Black Girls Must Die Exhausted: A Novel for Grown Ups

by Jayne Allen

  “Girrlll, your mother is going to freak. Did you tell her?” asked Alexis. She knew my mother well, and she was right.

  “Nope, not yet. You’re the first people I’ve told,” I said, lifting my drink to my lips. I should have known to order whisky instead of wine.

  “Well, what are you gonna do? What about Marc?” Alexis inquired.

  “I’m going to talk to him about it, I guess…when I see him. It’s a pretty heavy topic, don’t you think? I mean, we’ve talked about kids in the long run, but not like this…”

  “Talk to him? What you need to do is talk less, and have more sex. Are you still taking birth control?” asked Laila in her typical practical fashion.

  “Yes, of course I am!”

  “Well, people forget all the time. That’s all I’m gonna say,” Laila said, waving down the waiter. “Ask Alexis.” I turned and looked at Alexis with a look of surprise. Maybe there was something I didn’t know. Alexis looked a little like a deer in headlights. Her mouth dropped open, but she composed herself quickly to explain.

  “Well…ob-vi-ous-ly, that’s not how the boys got here—but Rob and I did have a little scare before he proposed…thankfully it brought us closer. I think it made him take our relationship more seriously after that—can you use your big mouth to order a Pinot Noir for me Laila? Much appreciated,” Alexis said, and then leaned in closer to me from across the table. “Laila’s not wrong though…just something to think about,” she whispered, patting my hand.

  I don’t know if I was more shocked that my two best friends were trying to convince me to consider the unthinkable, or that Alexis had shared something with Laila that even I didn’t know about her and Rob. Legitimately, that had me more perplexed than potentially making a Maury Povich situation out of my current relationship. I mean, I kind of felt like I had been cheated on. Were they hanging out without me? I couldn’t imagine what Alexis and Laila would otherwise have in common without me in the middle. And to think that they had some kind of secret backchannel sisterhood was beyond my comprehension. I made a mental note to ask about it later.

  “Ok, so tricking Marc into a baby was not on my list of optionnnnsss…but thank you both very much for the advice,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Although, let the record show that Alexis is the only one of the three of us who has actually used her uterus.”

  “Oh, don’t think I didn’t try, girl, in college, I definitely did. But those basketball players at USC had it strapped up tight! No NBA baby for me!” Laila screeched, causing us all to drop our heads with laughter. “Not that that’s what I really wanted—because of course I wanted to wind up at a dead-end job at a newspaper. It’s what every girl dreams of…” As Laila finished, the drinks came for her and Alexis and another for me. Just in time.

  “Laila!” I said laughing, “you don’t have a dead-end job! You’re killing it at the paper—I need to learn from you how to make some moves.” She shifted and took a drink, raising her eyebrows. I continued. “Anyway, if Marc’s not down, I have really just one option, and that’s to freeze my eggs. Which kills me to think about—I had just saved enough for a down payment.”

  “Oh no!” Alexis said, reaching for my hand again. “You’d have to lose your down payment for a house? I’m so sorry Tab—that’s awful! And I’m not just saying that as your realtor—you’ve been saving forever! I know how much having the house has meant to you. Maybe you’ll get that promotion?”

  “Oh, that,” I said. “Yeah, the promotion that Golden Boy Scott is constantly undercutting me for. He just stole another story from me today. In our newsroom meeting, I wanted to cover the Rams stadium and thanks to him wound up covering LA real estate. Which I can’t even afford now, by the way.”

  “That snake!” hissed Laila.

  “Seriously!” I said, glad to finally have an ally. “And then after the newsroom meeting, Lisa, the new midday anchor, came up to me talking about joining some women’s issues group at work! I’m thinking to myself, my issue is this promotion. Ok? Oh, and now my lemon law ovaries. You gonna help with that? Because if not, I want no part...especially now.”

  “Well, maybe it can help in some way?” offered Alexis. “I joined a women’s issues group at work and it became like a little bit of a support group. And then, we began to present our recommendations to management once a quarter. I can’t say that it’s changed much of anything, but I do feel like it’s brought us closer together in the office.”

