Color Me In

by Natasha Díaz

  “Stevie! What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.

  He shakes his head like he just swallowed a huge dollop of wasabi, bringing on that unique burning sensation that runs directly from your nostrils to the top of your brain like a rocket.

  “I need a quick fix to survive Abe’s breath. It’s like he swallowed a fire-breathing lizard and every time he opens his mouth, it tries to kill me.” His eyes bulge as he walks off to the seat that awaits him.

  I settle into one of the comfy chairs to catch up on the reading for biology. The big chairs in this corner of the library are my favorite. They look like they’ve been in the building since the school first opened in the early 1900s and are so worn in that you sink into them the minute you sit down. The velvet cushions hug you back like a grandparent who brings you a warm blanket and cup of hot cocoa in the winter. The comfort makes me think of Grandma, and how she kept coming to visit us even after my mom and Anita stopped speaking. She never let my mom disappear. I wonder how different things would be if she were still here.

  My bio textbook is massive and hangs over the chair. I figure the more I can get done before the end of the day, the less time I have to spend with Abby later, but the second her name crosses my mind it’s like I’m a magnet that draws her to my exact location.

  “I figured you’d need another day to recover,” Abby says, walking by and knocking the edge of my textbook, making me lose my place.

  “It was just a stomach thing. I’m fine.” I will myself not to look at her in the hopes that she’ll lose interest in torturing me and leave me in peace.

  “Is that what they call abortions these days?” She takes a seat next to me. “I get it, girl. You don’t wanna become another baby mama fighting for child support on BET,” Abby hisses in a tone so evil that if I want to retain any semblance of dignity, I’m left with no choice but to confront her.

  “Why are you such an intolerant jerk?” I practice quickly in my head, but when I turn, her usual piercing glare has been replaced by rapidly morphing reptilian features. As her neck lengthens and her skin begins to turn to green scales, I cower in my seat, frantic to escape and confused as to why no one else in the library seems to be even remotely concerned that a human student is effectively becoming the mutant villain of a C-level horror film.

  “SSSSSILLLYYY MUTT!”

  She looms over me, her mouth wide open, revealing fangs that drip poison on my head, soaking my hair. Her giant, fully transformed snake body extends toward the ceiling as her designer clothes fall to the floor in shreds. I only have one chance to escape, so I use all my strength to throw my textbook at her face. Despite her size, she moves more quickly than I anticipate and whips her long tail forward to prevent the massive book from doing any meaningful harm. It smashes against the bookshelf on her left and leaves me completely defenseless and terrified.

  “NAVVEAH, SSSSTOP ITT!”

  Stevie shakes me hard enough to break me out of my nightmare, and I wake to find all eyes on me. Everyone is staring.

  “B, you were screaming, and then you threw the book. It almost hit a group of freshmen,” Stevie whispers, looking concerned. He wants me to know he’s here for me. I just have to tell him what’s going on. I know because I can hear him clear as day in my head. I don’t know how to tell him that nothing will ever be the same, so I keep my mind blank and stay silent. After a few minutes, he gives up, resigned to the belief that the psychic power we once shared has dissipated, and heads back to his table, where Abe waits impatiently.

  The sounds of books cracking open, fingers tapping on keyboards, and pencils scratching slowly fill the space. I walk the fifteen feet to my book, spread open on the floor. The risk of falling back asleep in that chair is high, so I relocate to one of the uncomfortable desks against the wall, where it will be easier for me to throw my back out than to nod off.

  * * *

  —

  Abby lives in Riverdale. Her street is sort of hilly, and the houses are ginormous Georgian and Tudor mansions with yards and gates and trees, rather than the claustrophobic city-style brownstones, connected to each other by walls of brick and sweat.

  From the look of it, a single developer decided to flip all the houses in the vicinity, because they all look the same, with the modern faux-stone base that turns to brick or wood a few feet up. The Jackson household, even with its indistinguishable architecture, is easy to recognize—it’s the only one with a giant flagpole from which an American flag flaps in the wind.

  Abby’s dad was born in Kentucky or Arkansas or some Southern state. He made all of the kids invited to her eighth birthday party sing the national anthem in front of the flag before we could eat the cake. He loves America and money and big cars and the gender binary. At a recent assembly, where it was announced that the Jackson family was going to be funding the new and improved Pritchard gym, Mr. Jackson marched up to the stage in a cowboy hat and spewed his theory that the lack of patriotism in popular culture is ruining the youth of the USA.

  The front door opens before I even ring the bell. Abby is dressed in a way she would never be caught dead at school: yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. She makes room for me to step inside, where I am greeted by the smell of pumpkin latte that has hung over our school for the past week—a particular favorite of the Bomb Squad, who always like to stay on trend.

  Even though I’ve grown up around the wealthiest people and communities, this house takes my breath away, the same way it did when I was little. The grand double staircase in the foyer welcomes guests, each side graced with so much sunlight it looks like a ladder to heaven. I remember coming over for playdates and standing in front of different pieces of furniture with my eyes closed tight, hoping that one might come to life when I opened them again. The elegant furniture positioned perfectly on the wood and marble floors is complemented by regal paintings of Abby, her mother, and their deceased sphynx cat, which resembled a newborn rodent more than any sort of feline.

