Color Me In

by Natasha Díaz

  * * *

  —

  The rest of the family returns right as we’re finishing the dishes. Anita puts out the sliced red velvet cake they brought home from Amy Ruth’s.

  “All right, who wants to guess who the best Knick of all time was?” Zeke says, taking the stage.

  Moans sound from every corner of the house as the entire family rejects his preferred activity after years of listening to the same question.

  “You call yourselves New Yorkers?” he shouts. “All right, Rabbi Sarah, you’re a native. Tell me, who do you think is the greatest Knick of all time?”

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Anita tells her.

  Rabbi Sarah looks overwhelmed with seven sets of eyes focused on her.

  “I wanna hear who you say first,” she counters, willing to play his game on her terms and buying herself time to strategize.

  He sits up and rubs his hands together, ready to take on a new kill.

  “The all-time leader in points, blocks, rebounds, steals, free throws, field goals, and minutes: Patrick Ewing. His only downfall was that he had the great misfortune of playing during the same time as Michael Jordan, so he never got a championship title.”

  Zeke rests back on the couch, cocksure that he’s already won, and hands the floor over to Rabbi Sarah, who sits patient and unafraid.

  “Ewing is for sure one of the greats, but he’s obvious, ya know?”

  The room quiets. This is proving to be a real matchup.

  “I’m going to go with Bernard King. In the ’84–’85 season he was dropping thirty-three a game, which is more than any other Knick, but then, come March of ’85, halfway through the season, he blew his ACL, so after fifty-five games he never played for them again. But with those stats, he would’ve been the greatest.”

  “Let me get this straight: you are arguing that Bernard King wasn’t the greatest, but he could have been if he didn’t get injured?”

  Rabbi Sarah thinks for a moment to make sure she agrees with his assessment.

  “Mmm-hmm, sure am.”

  Zeke sits back and considers her response, but before he can announce his decision, Anita steps into the center of the room.

  “Zeke, baby—you just got, got.”

  Jordan and Janae howl, and Jerry charges at him with all his might and lands on his lap. Zeke crumples for a moment, overpowered by the weight of his son and the defeat by Rabbi Sarah, but then he springs off the couch and swings Jerry around. Never too tired to joke with his kids.

  In the midst of the commotion, Rabbi Sarah vanishes. I walk out to the hallway to find her gathering her things.

  Jerry’s high-pitched giggles waft out of the other room—an anthem of love and family.

  “You don’t have to leave,” I tell her.

  “I do,” she says with a sniff and a forced smile, and walks out onto the street.

  Chapter 40

  Meet us at Signal. 12:30.

  I am surprised to wake up to a text from Jordan.

  Now that I’m a remote student for the remainder of the year, my days are quiet and boring, filled with research for my final projects and wishing Stevie would call me. After the incident at Pritchard, I tried to call and text him again, but nothing. There were a few times when the little ellipsis started to blink as if he was going to respond, but he never did, and after a while, the whole exercise was depressing me, so I gave up.

  The imprint of my mom’s body fills the space next to me. She’s been gone for hours. These days, she gets up before everyone else to have coffee and work on her latest piece of clothing before heading into Midtown and pounding the pavement to try to convince a lawyer to represent her in this divorce.

  It’s amazing how easy it is not to shower or change your clothes when you have nowhere to be. I’ve been in the same outfit for four days, and I’m beginning to look like the version of my mother that I hated earlier this year, so I drag myself to the shower.

  * * *

  —

  Signal High is Jordan and Janae’s school. It’s this progressive program that rebukes traditional tests as a viable way to gauge learning and somehow convinced the New York public school system to have standardized testing requirements waived so they could create their own curriculum. Because Signal is specialized and has its own application process, the student population is wildly diverse, or maybe just normal in comparison to what I’m used to at Pritchard. I’m so accustomed to the self-segregation at my school that seeing people my age of different backgrounds socializing with ease is enough to make me do a double take. I watch one teacher snatch a newly lit cigarette from between a kid’s lips and stomp it out before turning on his heels to go inside. This is nothing like Pritchard, the little voice inside of me says, in all the best ways possible.

  “Nevaeh!” Janae waves from the entrance as she and Jordan walk out of the building, followed by a cluster of friends.

  We walk a few blocks to a corner store and load up plastic containers with the random assortment of food at the hot bars: lo mein, blackened chicken, a few vegetables for good measure, an egg roll, a quesadilla, and potato salad. Then we head to their usual lunch spot.

  We stop in front of what is supposed to be a private park attached to a luxury apartment building, but the gate is wide open and there seems to be no security guard, so we walk right in. We pass a jungle gym and a fountain area, on the way to some benches positioned around the perimeter, which are completely covered with high school students eating lunch in small groups.

  “Welcome to the smoke park!” Janae says as Jordan speeds ahead of us to meet Breezy and Dania and Paulina, her friends from the New Year’s Eve party.

  As Janae and I make our way to Jordan’s bench, I notice the scent of marijuana lingering in certain areas, no doubt the inspiration for the park’s nickname.

  A white kid eating a folded slice of pizza walks past us. A sign hangs off his neck and flaps in the wind behind him. It reads If I’m asleep, wake me at 59th Street.

