Color Me In

by Natasha Díaz

  “It was about your dad, right? The poem?” he asks with caution and care.

  I feel the blood drain from my face—I never expected things to go as far as they have, but now that we’re here, the idea of admitting the truth makes me want to vomit, even more than the idea of doubling down on this false narrative. His eyes bore into mine with such intensity that even if I weren’t such a terrible liar, it would make me look away.

  “I dunno….”

  “All summer I watched you walkin’ around, never lookin’ up at anyone. Why do you act like you don’t have a right to be yourself? Just cuz he died doesn’t mean he’s not a part of you. Don’t you want to know everything about who you are?”

  More than anything, the little voice inside me cries.

  His hand grabs mine, warm and safe, and my knee starts to bounce, fueled by increasing anxiety and desperate for a way out of this mess.

  “Maybe…maybe I don’t know who I am yet.”

  “No one will unless you tell us,” he says, unwilling to allow me to stay closed off. “Why’d you call yourself Heaven?”

  “Nevaeh is ‘heaven’ spelled backward. See?”

  I pull the notebook, along with a pen, out of my bag and write my name backward.

  He smiles.

  “What time is it?” I ask, not wanting to take my phone out in front of him to check.

  His screen lights up: ten p.m.

  “We should head back,” I say.

  Once we reach my house, I spot Anita standing by the living room window, and I can tell from her body language that she’s in a mood, so I make sure we keep our distance as we say our farewells.

  “So what was that tonight? Does it happen often?” I ask.

  “Every month,” he says.

  “Cool. It’s like a secret society. Dumbledore’s Army,” I say.

  Jesus looks at me as though I’ve just spoken a foreign language.

  “Harry Potter,” I explain.

  “What’s the deal with Harry Potter? The guy looks like a herb to me, but my girlfriend can’t stop talking about him.” He gives me a giant grin.

  Three sharp clinks from Anita’s ring against the window send me up the stairs two at a time before she or anyone else can ruin the fireworks that go off in my chest as I take in his words and his smile and the reality that Jesus DeSantos is officially my boyfriend.

  Chapter 23

  News of my performance has permeated the social media airwaves, thanks to Janae’s YouTube video of the evening, and everyone at Pritchard seems to have noticed. People smile at me when I enter the building and as I walk down the hallway. I’m used to gliding past without seeing so much as a glance in my direction—the constant attention is overwhelming at first, but as the weeks pass, I begin to enjoy the visibility, yearn for it, even.

  The school days always go by more quickly as Thanksgiving approaches. The teachers are all irritable and in desperate need of a break, so they find excuses to show films or send us on field trips rather than preparing hourlong lesson plans. Usually, Stevie and I would use the freedom to hide in the corners of the library, but ever since the night of our unexpected performances, I’ve barely been able to pin him down, and it doesn’t help that any free time I would normally have has now been commandeered by Jesus or Rabbi Sarah.

  Today, I made sure to get to school early and have a roll and iced coffee waiting for Stevie when he arrives. Stevie hops out of a car on the corner. His neon orange headphones act as a bull’s-eye among the crowd. I stand up a little taller to try to get his attention.

  “Hey!” I wave to him with urgency, as though I’m injured on a road in the pitch-black dead of night.

  He catches my eyes and scrunches his brow but walks over.

  “Here!” I thrust the breakfast offering into his arms.

  “Thanks,” he says without much emotion.

  “How are you?” I press.

  “Nevaeh?” LaShawn Marshall, the head of the Black Student Union, stands before us and blocks the entrance to the building.

  “Hi?” I say, surprised she knows my name.

  “I saw your video. The BSU is cohosting an open-mic fund-raiser against police brutality. Can we sign you up to perform?” She talks a mile a minute.

  My parents have never spoken to me about the cops, not the way I see Anita and Zeke do with Jerry every morning.

  “Hands. Eye contact. Listen. Be calm,” Anita chants to a made-up beat as she zips Jerry’s jacket.

  “Hands. Eye contact. Listen. Be calm,” Jerry echoes.

  But a sharp sickness radiates through my body every time I am forced to look at images of broken Black bodies that air on loop. My parents and I were in the kitchen, probably a year ago, eating breakfast, when the hosts of The View interrupted the show to share the breaking news that yet again, a cop who had killed an innocent Black child had been exonerated. The cop’s monthlong paid leave of absence was deemed fair retribution for the life he stole for no good reason other than that he could. I watched the screen, mesmerized, as he walked out of the courtroom smiling, likely heading to meet his family at home and celebrate his freedom.

  I remember when the camera shifted to the parents of the victim, a formerly living human now reduced to a hashtag. His mother spoke with dignity and confidence, but the agony in her eyes belied the facade. She vowed on her honor that she would not stop until justice was served, before disintegrating into tears and being escorted away by a crowd of grieving loved ones.

  That mother’s words lingered with me long after she left…even after my father got up and switched the channel to his preferred CNBC, where he followed the stock ticker on the bottom of the screen like a cat following a laser pointer.

  “So that’s a yes?” LaShawn presses, bringing me back to the present.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Great, we’ll be in touch,” she says before marching off.