  Upstairs in Abby’s room, the furniture reflects Ashleigh’s terrible modern aesthetic, with sharp corners and random bubbles that prize style over comfort. I elect to sit on the floor rather than risk breaking anything or get stabbed by a loveseat. Abby joins me with her notebook and the supplies necessary to complete our experiment.

  “What’s the deal with you and Stevie?” she asks as she swabs her hand and places the sample on an empty petri dish, three steps ahead of me. Not that I would ever tell her, but Abby, it seems, is quite adept at science.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, half paying attention so I don’t mess up the control sample.

  “You know, like, when we were…”

  “Friends?” I finish her thought.

  “I just thought he’d be pissed you have a boyfriend.”

  “Who says I have a boyfriend?” I snap.

  “Please.” She rolls her eyes. “The video of you dry-humping that guy the other night is all over the internet.”

  The video taken at Jesus’s party had circulated for a few weeks, but thankfully my nonexistent social media presence made it easier to ignore. I’ve never seen the point in putting my every thought and facial expression on display, not that anyone would care about anything I do or say.

  “Stevie and I are just friends. Why are you so interested?”

  “Relax.” She sighs, rolling her eyes so dramatically, I am almost impressed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m stuck with you, so I figured I’d make small talk. Don’t go all angry Black lady on me.” She chuckles at her ignorant joke and scoots away from me.

  An hour later the data we collected is in order and her room has been cleaned up, so I begin packing my stuff to go home and complete my half of the written assignment.

  “I’ll go make copies in my dad’s office,” she offers, holding up the notes she took during the experiment to help with the essay, and goes down the stairs.
>
  I pace the room, looking into the world of Abby. The signed Taylor Swift poster framed on her wall, the huge glass vanity that holds more makeup than should exist anywhere other than in a Sephora store, and the bookshelf covered in photos. The photos are mostly of her and the Bomb Squad, group selfies in front of street art and fancy plates of sushi, always pursing their lips to make their cheekbones pop against their moisturized skin.

  Abby returns and hands me a can of blackberry-cucumber La Croix. Her friendliness is off-putting and reminds me of the time in middle school when someone gave a substitute teacher a cup of water that had a cockroach in it. I accept the can cautiously but find to my surprise that it’s untampered with and delightfully refreshing.

  In the hallway, footsteps approach, accompanied by a booming voice with a distinctly non–New York twang.

  “I’ve had about enough of this liberal nonsense. If y’all don’t stop bending your will to these gutless snowflakes, I am going to consider pulling my funding for the gym—you think I won’t? I don’t care if it’s named after my great-grandmother Dorothy, take a tip from the vermin marching in the streets and STAND YOUR GROUND.”

  Mr. Jackson walks past the room just as he ends his call and stops when he sees there is a visitor in his house. Abby, like everyone else, seems to be a little afraid of her father, and looks at me nervously, unsure what he might say or do.

  “Well, I’ll be. Is that Nadia? You haven’t been around these parts in ages.” He barges in, filling the doorway with the sharp stink of chewing tobacco.

  “It’s Nevaeh,” I correct him.

  Mr. Jackson contemplates whether the difference between the two names is significant enough to acknowledge.

  “Well, that’s one of those new-age names y’all like to make up, isn’t it? I’m sure people get that mixed up with all kinds of stuff. Can’t blame me, can ya?” He chuckles and gives me a quick pat on the back.

  “Now, I’m sure you’ve been hearing all this left-wing mumbo jumbo about coed bathrooms—”

  “You mean gender neutral?” I ask. No wonder Abby is so awful.

  “You see! You’ve already been brainwashed. I’ll be damned if the gym I’m paying for makes it easier for perverts to attack you young ladies when you least expect it.” Mr. Jackson storms toward the door, shaking the room with each of his monstrous steps. “And you are going to tell me if anyone in that school says otherwise, you hear me?” he thunders.

  Abby’s porcelain face turns the same shade as the beet juice my mom used to try to convince me to drink in the morning. She gives her dad a barely visible nod as a country song bursts from the cell phone in his hand, sending him out of the room without another word.

  Chapter 21

  It’s six o’clock when I walk into my grandfather’s house.

  I hang my bag on the coat closet door and walk in to find my family staring at Rabbi Sarah, who is squeezed between my mother and my aunt on the couch. My mom, despite having showered, still reminds me of a rag doll as she takes long, measured breaths that require all her remaining strength. Anita talks at both of them a mile a minute, and Rabbi Sarah flinches every time my aunt accentuates her words with swooping gestures, afraid she might get hit.

  Anita jumps to her feet at the sight of me. “I thought you were at your father’s toni—”

  “You made it!” Rabbi Sarah interrupts. Glad to be out of the proverbial hot seat, she crosses the room, arms outstretched, and hugs me so tight I can’t breathe, like she doesn’t know how a hug is supposed to look or feel. She releases me after a few moments, allowing the oxygen to flow freely through my lungs.

  “Anita, can I talk to you?” I say firmly.