  “Yo, Geoff,” Janae calls out to him. “Your sign is still on.”

  Geoff’s spindly, nearly translucent arm moves behind him with a freakishly long reach and confirms that what she says is true.

  “Good lookin’ out, J!” he says, taking the hemp string and sign off his neck and folding it neatly to put in his backpack.

  “How often does that thing work for you?” she asks in an oddly flirtatious manner.

  He shrugs. “Someone woke me up at Seventy-Second today,” he says, not disappointed with the result. “I can’t help it—that subway rockin’ puts me right to sleep.”

  Janae lets out an unnatural giggle that sends my eyes along with Jordan’s onto her in shock. Geoff heads over to a group of guys passing a blunt and a hacky sack around a circle.

  “Really? Geoff?” Jordan asks.

  “He’s sweet and goofy and I don’t wanna hear anything about it.” Janae tries to sound harsh, but she can’t stop the smile that breaks onto her face. I pretend not to see it and settle down on the bench to soak this place in.

  I watch my cousins as they joke and laugh with their friends, easily navigating the masses of social groups who come and go from our spot. It’s as if everyone else here is a planet with one job: to revolve around them—the sun. Jordan reads us the first draft of her final essay, which she has to defend to a panel of teachers at the end of the school year, a commentary on the Eurocentric standards of beauty in American mainstream media. As she reads, she is luminous, not just in her natural beauty, but in her brilliance. The paper sounds like it was written by a professional published author, not a high school student.

  When she finishes reading, her friends hoot and yell. “Tell them, sis!” “Let them know!”

  “You’re a really good writer,” I tell her once the commotion has died down.

  “What,
you thought you’re the only person in this family who can put a sentence together?” Jordan snaps.

  I shudder and scoot back on the bench, embarrassed to have implied anything of that nature.

  “Thanks,” she says, and playfully elbows me in the ribs with a wink and half a smile, which is almost as good as winning the Mega Millions jackpot, as far as I’m concerned.

  “So whatchu gonna do now, Ney? Go to Fort Hilten or Fieldston? Another one of those bougie schools?” Janae asks as we begin to clean up our lunch so they can head back to class.

  I honestly haven’t thought about it, but for the first time, an untapped possibility reveals itself to me. I look around at my cousins and their classmates and breathe in the laughter and joy and comfort here. A place where everyone fits in because they are encouraged to be an individual and not just part of a quota or a stereotype.

  “I don’t know,” I say with my eyebrows raised. “Does Signal accept transfer students?”

  * * *

  —

  Home is sixty blocks away and it will take a couple hours to get there, but the busy streets of the city are calming, even soothing. As I walk I consider my future. I’d have a chance to learn and grow at a school like Signal. A chance to make new friends, to become a new, better me….

  When your face is just one of many

  And scowls can’t be differentiated from dehydration or hope or fear,

  It means you are a part of something,

  Even if no one knows your name.

  * * *

  —

  My mom is behind her sewing machine when I get back.

  “Did you have a nice time?” she asks.

  I nod and discard my shoes by the door per the house rules.

  “You better get to that homework,” she says, her head cocked in the direction of our room. I feel her eyes follow me as the stairs creak under my bare feet.

  All it takes is a tiny push of my finger for the bedroom door to swing open, and when it does, I lose my breath. Stevie stands under the most perfect, magical tent ever. It covers the whole room and is carefully constructed from my mom’s lopsided T-shirts and dresses. With the sunlight streaming in, the bright colors make the room glow.

  “B—don’t talk, I’m talking.” He holds his hand out for me to take, but I don’t move.

  “I freaked out because I thought I was losing you, and then I did. I am so mad at you. You turned into this…self-absorbed, attention-seeking, out-of-touch monster. But I need you, B, even if it’s not the same. I just…I don’t know how to be. Not without you. Not without us.”

  The pain that my mom felt this year, the one that I condemned her for and categorized as a weakness, suddenly makes sense. When you spend your life with someone, they become a part of you. That’s what my dad was for her; it’s what Stevie has been for me.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when everything went down with Abby. I should have been.” He goes on. “I was already home when it hit the news, and I raced back to Pritchard, but you had already left. I came out here three different times, but I couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door. I just miss you. Ever since I got the fellowship, everything has been so…quiet.”

  “I was a total herb,” I admit. “I ruined everything. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He looks into my eyes to make sure I’m not lying and I telepathize the words into his brain before I speak them.

  “I’m so sorry, Stevie.”

  He immediately looks relieved.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get to celebrate your birthday,” he says.

  “It’s okay. I got drunk with Abby and then my mom almost killed my uncle with food poisoning.”

  “What? I can’t believe I missed that!” he shrieks.

  “How did you do this? How did you know I’d be out?” I ask.

  Stevie gives me a devilish grin.

  “Told my dad I had a migraine to get out of school and then called in a favor.” He winks.

  “Jordan?” I ask, shocked that she would ever assist in anything special for me.