  Laila snickered and then continued after Alexis. “At the paper,” she said. “They made a black woman the head of diversity and inclusion. Somehow though, all that came of it was a designated inclusive bathroom, a monthly ethnic cultural menu option in the cafeteria, and then still only two black women on staff and only one in the newsroom.”

  I shook my head. “We’re just always caught right in the middle carrying a double, even triple, burden,” I said. “And never knowing which issue is the issue that’s going to get us what we need. How can you fight other people’s battles when it seems like nobody is fighting yours?”

  “I will say that I do feel like I’m constantly asked to pick feminism, or any other ‘ism, over racism,” added Alexis. “Almost like every time I bring up an issue involving racism, I get some kind of sexism example thrown back in my face.”

  “That’s ‘cause we’re ‘post racial’ now, Lexi,” said Laila, throwing up air quotes. “Supposedly, it’s all in your head.”

  “Sometimes I do feel like I’m going crazy,” I said. “I got pulled over by the police today—and almost had a meltdown.”

  “Oh no! Tabby!” said Alexis, showing panic in her face. “Are you ok? What happened?”

  “I want to say nothing happened,” I said, trying to explain the moment that I still hadn’t processed into my own understanding. “He let me go—but, I don’t know…he told me his whole family had been cops and…and…I guess, basically that it hurt him to see me that scared.”

  “I would assume he has a television, and the Internet…and eyes,” said Laila. “He can’t be completely oblivious to what’s happening to black people out here.”

  “Well, that’s kind of it—he said that he did know,” I said, trying to explain something unexplainable. “He just felt bad about it and he wanted me to see him differently. I was basically hysterical, y’all.”

  “Well, I’m just glad that you’re ok and that you were able to walk away without it escalating for no reason,” said Alexis. “Remember the cops used to pull my cousins over all the time in LA when we were in high school? For no reason at all and throw them on the curb. As if criminals only have brown skin. They were straight-A nerdy boys with glasses! They never should have had to go through that!”

  “That’s why alcohol should be under PTSD coverage on our insurance!” said Laila, taking a drink. “And I’m taking my medicine right now. Believe me. Doctor’s orders.” I laughed along with Alexis. Laila, who was now looking down at an empty glass, even had to laugh at herself. “Waiter, let me get one more dose before Happy Hour is over!”

  I stayed at Post & Beam until I felt the weight of my worries lift a little from my shoulders. I might have started my day in tears, but at least it ended in laughter. When I got home I thought about my house hunting with Alexis coming to an end and Laila’s words echoed in my mind. Dr. Young’s card still sat at the top of my purse and Marc’s unanswered text blinked on my phone. I’d have to deal with both tomorrow. I still wasn’t sure what I would say to Marc, or, how I could explain my situation, let alone ask him if he wanted more of a life with me. Once I had showered and changed for bed, there was just one thing left to do. I held my birth control case over the sink and looked at it long and hard. I mean, people forget all the time, right? So, I closed the case and put it back on the counter, turned off the light and went to bed.

  Chapter Three

  The past week wasn’t my finest hour on a number of le
vels. It was so rough I’d have to give myself a pat on the back just for making it to my regular Saturday morning workout with Laila to give my normally straight-pressed naturally curly (actually, pretty nappy) hair a full “sweating-out” before I dropped my freshly-showered self in Denisha’s hair salon chair for my standing appointment. Of course, as usual, Alexis was a promised plus one, but a no show at the gym. One thing she would not miss, however, was her hair appointment, usually scheduled just about the same time as mine. Today, I would not miss it either, because tonight, after a week of conversations with Marc, imitating normalcy and specifically avoiding the news from my doctor or the topic of my future, we were finally going to see each other. Was it our future? What would he say? I didn’t want to lose him, that was certain, but there was no way to avoid any of the conversations that I knew that we needed to have. The thought of all the dating rules I knew I’d be breaking caused a rise of panic in my throat throughout the day, making my chest feel like it was tightly bound, much worse than wearing two pairs of Spanx, or three even, as Alexis said she thought about doing after her second son was born. Alexis wouldn’t need three pairs of Spanx if she’d just come to the gym sometimes, but there’s no good way of telling that to your best friend.

