The Other Black Girl(101)
“But Hazel—”
“Ms. Hazel-Shit-Don’t-Stink-May has built her reputation of being the ‘good Black girl’ at Wagner, right? How do you think your bosses would feel if she suddenly got super… Black?”
“Ladies in the back!” Isaac screeched. “Get with it!”
Nella glowered at the floor before spinning onto her back. She hadn’t thought about it before, but she supposed it would be especially hard for Hazel to be two-faced in front of both Vera and Jesse. Jesse would be able to smell her bullshit as soon as he landed on the tarmac at JFK, would be able to take one look at Hazel comparing hair notes with Vera and call her out for exactly what she was.
Nella flipped to her stomach, then up on her hands. “You think I should go to this Jesse meeting, then?”
“I think you’ve worked too hard not to go to this thing. But go ready. Hold on until you get what you want. Black it up and get Jesse to love you. Or, at least, like you more than Hazel.”
Nella’s shoulders started to burn as she tried to keep her back flat and abs tight. “But what if this whole Jesse Watson thing is just another carrot? And there’s nothing on the other side of it but, like… more carrots?”
“If that’s the case,” Malaika said, remaining where she’d fallen, “then at least you have your carrot. Maybe start thinking about making some moves. Take that carrot to a different publishing house. Don’t publishing people do that all the time? Weren’t you just telling me about that disgruntled assistant who’d been so helpful with one of his boss’s authors that when he changed jobs, the author followed him?”
Joey Ragowski. Judging from the way Vera had told her this story once—her voice dripping with caution—it was widely viewed as the ultimate assistant betrayal. Close, Nella presumed, to calling an author racist to his or her face.
“It’s not really that appealing of an option,” she said, “but definitely better than the first.”
“I know. I can’t imagine having to start over with a new Igor. But at least you’d have a sexy little Jesse Watson carrot on your arm.” Malaika chuckled. “Go get what’s yours. We all know you deserve it, but first you gotta do the work.”
17
October 25, 2018
Malaika stomped her foot. “I said ‘you have to do the work,’?” she groaned. “I didn’t say ‘you and I have to do the work.’?”
“What can I say? You inspired me.” Nella leaned forward and squinted at the list of silver buttons that were attached to Hazel’s front door. “Which number did I say it was?”
“Number two.”
Nella pushed the number once, waited a second, then pushed it again. “She told me to buzz this one, even though the whole place is hers. I think.”
She knew this for a fact, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She was too engrossed in envying Hazel’s home. It was exactly what she’d expected—which is to say, it was exactly what Nella would probably never be able to afford, but would almost always yearn for: a tall, beautiful brownstone, occupied by Hazel, her boyfriend, and Juanita, located a convenient five-minute walk away from the Classon stop on the G train, a three-minute walk from Curl Central, and a one-minute walk from a hip, Black-owned hybrid vintage store and bar that Nella had always meant to check out.
A year earlier, when Owen and Nella had found themselves strolling through Clinton Hill arm in arm, more than a little buzzed off overpriced apple juice spritzers, she had jokingly asked him how many app downloads it would take for them to be able to afford to buy in that neighborhood. “Let’s just say we’d need to make a YouTube channel, and I’d need to learn how to braid,” Owen had replied. Nella had laughed and squeezed his arm, admittedly giddy with delight—partly from the overpriced spritzers, but also from the realization that Owen was in fact watching those cheesy interracial couple videos she sent him. They were intended as gags, but they were also ways of saying Hey, look at this—aren’t you glad we’re not these people?
But now, as Nella made her way up the steep steps of Hazel’s Huxtable-inspired brownstone, hoisting her long, flowing skirt above her ankles so that she didn’t trip, fall, and bust her face on the way up, she remembered why people wanted to become “those people” in the first place. She wanted a vestibule to put a coat rack and a bike in. Neither of these things were something she particularly needed to own, but she liked the notion of at least having the option.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Malaika leaned against the railing. “The sooner we get up in here, the sooner we can confirm this bitch’s real name, pull out her fake dreadlocks, and then get the fuck out.”
“The abridged version of the plan. I like it,” Nella joked, even though she was starting to wonder if bringing her friend had been a mistake. It had taken her much longer to convince Malaika to come along to this natural hair party than it had taken to drag her to the Young, Black ’n’ Lit Girls reading, and her resistance was palpable. When they’d met up for a quick dinner beforehand, a Puerto Rican kid no older than eight had entered the burrito spot wearing a navy-blue Adidas tracksuit and a gold chain; Malaika hadn’t said one word about it when she normally would’ve given him a high five for his outfit. And when a white guy passed by them on the street rapping “99 Problems,” Malaika hadn’t lingered to see if he rapped the n-word, either.