  Just the sound of her name turns Stevie’s face red with lust. He stretches his hand out once more, and this time I take it. Stevie pulls me close, placing my other hand on his shoulder and his arm gently around my waist. He hums music into my ear, our song—“The Only Exception” by Paramore—and begins to rock ever so slightly back and forth.

  In all these years, we’ve never danced, not together, not like this. I let him guide me with his feet, nothing difficult, and I give myself over to lean into his muscular frame.

  Ours isn’t a love that fits within the confines of romance; it exceeds that of friendship as well. Our deep love flashes through my mind like déjà vu, triggered by the smell of his shampoo, and I am reminded of all the ways we are intertwined and always will be.

  “I’m going to miss you next year, but I’m so proud of you,” I say into his shoulder.

  “Thanks, B.” His voice echoes in my brain before he spins me out and brings me back and holds me tight.

  Chapter 41

  My mom and I lie in bed relishing the final Saturday of the spring-to-summer crossover, when there is a soft knock on the door just before Jerry pokes his head into our room. He still hasn’t grasped the concept that the point is to wait for the person in the room to answer before entering. He jumps onto the bed, slithering between my mom and me.

  “Was there something you needed?” I pinch his chubby face and pull it toward me to kiss. Even when he drives you insane, his cheeks make him irresistible.

  “There’s a guy downstairs to see Auntie,” he says. His mouth opens and closes, debating whether he should say more. Then he adds, “He’s white.”

  “We’re not selling this house!” Anita shouts at the bottom of the stairs. “You developers have no souls, coming out here on a Saturday and disturbing people.”

  The man cowers at the umbrella Anita has raised above her head.

  “I’m Marty Goldberg—a lawyer friend of Sarah Edward. She told me Corinne Paire needs representation,” he says, protecting his face from Anita’s wrath.

  “Anita! Stop!” My mom rushes down the last stairs and stands between them. “Mr. Goldberg, I’m Corinne. What was it you were saying?”

  My mom shoos Anita away and gently ushers Mr. Goldberg into the living room. He wipes his brow with a handkerchief and takes a seat. I step into the room to get a better look at him. He is huge, at least six foot eight, and has light brown curly hair that mushrooms out of the top of his head. Up close, the wrinkles in his forehead betray his age, but his eyes are young and the lightest shade of gray-green I have ever seen.

  “Nevaeh?” he asks, and rises from the couch to hold out a hand that is so large I want to double check that it’s real before placing mine inside it.

  “How do you know Rabbi Sarah?” I ask.

  My mom looks at me with a raised eyebrow and cocks her head to the door, implying I should let them talk about grown-up stuff. But considering she was on parental hiatus until a few months ago, I think I’ve earned the right to keep my butt where it is.

  Mr. Goldberg moves his giant head back and forth between us, unsure who is in charge.

  “Rabbi Sarah counseled me through a hard time recently, and I owe her a favor. I’m a divorce lawyer, and a good one.”

  “Would you look at the Lord work?” Anita cries as she reappears, sounding more like Miss Clarisse than she would ever accept. “Sorry about earlier.”

  She hands Mr. Goldberg a glass of water and invites herself to the conversation, squeezing onto the couch next to me.

  “You were saying, Mr. Goldberg,” my mom says, giving him back the floor.

  “Samuel Levitz has quite the reputation. I’ve actually been hoping to have a chance to go up against him.” Mr. Goldberg smirks. “So if
we want to win, I need to know everything, because I don’t like to lose.”

  My mom and Anita both give me a look.

  “I’m not leaving,” I say stubbornly.

  My mom’s chest rises and falls as she closes her eyes.

  “He cheated,” my mom says. “A lot.”

  She clasps Anita’s hand for support as Mr. Goldberg takes notes on a yellow legal notepad. She talks for a while about the late nights and the lonely mornings.

  “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but in these hostile divorce cases, it’s rare that the marriage doesn’t endure some sort of infidelity,” Mr. Goldberg explains.

  We all sit for a while as my mom’s hopeful face goes sullen and pale.

  “Mr. Goldberg, he made me a settlement offer. I have the paperwork upstairs. Do you think you could help me with the legalese? I want to make sure I understand before I sign.” She stands to get the documents, resigned to give up the fight.

  “Not so fast,” Mr. Goldberg tells her. “If I can prove his dependency on you at any point in his career, you’d be eligible for at least half of his assets.”

  “Samuel Levitz has not been dependent upon anyone since he learned how good it felt to win on his own,” my mom says on the way to the stairs.

  “There has to be something!” I shout, unwilling to concede.

  Mom turns to face me. “Nevaeh, the man gave me a beautiful house. He paid for my clothing and my jewelry. He took me all over the world. The money in the settlement is enough to get us on our feet. Maybe this is God’s way of telling me to be grateful and leave the past in the past.”

  “JUST BECAUSE HE DIDN’T HURT YOU THE WAY RAYMOND DID DOESN’T MEAN HE DIDN’T HURT YOU!” The words fly out of me and stop her in her tracks.

  “How do you…” She trails off, confused as to how I know her deepest, darkest secret.

  “Raymond? What’s she mean, ‘hurt you’? What is she talking about, Corinne?” Anita asks, rapid-fire.