Such a Fun Age(76)
“Emira, the girls’ bathroom is all yours,” Alix said.
Laney nodded as if she’d been part of this decision. “Let’s meet back in twenty and we’ll be on at nine, superstar.”
Emira tried to match their excitement. While she wanted to ask where Briar was—she was very curious to see what the little girl would be wearing—Emira took to the stairs with Zara. She would see Briar soon enough, and spend plenty of time with her in the near future.
Inside the children’s bathroom, Emira sat on the toilet as Zara applied a finishing layer of powder on her cheeks. “So . . .” Zara whispered. Emira smelled the fancy cold brew on her breath. “They’s some mad plantation vibes up in here.”
“Aight, okay.” Emira opened her eyes. She held up a compact and looked at her reflection. “Imma be spending a lot of time here, so chill. Can you get my edges a little bit?”
Zara tsked and said, “Where’s your baby comb?”
Emira sat up to peek into her makeup bag. “It’s not in there?” She took the bag from the sink and held it in her lap. After pushing filthy compacts and wands from side to side, she said, “It must be in my backpack,” and looked up at Zara.
Zara poked out her lips. “Oh, it’s like that.”
“Can you just bring my whole bag up here?”
“Wowww, okay, okay.” Zara reached for the door. To no one she said, “She think she cute now that she got a job but okay.”
Emira called, “Thank you!” as Zara closed the door. Alone, she stood and looked into the mirror. There, above a bulk pack of wipes and a jar of baby powder, was the version of herself she’d much rather appear on camera than the one that was still making its way across Facebook and Twitter.
All weekend long, Emira couldn’t help but Google comments and posts about the Market Depot video. In the midst of an onslaught of police brutality videos and Black Lives Matter marches, Emira’s viral video was somehow . . . funny? Viewers and sharers of the video tacked it to their feeds with comments like, This is fucked up but I’m also dying laughing, and OMG, this girl is my hero. Someone had taken a screenshot of Emira yelling at the security guard with a hand to her hip, and they zoomed in on Briar’s face looking helplessly at the camera. The caption read, record scratch Yep. That’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got in this position. People made comments like This baby is killing me and Baby girl has had enough and I’m ready for a spinoff with this kid and her sitter. The more it was shared, the lighter it seemed to be, which made the whole thing both better and worse.
Emira believed this light take was the consensus because of a few factors. First of all, no one got hurt. Briar was adorable and agreeable and bored with the situation, and Emira’s quick retorts often masked her fear. This was a video about racism that you could watch without seeing any blood or ruining the rest of your day. Emira couldn’t help but think of how the Internet would react if they knew she and Kelley were dating . . . had dated. (Emira ignored the four calls Kelley placed to her cell in the last two days. Zara answered his last attempt with, “Okay, so we’ve calmed down? But we aren’t ready to speak to you yet. Please respect our transition.”)
Kelley wasn’t the only one calling. All weekend, Emira kept her phone on the charger because it buzzed every hour with requests for interviews and one appearance on a talk show called The Real. But Emira answered every call with the scripted phrases that Mrs. Chamberlain left her with. “You tell everyone that you don’t have a comment at this time, and that’s all you have to say at the moment,” she said. “We can turn this around, I promise you. We’ll go in, clear up anything that may have been misconstrued, and you’ll be out of the spotlight as fast as you were in it.”
As it happened, Kelley was correct about the notoriety this video would bring, but on a much smaller scale than he most likely presumed. In the two days following the video, Emira received three voice mails offering employment. One was from an affluent black family in the city seeking a nanny for their three boys. One was from an online publication asking her to do a three-piece series on protecting the rights of caretakers in Philadelphia. And one was from her current employer, the Green Party office. Emira’s Tuesday and Thursday supervisor, a woman named Beverly, phoned her cell three times and left two messages: “Let’s talk about getting you in here more, okay?” After the ream of nice paper she’d spent her money on and the cover letters she’d spent her evenings writing, Emira was annoyed, rather than delighted, by the fact that a viral video seemed to make her more qualified than reference letters and a bachelor’s degree. But that didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t need it. Emira’s parents—who seemed most concerned with her outfit in the video—panicked at the assumption that she was both jobless and coatless. “Mom, it was back in September,” Emira explained. “And I do have a job. I’m a nanny.”
The Thanksgiving invitation didn’t make her feel like family. What did was receiving a contract and 1095 tax form from Mrs. Chamberlain. In 2016, though Emira would technically be making less money per hour because of taxes, she’d still be making more money than she ever had in her life, almost $32K a year. She wouldn’t be moving into Shaunie’s old room, but if she was ever stopped by a security guard again, Emira could say she was a nanny without stumbling over a lie. She’d have a valid excuse not to go out because she’d be working twenty-four-hour shifts. And for Briar’s future preschool, her swimming classes at the YMCA, and fall ballet at Little Lulu’s, Emira’s name and number would be listed at the top of Briar’s emergency contact list.