  I turn to Stevie. “Sorry.”

  “Was there something you wanted?” he asks.

  “I just wanted to catch up.”

  “Well, I have to get to class,” he says coldly.

  “Oh, right, of course. See you at lunch?”

  He shrugs and walks inside.

  * * *

  —

  Are you okay?

  I text Stevie on the walk home from the subway after bat mitzvah practice. He never showed for lunch, and a growing pit in my stomach is telling me that it’s going to take more than coffee and a buttered roll to make up for constantly ditching him. The three dots blink but then stop, and I stare at my phone, willing a response that never comes.

  The house smells of plantains, beans, and jerk chicken, which means Pa cooked dinner—a rare treat. This is Grandma’s original jerk dry rub, a recipe she passed on to him before she died that he has yet to share with anyone in the family. The unusual stillness that permeates the house sets off an alarm in my head. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night to check that my mother hadn’t succumbed to her depression next to me. The image of her stiff, lifeless body makes me rush into the dining room, but to my surprise, she isn’t there. Instead, the reason for the hushed energy stops me in my tracks.

  “I don’t know why you stay dressed like you’re a dried-up piece of toast. Ain’t nobody gonna give you the time of day lookin’ like that,” Miss Clarisse says to me in all her busty glory from the comfort of my grandmother’s seat. She has taken the liberty of dragging the chair a few inches closer to my grandfather at the head of the table so they’re perched on top of one another like two birds on a branch.

  “I tried to tell this girl to come over to my shop and let me pick out a few things, spice it up a little,” she continues. “But don’t you worry, Nevaeh. I gotchu somethin’.”

  Per usual, Miss Clarisse’s outfit is ridiculous: a
purple polyester pantsuit two sizes too small and a black lace bra that protrudes from gaps between the buttons. My grandfather, usually stoic and focused on his eating and digestion, has barely touched the food on his plate. He chuckles along with Miss Clarisse’s flirtation. Despite the odd tension in the air, the two of them seem to be having a grand time. She leans toward him, her hand on his, and whispers in his ear while the rest of my family does their best to look away from the intimate date they unexpectedly crashed when they came to the dinner table.

  “Nevaeh, take a seat. Your mother is at an appointment,” Anita says stiffly.

  Relieved that I get to avoid my mom for another night, I don’t even bother to ask what sort of appointment got her out of our bed and into the world on her own.

  “Not just yet!”

  Miss Clarisse jumps up and stuffs a box into my hands before I sit down.

  The intricate wrapping is tricky to remove, but once I get through the layers of tissue paper, I find a blue linen sheath with a classic V-neck. The color is unique, like a periwinkle with an extra splash of blue to confirm it isn’t purple.

  “It’s really pretty. Thank you, Miss Clarisse.”

  “There’s more in there,” she says, urging me on.

  I hand her the dress and continue to dig through the box. Eventually, I uncover a clear plastic sleeve flat against the bottom of the box. Miss Clarisse snatches the item from me and holds it above her head.

  “The new bottom-enhancing material adds at least an inch to the cheeks,” she says, proudly pointing to her butt like Vanna White indicating a vowel. “And it sucks one to two inches in on the obliques.” She spins slowly, as if she’s a mannequin on a life-size lazy Susan.

  “You’ll be the first to try my new invention: ‘ScRUMPtious Gurl,’ the legging that’ll get more Junk in Your Trunk.”

  Miss Clarisse hands the package back to me but maintains her grip, posed for the blinding flash that goes off when Pa takes a photo.

  “Got it!” my grandfather cheers with more enthusiasm than I have ever seen.

  “Well, let’s not celebrate just yet, Nevaeh. Why don’t you try these on and give us a catwalk?”

  My entire life flashes before my eyes at the idea of putting on a show in this getup.

  “Actually,” Anita butts in, “Nevaeh needs to eat and then get to work. Finals are coming up, and I don’t need her daddy marching up in here to blame us for bad grades.”

  Anita draws me to the table with a pointed expression that challenges Miss Clarisse to push her any further. The smells wafting from the plate in front of me are so divine that I decide to dig in and ignore everything going on around me.

  Grandma’s jerk chicken recipe is the best. It hits your tongue with a rich earthiness, matched with the perfect amount of heat and salt, and then the tiniest hint of sweetness at the end. Even the chicken breast, a cut I usually find offensive due to its tendency toward dryness, brings me unadulterated joy as I slice it and release a river of juices onto my plate.

  “We had a representative from Howard University visit school today.” Jordan breaks the silence. “She said I’m a great candidate, especially if I apply early decision.”

  Anita, who usually orchestrates the dinner conversation with her unending list of questions and concerns, sits tight-lipped with nostrils flared. She cuts her meat with a bit more vigor than necessary at the sound of her daughter’s voice breaking the unspoken vow of silence in protest of Pa’s guest.

  “That’s a private school. You know we can’t afford that,” Anita snaps.

  “Maybe you could afford it for her if you just let me start working after I graduate like I want, instead of wasting time at some school I don’t care about,” Janae chimes in, coming to her sister’s defense.

  Anita breathes like a bull and drops her utensils on her plate with a clang that makes Jerry jump.

