What did I do to Ms. Thang?”

  “You weren’t exactly nice to her, Sharika,” I said.

  She looked away.

  “What? What’s going on with you?” I asked.

  Sharika cowered in a way I’d never expect from her. Her hands fell to her sides.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing,” she mumbled. “I just wanted your opinion was all. . . . I know it’s probably stupid and I—”

  “What is it? Spit it out!”

  She looked at me and reached into her pocket.

  “Here,” she said, handing me a sheet of thick, white paper.

  “What’s this?”

  The letterhead announced that the letter was from the University of Illinois.

  “They accepted me,” she said as I read.

  “Stop it! This is the top Library and Information Science program in the country! This is great! I’m so excited for you.” I was fully amazed but not surprised. She’d been talking about going back to school—and then talking about not going back to school—forever. I didn’t even know she was applying. I looked up at her expecting the same excitement I was feeling about the news, but there was no expression. “Aren’t you excited?”

  “It’s so far away,” she said.

  “Yeah, it is,” I agreed. “And that’s why we have cars and buses and trains and planes. It’s kind of cold up in Illinois, but I’m sure I can get there in the summer.” I laughed and playfully whisked Sharika’s arm with the paper, but she remained unmoved. “Wait a minute—you’re not serious about this distance thing, are you?”

  “It’s really far.” Sharika stepped back and sat on the desk. Her shoulders sank in toward her chest. “I’ve never lived outside of the South. Can you imagine that? Me outside of the South?”

  “It’s the best doctoral program in the country—the entire country,” I said. “You can’t say no to this. I don’t care if you’ve never left your mother’s broom closet. You can’t say no.” I looked at the letter again. “You applied to this program and they accepted you. Why wouldn’t you go? You don’t have any children. You don’t have a husband. Why not? Who knows what’s waiting for you there.”

  “A bunch of white folks and snow.”

  “Don’t say that. You haven’t even been there.”

  “But I have,” Sharika said and I watched as the girl waiting at the counter looked at her watch and walked off. “I’ve been there a million times where some desperate folks let a black person in to fill some quota and then spend the rest of their time proving to the black person why she shouldn’t be there. They make fun of how you dress. They make fun of how you talk. They make fun of how you think. I can’t do that again.”

  “So you think them letting you in was desperate? A little equal opportunity?”

  “Come on, Dawn. I got both of my degrees at a little rinky dink local college. I work in the poorest library in the county. Why would they pick that when I’m sure they have librarians from all around the country—the world—applying to their program? People with real experience. People with real know-how. And now I’m supposed to go up there and make a fool—”

  “Please stop it,” I cut her off. “I can’t even listen to this nonsense anymore. You know none of those things are true about you. Those things might be true about them, but none of it is true about you. You’re just as smart as anyone else who applied. Smarter. You got accepted.”

  “But I—”

  “And I am not going to support you in this exercise of doubt. This is your dream. And no matter how afraid you are to leave this place, you will. You may have never been to Illinois, but you’ve read about Illinois. You’ve read A Raisin in the Sun. You’ve read Native Son. Hell, you’ve read . . . what was that book you read last month by Dy—?”

  “Dybek. The Coast of Chicago.”

  “That’s it! You read that, too! And I know that’s not the same as being there. And those places are probably really different than”—I looked at the letterhead—“Champaign, Illinois, but the point is that you love reading and you know this library like no one else. All of that passion has got to amount to something big for you. You might need a little polish, but don’t we all? You can’t let that hold you back—not when an opportunity like this comes along. It’s your time.”

  “You think so?” Sharika was tearing up and wiping her mascara everywhere.

  “Crying?” I said. “Is crying a good thing?”

  She smiled.

  “Yes. I guess I’ll have to talk to Mama about this,” she said. “It’ll break her heart if I go.”

  “I think it’ll break her heart more if you don’t go.”

  “Well, I guess it’s time for me to fill out my response forms,” she said, snatching the form and pulling her hands back to her hips.

  “And I’m glad to hear that, because I was starting to sound like Sojourner Truth. A Raisin in the Sun? Where did that come from?”

  We laughed and started walking back out to the help desk.

  “Yeah, you were reaching.”

  “Well, you’re worth it. I just have two things I need to say.”

  “What?”

  “First, I want you to go to the bathroom and fix your eyeliner.”

  “It’s messed up?” Sharika started wiping her eyes and making it worse, so I grabbed her hand.

  “And next,” I started again, “let’s consider a new hair color before you go. Maybe something brown . . . or, I don’t know . . . black.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair? I like my hair blond. It’s hot. And wasn’t your little friend’s hair blond?”

  “Well, Sasha’s like three shades lighter than you and she’s on television.”

  “Please, we’re the same color!”

  “No, you’re not—” I stopped myself, realizing I was getting nowhere on the hair. “Fine.”

  “Exactly. The hair stays. They’ll just have to get used to the hotness in”—she looked at the paper in her hand—“Champaign, Illinois. And where is that anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Look, let me get out of here. I’ll be back tomorrow. Can you hold down the fort?” I looked out over the floor to see that Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Harris were gone.

  “I got this. You know these are the slow days of the week,” she replied. “And while I’m watching the books, you watch Ms. Thang.”

  “Why do you keep calling Sasha that?”

  “I don’t like her. There’s something about her.”

  “Oh, she’s just different. Hollywood type.”

  “If you say so,” Sharika said as I walked to the door. “Just watch her,” she add
ed louder.

  When I got to the exit, I looked down the hallway and saw two hobbling old bodies heading toward the bathroom. “What is it with these two?” I said. I turned back toward Sharika. “Bathroom check!” I mouthed to her.

  We investigated three nail salons before Sasha would approve of a technician. She’d done some feature about fungus in nail salons and scared the workers in the other salons after pointing out all of their violations. By the time we sat down in the plush massage seats to get pedicures at some posh spa downtown, I thought the only crime was that we were paying double what was charged at the first shop. While the first shop’s version of a massage chair was a bucket and folding chair, there’s nothing wrong with saving money.

  I was slowly getting over Sasha’s impromptu kiss, blaming it on the alcohol that had me acting funny, too. As I began looking her directly in the eyes again, I realized other people downtown were, too. Walking around with her was probably the closest I’d ever come to being a celebrity because people—and I mean old, rich, white people (which means Republicans in the South)—would stop and look at her kind of like they’d known her at some time in their lives and couldn’t place her, and whisper to the person next to them. Some, I’m guessing the non-Republicans, even smiled. A few came over and asked for her autograph or a picture. Sasha was always beyond sweet and accommodating. And it was very interesting to see her in that way. She actually used her phone to take a picture of herself with a woman who didn’t have one. She said she’d have her assistant mail it to the woman and I thought the woman was about to cry. “You eat this stuff up,” I said to her as we walked.

  “All in a day’s work, baby,” Sasha answered playfully.

  “I don’t know what it is about hometowns in the South,” I said after telling Sasha about Sharika’s letter and fear of leaving Augusta. We were sitting beside each other in the fancy massage pedicure chairs at the spa. “It’s like, if you don’t leave right out of high school, you’ll never leave.”

  “That’s not a Southern thing. It’s a people thing. There are some folks in New York who have never left the city and people in Los Angeles act like they have their own country,” Sasha said, laughing.