On Rotation(6)

I told Tabatha as much. To her credit, she didn’t say anything for a long time. I was thankful for that. Not even a year ago, Tabatha might have responded with a pithy statement about how I needed to work on my self-esteem, and I would have been forced to kick her out. But a year out in the real world had taught her that she didn’t know everything, and so when she opened her mouth to speak again, I listened.

“You know what, sis,” she said. “I think you’re thinking too hard about this. Love isn’t a test. There aren’t right answers. You can’t get into anyone’s head and puzzle together whether or not they can love you, or you can love them. You just have to jump in blind and accept the chance that you might get hurt.”

Lucky for me, I’m bad at tests too, I thought bitterly.

“Well, some of us have better odds than others,” I muttered.

Next to me, I felt Tabatha stiffen, gearing up to protest. I closed my eyes against her defiance. No matter how much Tabs tried to empathize, for her, my romantic troubles just didn’t compute. Growing up, she’d been Baby Appiah 2.0, with most of my book smarts but none of my diffidence. When we first moved to America, I buckled under the weight of my otherness. The abrupt transformation from being an individual to just another “African booty scratcher”* shattered my first vestiges of self-esteem, and I spent the next nearly twenty years picking up the pieces.

“You know, you’re always saying shit like that.” I could feel her glaring. “That it’s easier for me, or something.”

Because it is, I thought. Like it or not, Tabs checked off all the boxes for “universally hot Black girl”: light skinned enough to pass the paper bag test, slim-thick, with hair that was always laid and makeup that was always tasteful. When Tabatha wanted someone, she hardly had to ask herself if they wouldn’t want her back for something she couldn’t control, if she was too chubby or too dark or too loud, because she wasn’t any of those things. Maybe Tabs and I were different because of natural temperament, or because she was younger and more effortlessly American. Or maybe she had simply been born with the more acceptable set of characteristics. Most people knew how to love a girl like her. They didn’t really know what to do with one like me.

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s say that it is,” Tabatha said then, breaking our uneasy silence. “But what I’m saying is that you don’t make it easier. You’re always thinking about how men don’t like you because of x or y or z. But the truth is, Angie—you’re part of the problem. You only go for the low-hanging fruit, and you act all shocked when half of it is rotten.”

Good ol’ Tabs. Always delivering her toughest love with a heaping spoonful of disdain. I winced, throwing my arm over my eyes.

“Geez. Down, girl,” I said without bite.

Tabatha pursed her lips, swatting my shoulder.

“Well, I guess I should allow you at least forty-eight hours to wallow in self-pity before ripping you a new one,” she said. “But at least come out and eat with us. Auntie made nkatenkwan . . . and if you make me wait any longer for it, I’m gonna steal all of your meat.”

“Like hell you will,” I said, launching myself out of bed and onto my feet. Quick as a cat, Tabatha sprang for the door, muscling me out of the way, and for a moment, in pursuit of the best cut of goat, I left my grief at the door.





Three




“Are you sure you can’t stay any longer?” my father asked. He leaned against my doorframe with his arms folded, watching me stuff my pajamas into my duffel bag. His expression had all the mournfulness of the family pet watching his favorite visiting college kid pack at the end of a break. I would have felt worse about my quick escape if he hadn’t spent all of dinner last night interrogating me about my grades.*

“I have a meeting at one with Dr. Wallace,” I reminded him. It wasn’t a complete lie; I did have a meeting at 1:00 p.m. with Dr. Wallace—in two weeks. But I also had almost twenty-five years of Immigrant Parent experience, and I knew that the best way to avoid a guilt trip when trying to make an early exit was to come up with a school-related excuse.

“Well, next time you should come home earlier,” he said petulantly. “You have a car, and you live close. You need to commit more time to family.”

Miss you too, Daddy, I thought.

“I’ll visit soon,” I said, skirting past him. Momma was already at work, a small blessing. “I promise.”

“Okay,” he said, following me out the front door. He pulled me into a hug that would have been comforting if my skin hadn’t been crawling with anxiety. “Drive safe. Tell Nia I said hi.”

Last night’s nkatenkwan had only temporarily delayed my despondence. After twenty-four hours of high-intensity exposure to practically all the potential triggers for my impending breakdown, I was in need of two things: (1) an exit plan (achieved) and (2) a distraction. I’d texted Nia, but she had planned for my absence by finally scheduling the bread-making class I’d given her for Christmas and wouldn’t be home until late. Michelle, who had journeyed with me from our Midwestern college to our Midwestern medical school, was still on her Step study block, and wouldn’t be free to hang for another week. A bummer; I couldn’t very well go sit in my apartment alone with my thoughts. I would have to entertain myself.