  “I’ve just about had it with both of your complaints. You don’t know how lucky you are. New York city and state schools are good. That’s what your father and I have saved for, and that’s where you are going to apply. Corinne went to her fancy school and wasted the opportunity on that man. Meanwhile, Mummy and Pa couldn’t afford to send me anywhere but a two-year associate’s program, and twenty years later, all I am qualified to be is a secretary. You are both getting a four-year education, a bachelor’s degree, and you are going to do it without debt. That way, when you are on your own, you’ll at least have a chance. If you want to mess it up after, that’s on you.”

  “Anita, that’s enough. We have a guest.” Pa’s voice thunders through the house.

  The front door opens and shuts behind my mom as she walks into the dining room, unaware that she is entering a lion’s den.

  “There she is. I got somethin’ for you, Corinne! Gonna help you get over that white man!” Miss Clarisse pops up, ready to make the same presentation all over again.

  Anita jumps out of her seat. She waves her arms in front of her to clear the energy or silence the room, maybe both, and storms off.

  “Honey, I’m feelin’ like a treat. Why don’t you take me to that new French bakery around the corner for some cake,” Miss Clarisse suggests.

  Pa stands to join her.

  “That sounds like an excellent proposition,” he says, and puts his arm on her back to escort her away from the table. For the first time, he’s broken his rule and leaves before everyone has finished their meal, including his own.

  Chapter 24

  My mom stands in the bedroom, unclasping the pearl earrings my father gave her on their ten-year anniversary.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” she says with an airiness that sounds like she just woke up from a long, rejuvenating nap.

  My mom is beautiful in her floor-length black skirt and deep green top. She looks like herself, or at least the version of her I have known my whole life until recently. Her skirt swooshes against the hardwood floor as she floats toward me, and I have to blink multiple times to make sure she isn’t an optical illusion.

  “Maybe we can do something special this week, just the two of us? I know I’ve been…unavailable—” She reaches out to caress my face, but I dodge her hand.

  For months I’ve wished for her to snap out of her funk, but this abrupt return to the land of the living is irksome, if not downright infuriating. How am I supposed to trust that she won’t disappear on me again? Maybe her breakdown the other night in front of Rabbi Sarah woke her up, but why should I be expected to adapt again to her fluctuating mental state? It’s enough to give me whiplash.

  “I’ve got homework to do,” I say, and walk away.

  September 19, 2001

  I lost you. Daddy packed a bunch of my things up during spring break last year to paint my room and never brought the boxes back. In your absence, I’ve been a balloon, slowly filling with thoughts I can’t share with anyone. But then, an hour ago, you arrived in the mail with a note from Anita. She was searching for an old photo album in a closet and there you were. I don’t know how she knew I would need you, but I am so glad she did.

  I’ll do my best to get you up to speed.

  Last Tuesday, when the planes hit the towers, my roommate Jolie and I were out buying snacks to fill the resident advisor lounge and came back to images of melting steel. I had just returned to campus to start junior year. I was preparing for my classes and RA orientation, glad to be back where I could eat what I wanted and see Samuel freely, when all of a sudden, my world crashed to the ground.

  Fear and disgust and loneliness came over me like a sickness. Hours passed as I tried to get ahold of my family. My parents had finally given in and bought me a cell phone, and I paced back and forth and dialed their number on repeat while watching the video of planes barreling into buildings. All I could think about was Tribeca coated with a thick layer of soot, now the final resting place of chipped coffee mugs and l
ast breaths and unclaimed paychecks.

  The phone finally rang at eleven p.m.

  They had been home when it happened, and tried to call immediately, but all the phone lines were down and had been until now. I wanted to fly back to make sure that everything I knew hadn’t been obliterated with the impact, but Mummy wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, ending any further discussion.

  Now, days later, everything still feels different—broken.

  Samuel is different too.

  Until now, we were moving at a slow pace in our physical relationship. He allowed me and my body to dictate the speed. But in the days that followed the tragedy, he became impatient, pushing me past my comfort zone, as if a ticking clock were counting down to our inevitable demise.

  Yesterday, he appeared in my doorway looking like he had been run over by a fourteen-wheeler. Jolie made some excuse to give us some privacy, and the second she left, Samuel couldn’t keep his hands off me. He started kissing my neck and unbuttoning my cardigan. I tried to calm him down, but it was like he couldn’t hear anything I was saying.

  A chill came over me, one that I hadn’t felt in so long, not since that night after the dance with Raymond. I went into survival mode.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  His whole body begged for me in a way that made me feel a stirring between my legs, but I couldn’t give him what he needed.

  “What is your problem?” He got up from the bed, flustered and angry.

  “I’m not ready,” I said.

  “Well, how long do you need, Corinne? It’s been over two years. I have needs, ya know. I turn girls away every day because I want to be with you, but I can’t wait forever. I’m about to explode.”

  He walked toward the door, but I jumped up and blocked the exit. I asked him to stay and hold my hand and tell me that everything was going to be okay, but he wouldn’t. He stormed out and left me alone with so much anxiety raging through my body I couldn’t breathe.