Such a Fun Age(36)
Emira placed her fingertips against the wall and held her balance as she stepped into her shoes. “Okay. That sounds good.”
Upstairs, after a pop of champagne, Suzanne said, “Oof! I hate doing that.” Laney was telling her daughter, “I don’t know, sweetheart, we’ll have to ask Mrs. Chamberlain when she comes back up,” and Briar was explaining to Ramona that her fish had chicken pox on its tail. Alix glanced toward the purses and jackets left on the hooks, the ones belonging to her guests. Behind a camel-colored Coach purse was a velour black jacket. In cursive white and pink letters on the back was written, Plank Now, Wine Later. There was something about this sentiment, and the pink rhinestone letters it came in, that made Alix realize that Bella Thacker and Emira were the only people to call her Mrs. Chamberlain, despite the permission she’d given them to do otherwise.
“Are you doing anything fun tonight?” she asked Emira.
“Just like”—Emira released her hair from the inside of her leather jacket—“hanging out at my friend Shaunie’s.”
For a moment, Alix felt betrayed by Emira’s cell phone. These were the first plans Emira had in the last month that Alix hadn’t known about before she pretended that she didn’t. She watched Emira’s black, chipped nails feel for the doorknob.
“I’m sure Zara’s included.”
“Yep. She is.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
“Okay, I will.” Emira stood still. The two women stared at each other in the tiny atrium, until Emira pointed at the envelope in Alix’s back pocket. “Is that for me?”
“Oh God, yes. I’m sorry.” Alix reached for it as she shook her head. “Been a long week.”
Emira accepted the envelope and stuffed it deep into her bag. “That’s cool. Okay. See you.”
As she stepped onto the stoop stairs, Emira waved four fingers. Alix couldn’t bring herself to shut the door behind her. Upstairs, someone said, “It’s wine o’clock!” and someone else said, “Ladies’ night!” Alix looked at the back of Emira’s head, her fingers securing her earbuds in place, and she thought to herself, Mira, please don’t leave me.
Ten
Between Emira’s fourth and fifth knock, Shaunie’s apartment door flung open and Emira jumped back. With her hands in fists at her collarbones, Shaunie hopped in place and screamed, “I got it I got it I got it!”
Shaunie’s hair bounced and coiled around her face and across her open mouth. From the couch, Zara raised both of her hands and cheered, “Shaunie, Shaunie . . .” In a gray sweatshirt that read BU on the front, Josefa looked up from the grilled cheese she was making and said, “Heeyyy.”
Emira stepped inside. “Hold up . . . you got what?”
“You are looking at . . .” Shaunie stepped into the living room as Emira set her purse on the kitchen counter. “The newest associate marketing specialist at Sony Philadelphia.”
Emira blinked. “No waayy.”
“Mira, I get my own office.” Shaunie gripped onto the back of her neck, seemingly keeping her body from floating off the floor. She was still in work clothes—a gray pencil skirt and a baby blue button-down—the kind of clothing that Emira had once thought she’d definitely wear in adulthood. “It’s 52K a year,” Shaunie said, “and I get my own fucking office. Well, I share it with this other girl, but still!”
“Oh shit.” Emira tried to make her face go into something that hopefully resembled joy. “That’s amazing.” Shaunie didn’t notice her struggle. She was beginning to dance against the side of the couch.
“Go, Shaunie. It’s your birthday.” In dark blue scrubs, Zara started singing about Shaunie’s new achievements. Shaunie dipped with her hands on her knees, and echoed each new triumph with, “Ayyeee.”
“She got a new job.”
“Ayyeee.”
“She got an office.”
“Ayyeee.”
“401(k).”
“Ayyeee.”
“Fuck it up, girl.”
“Ayyeee.”
From the kitchen, Josefa asked, “Emira, you want something to drink?”
Emira watched Shaunie dip it even lower as Zara clapped double time. “I’ll literally take any alcohol you have,” she said.
Shaunie’s two-bedroom apartment had a kitchen with an exposed brick wall and a fire escape outside the window. Josefa lived there too, but Josefa never objected to anyone referring to the space as “Shaunie’s.” It was filled with Shaunie’s things, and co-signed by Shaunie’s dad. Emira recognized the dormy-twenty-something-isms about the space—the mess of cords leaking out from the TV stand, the IKEA best-seller couch, too many recent pictures fighting for space on the refrigerator—but Shaunie’s place maintained an air of adulthood, and now her employment did too. Apparently, the management at Sony called Shaunie in at the end of the day. They told her how pleased they were with her performance, asked if she was happy working there, and then they offered her the promotion. On the seventh floor of a high-rise in South Philly, Shaunie toasted her bosses with sparkling cider in plastic cups as she did what she claimed was an ugly cry. And that was when she became the last of Emira’s friends to no longer be listed on their parents’ health insurance.