  Alexis and I both moved on from the trappings of our old lives in our old neighborhood, but still came right back to Denisha on Slauson who had been doing our hair since high school. It wasn’t the fanciest place—in fact the dingy and cracked linoleum tiles on the floor were well past their replacement date, even before I left for college. The bars on the door and colorfully-painted front windows gave both a sense of security and a reminder that you were in a neighborhood that required you to “stay woke.” I couldn’t recall anything ever happening more than the usual revolving stream of peddlers of bootleg movies and fake designer bags. Once, a guy came in selling fresh frozen seafood out of his truck. Denisha swore that he had the best crab legs she had ever tasted. Sometimes it’s like that in the hood—unexpected treasures could be hiding right behind unassuming facades. Or, danger could be lurking there too. I needed to get my hair done and Denisha’s reliability was worth the risk.

  As my profile on the TV station started to rise, it was funny to come into the salon and be treated like a homegrown celebrity. I couldn’t say that I wanted the attention, especially walking in there looking like I did after the gym, but I couldn’t help but embrace their sense of pride in feeling like one among them had “made it” to a place that they could see her on the television. I was always surprised to get questions about obscure stories that I covered and to get the pitches for new things that were happening in the surrounding and still largely black neighborhoods. Denisha once wanted me to cover the growing petty burglaries happening in the area. Her theory was that as marijuana became legal, the gangs were starting to push their young members to commit other types of crimes for valuables. With California’s three strikes laws, the older gang members strategized to save themselves from permanent bids at the younger kids’ expense, whose records could be expunged once they turned 18. I thought it was a good idea to at least investigate, and pitched it in one of our newsroom meetings. Guess who shot it down? Scott Stone. Rather than argue with him in front of the entire staff, I let it go. I wanted to push it, but had nobody to back me up. I knew that there must be a time coming to fight these battles and I could if I got promoted. Then, they’d be my stories, no matter what Scott Stone had to say, or anyone else for that matter. Then ratings would decide. And based on the conversations at the hair salon, black people were definitely watching our news coverage and wanted to see more about the lives they experienced. It’s always been a fine line to walk knowing that sometimes I might be the only one in the room with the platform to amplify the stories that shape the lives of forgotten people. This world was an invisible oasis in the midst of a changing landscape of a growing Los Angeles.

  I had to take Denisha with a grain of salt too—on some occasions, she’d say the wildest stuff imaginable. Once, she told me that she was convinced there were aliens. “And they’re on TV just like you!” she’s said. I asked her how she knew which were the aliens and she said, “Well, from what I can tell, they have bigger eyes, and they don’t blink as much.” All I could do was laugh.

  “Hey girl, how you doin’,” Denisha asked as she dropped a plastic cape around my shoulders. “What are we doin’ today? The same? I swear you need to let me give you a cut and some highlights—it would look so good on TV!” She was always trying to get me to change my hair. I’ve been wearing the same style for years—a conservative cut with long layers and my natural dark brown color, sparse grays covered, pressed straight and loosely curled. Standard-issue news reporter, thank you very much.

  “Just the same ‘ol same ‘ol,” I told Denisha passively. We’d had the conversation about changing my hair enough that she knew it was pointless to push the issue. My evening with Marc crossed my mind and made me reconsider. I turned back to look at Denisha. “Actually, a little sexier than the same ‘ol today,” I said with a sly smile. Denisha looked at me with a knowing look.

  “Ummmm hum, I got ya girl,” she said winking at me. “Head over to the shampoo bowl.”

  Walking over to the shampoo bowl, my eyes caught on a woman at another salon station getting a shaping of her short natural hairstyle. Now that I did envy. It would be a dream to be able to just wash my hair and let that be it—even if with a few styling products. Just being able to feel good wearing my hair as it grew out of my scalp, I imagined would be so freeing. I was snapped out of my reverie by a commanding voice.

