The Other Black Girl(106)

“That’s exactly why,” Juanita said. “And hey, I can do your hair next, after I finish with Eb. Any idea of what you want to have done tonight?”

Malaika spun the jar around in her hand, searching for answers she wouldn’t be able to find on unlabeled plastic. “Cool! Thanks, but no thanks to the grease. Maybe some braids, since it is starting to get cold out…”

“?’Nita does a fierce protective style,” said Ebonee.

“I do, it’s true.”

Nella heard a mutter of assent come from above the back of her head, followed by, “And the Smooth’d Out really locks the moisture in, too. I recommend it.”

Malaika shrugged, handed the jar back. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m gonna pass.”

“How come?” asked Juanita.

“I’m not too big on using hair products that don’t have their ingredients listed. Any products, really—but especially hair products.”

“Yeah, Malaika is really obsessive about those kinds of things.”

Hazel started wrapping the fabric around Nella’s head when she said this, and she didn’t have to look up at her friend’s face to know she was giving her That Look again. Malaika had a point about only using hair products she trusted. Still, Nella couldn’t muster the courage to agree with her.

Juanita tutted as Ebonee leaned over to examine Malaika’s hair. “That must be a pretty hard rule to live by. Does that mean you shop at, like… Target?”

Nearly everyone in the room visibly shuddered. “SheaMoisture really fucked up my hair,” Kiara said. “Fucked up all my ends. I ended up quitting Target entirely.”

“Hey, I used SheaMoisture for years before I started using Brown Buttah,” Nella finally mustered. “It’s not that bad.”

“Look, everyone’s hair is different. I just know mine is sensitive,” Malaika said coolly. “When I bought some unlabeled product once at a natural hair care fair in the Bronx a few years ago, that fucked up my hair and that was it for me. I knew I’d never to do that again. But I can trust what’s in my own homemade hair grease.” She turned to Hazel. “Unless you can tell me what’s in yours? Maybe then I’d change my mind.”

The pieces of the scarf tightened around Nella’s hairline—too tight. But she didn’t say anything. “It’s a secret recipe,” Hazel said, grinning. “A friend of a friend of a friend’s mom made it, and she hasn’t told anybody what’s in it. Ever. Sorry.”

Malaika handed the jar back. “No worries.” She still seemed as calm and as light as summer rain, but Nella sensed a thunderstorm brewing under her eyes after that exchange. “Nell—that scarf looks incredible on you.”

“Yeah?”

Kiara put down her magazine. “It does look dope. You have a great-shaped face for scarves.”

“Really? I’ve never worn one,” said Nella, feeling—against all of her smarter instincts—flattered by the compliment. “Never for fashion, anyway. Just for bed.”

“Let me see?”

Nella turned around so Hazel could take a look at her work. She nodded. “You should wear them all the time,” she said. “And just think, you’re deep-conditioning right at this very minute. ’Nita, you got a hand mirror?”

“Ah.” Juanita punched her thigh. “I knew I forgot something. I think I left it in the car. Can I get it when I’m done with Ebonee?”

“I can take a photo for now,” Malaika said, reaching into her purse to grab her phone. But Nella stopped her before she could get it.

“No,” she said, a bit curtly, keeping her eyes on Malaika’s long enough to spark cognizance. “I actually have to use the bathroom, so can I just use the mirror in there?”

“Definitely. It’s upstairs on the left,” said Hazel, pointing at the doorway through which they’d come.

Nella thanked her and, ignoring Malaika’s pleading gaze for her not to leave, lifted herself up from the cushion. Then she slipped out of the room just as Kiara made a joke about what Camille and her boyfriend were probably doing on the phone.

Camille, from Missoula.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. That list of names she’d found on the printer a few weeks ago couldn’t have just been a guest list, or an author list.

You know how you pick up friends in different places along the way, Hazel had said. As though she’d collected each of them, like a handful of Black girl Tamagotchis.

Nella quickened her pace, taking the stairs two at a time. When she reached the top of the landing she saw three doors. The one on the left was cracked, the faint light of a candle just barely visible through the sliver. The other two doors were shut tight.

Time was ticking. She already estimated she had about five minutes left to explore—seven, if Malaika distracted them successfully. Nella regarded the glow one last time. Then, without one more thought, she reached for the doorknob on the right side of the landing and turned.





18


Nella had to practically fling herself into Hazel’s room. She’d never been the type to explore spaces that weren’t hers. To be fair, she rarely had the opportunity. Being an only child meant pretty much every room in the house was fair game, since her parents would let her watch movies in their room all the time when she was little. But even when she was older and more curious, she refrained from purposely going to a room that wasn’t the bathroom, held herself back from opening cabinet doors above sinks that didn’t belong to her.