  “Excuse us,” Anita says, pulling me by the elbow up the stairs.

  “What is she doing here?” I hiss. “I told you everything in confidence. Why can’t you ever leave anything alone?”

  Anita’s top lip curls in fury the moment the words leave my mouth. I brace myself as she begins to raise her hand, but she stops it midway and slowly points her index finger directly between my eyes.

  “You done, little girl?” Now that she has my full attention, she lowers her voice. “I figured if you’re spending so much time with this woman, someone should meet her and make sure she is who she says she is.”

  Anita grabs me close and hugs me. Unlike Rabbi Sarah, who squeezed me like a python prepping its dinner, my aunt wraps me in her arms the way only someone who has held a person they truly love more than themselves can.

  “I saw something on The View about people who hire spies to gather information on their spouse during custody battles. If that’s what’s going on, I’ll send her through all the damn plagues before she snitches on anyone in my house. Now, come on.”

  She marches back down the stairs and I follow, still annoyed, but touched that she’s trying to protect me.

  Anita made lasagna, a staple in this household because it’s easy to make in bulk and reheats well as long as you use enough sauce the first time around. We form an assembly line, passing plates around until they are full with the pasta and veggies and garlic bread. Almost as if on command, everyone instinctively assumes the prayer position and waits for Rabbi Sarah and me to join before Pa can say grace.

  “Sorry,” I mouth to Rabbi Sarah, unsure if the praise of the Christian lord and savior makes her uncomfortable.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispers with a wink. “Jesus was Jewish.”

  She bows her head with the rest of us as my grandfather says the prayer. Then everyone digs in, but Rabbi Sarah’s fingers dance around her fork in hesitation.

  “Is there meat in this?” she asks me out of the corner of her mouth.

  “No.”

  Glee takes over her face and she closes her eyes as she puts a forkful of lasagna on her tongue. Moments pass as we watch her eat, mesmerized that the only other person on this planet who can give Pa a run for his title of Slowest Chewer on Earth has found her way to our dining table. She lets out a little moan.

  “Man!” Jerry exclaims, drawing everyone to his attention. “I thought I liked food, but Rabbi Sarah got me beat.”

  His observation draws a laugh from all of us. Rabbi Sarah takes a long sip of water and explains, “I’ve only had the frozen kind, but this homemade stuff is stupid good!”

  I don’t even have to look over to know that Anita’s “high alert” system automatically shuts off at the compliment, relieving some of the tension in the air. My mom forces a chuckle every once in a while, an act that, despite the months of practice, has yet to convince anyone she is listening to the conversations around her.

  “So, this party you’re helping Nevaeh with. Tell us more,” Anita demands, getting down to business.

  Jordan’s eyebrows rise at the mention of a party, irritated that the dinner conversation is revolving around her least favorite subject: me.

  “It’s a comin’-of-age ceremony,” Rabbi Sarah explains.

  “I wouldn’t do it if my dad weren’t forcing me,” I say, immediately turning to Rabbi Sarah to add, “No offense.”

  “None taken,” she assures me.

  After months of barely acknowledging my existence, my mom snaps to, and it seems that even the cars and street outside become muted as she breaks out in a maniacal laugh.

  “You think you know him….Samuel’s so good at making you feel safe…and then…”

  As the words come out, she looks up and frantically searches the multiple sets of eyes focused on her for mine. If she meant to say anything else, it gets lost as she begins to cry so hard I’m surprised the walls don’t convulse along with her.

  Jordan gathers Jerry and Janae and ushers them into the kitchen with their plates as Anita jumps up to hold her sister, who dissolves into puddles of tears and self-pity.

  “Unbelievable,” I mutter before pushing my chair back and
running upstairs without asking to be excused.

  I sit on the bed and let my feet hang off, swinging them back and forth, quicker and quicker, until I feel like I’m running on clouds.

  “Are you okay?” Rabbi Sarah asks through the crack in the door.

  “No. I am not! I wish I had never been born!”

  She tiptoes over to me and clamps her palm over my mouth to shush me.

  “Look, I know it’s hard to be the kid and also have to be the adult, but sometimes, you gotta be the bigger person…because to be honest, okay is usually the best most of us can hope for, and you’ve got way more than okay. Trust me.”

  “She wasn’t always like this,” I say mostly to myself, but loud enough for her to hear, because for some reason, that makes it feel truer.

  “They never are,” she assures me.

  There is a soft knock on the door, and Jerry pokes his head in.

  “Nevaeh, Janae said you should come downstairs,” he says with equal amounts of fear and excitement in his voice.

  Oh Lord, what now?

  * * *

  —

  Out on the stoop, my aunt and cousins examine the votive candles that have been placed on the steps to the house. Rabbi Sarah and I approach with caution, but luckily, my mom is nowhere to be seen.

  “Do you know what this is?” Anita asks me.

  I shake my head, but Janae catches my eye with a wink and positions her phone to face the street.

  “Thanks for that delicious dinner, Anita, but I should, uh, probably hit the road,” Rabbi Sarah says, stuffing something into my hand before running down the candlelit staircase and onto the street.