  “This bowl right here.” Denisha’s shampoo girl, who seemed to change every week almost, was directing me to sit for my shampoo. She might have been harsh in tone, but she gave my scalp a scrubbing for the gods and brought me back to Denisha’s chair.

  “So when is Mrs. Thing coming in today?” Denisha asked. She was talking about Alexis. The girls in the salon liked to tease her because she seemed to incessantly talk about “her husband this” and “her husband that” and “Rob and the boys”—admittedly it could be obnoxious. But Lexi was like that. She went all-in on the husband and kids fairytale and viewed it as an accomplishment that she found a “good one.” Who could fault her though? Denisha was single, as were virtually all of the other stylists in the salon. And I had Marc—going on a year and a half…and…well, clearly not the most ideal situation. When everyone around you was single and looking, I could see how being married would feel like a significant accomplishment. So, I gave Alexis a pass—but in that salon, that’s about as much leeway as she’d get.

  “Well, you know she didn’t make it to the gym this morning,” I said. “So, I guess she should be here for her regular 11 am.”

  “I don’t know why that girl won’t work out!” exclaimed an exasperated Denisha. “With all this high blood pressure and diabetes happening around here. We need to do better. I’ve started working out. I walk every day,” she said proudly, holding a curling iron over my head.

  “Yeah, now you just have to stop eating those cheddar biscuits!” said the stylist from across the room.

  “Girl, you know I need to have my cheddar biscuits!” said Denisha, laughing. “And my long island iced tea. Look here, I’ve got a snatched waist and I’m cute in the face—my man is not complaining.” On that, I’m sure Denisha was right. She may not have had a husband, but she always had a man, or more than one. She used to tell me that she had a boyfriend, and a “toy-friend” for her in-between needs. If she didn’t do my hair, I swear I’d still come just for comic relief. “Well speak of the devil!” Denisha said, announcing Lexi’s arrival. She blew in the door, breathing heavy holding her hand bag in one hand and the hand of her youngest son Lexington, in the other.

  “Now, you sit right there and do not move. You hear me?” Alexis commanded her 4-year-old. “Mommy is going to get her hair done—you play on your iPad. Ok? And do not leave this s
eat,” she said pointing at him and giving a lingering look until he nodded his head in acknowledgment. Then, she turned to me. “Hey girl! Don’t leave before we chat—I have to tell you something.” Leaving me mildly bewildered, wondering why she couldn’t just text me. I waved a frantic hello to little Lexington.

  “Girl, you better sit still before I burn you with this iron!” Denisha warned. I moved back into position in the chair, stiff as a board. I knew when to follow directions—a curling iron burn was a weeklong blemish I didn’t need, especially on my forehead.

  As I was finishing up with Denisha, Alexis came back from the shampoo bowl escorted by the shampoo girl #102. “So what did you need to tell me?” I asked. Alexis pulled me off to the side outside of Denisha’s hearing range.

  “Just that Rob is planning a birthday party for me in a three weeks,” Alexis said. “He wants it to be a surprise, so I’m supposed to act like I don’t know. But, girl, I don’t trust him with all the details. So when he calls you—just act like I haven’t said anything. But try to get some recon—I know I’m going to have to…” she whispered.

  “If you don’t let that man do this thing!” I said to her, cutting her off. “Lexi, I’m not going to tell you anything—but you know I’ll be there!” I said, giving her a quick hug and rushing over to Lexington and out the door before she could protest. “Bye! I’ll call you!” I said as I made the telephone motion with my hand and exited to the echoing farewell following me out of the salon door.

  Once in my car, I got ready to do what I had been dreading. Even before I spoke to Marc, I was going to have to break my news on a stage with a much brighter spotlight. The tightness in my chest felt multiplied by a sharp pang in my gut. You can do this Tabby, I thought to myself. You can do this. I pulled up my hands free phone settings and said, “Dial…Mom.