The Other Black Girl(17)

Nella stared up at Hazel, disconcerted. She was still cradling the phone in the crook of her neck, but the dial tone was doing that beep-beep-beep thing it did when you left it off the hook for too long. “Yes. I’m good. We’ll talk more at lunch,” she whispered, motioning around at their surroundings with her chin. “Wandering ears, you know?”

Hazel nodded and grinned, her vacant expression disappearing with the wink of an eye. “Oh, I know.”





4


August 21, 2018

Lunch with Hazel was at Nico’s, an independent hole-in-the-wall café that served Au Bon Pain–quality food with a side of Pret A Manger ambiance. It wasn’t a particularly nice spot, but Nella often chose it because it was cheap, and the higher-ups who actually did set foot inside always took their food to go. And since higher-ups certainly didn’t take agents or authors to Nico’s—waitstaff was an absolute must while wining and dining clientele—the café afforded Nella what she wanted and needed most: a lunch spot of her own, since her cube at the office was everyone else’s battleground as much it was hers.

Hazel finished paying first and, to Nella’s delight, chose a sunbathed table next to a large window that looked out onto busy, bustling Seventh Avenue. Nella joined her, setting down her sandwich and juice as she stuffed her wallet into her worn-out Wagner Books tote.

“I thought it’d be nice to sit in some sunlight. This is cool, right?”

“Definitely. Good to get some vitamin D.”

“So true.” Hazel removed the plastic lid from her salad and poked at a walnut with her finger. “I’m so glad we’re finally doing this. I’ve been meaning to ask if you wanted to get a coffee, but shit, man. This learning curve is hard. I feel like I’ve been drowning the last couple of weeks and I haven’t found any time.”

Nella nodded. “Yeah, I remember how hard the first few months were. But you’ve been doing great! Really, you’d know if you weren’t. I mean it.”

Hazel let the compliment roll off her shoulders and into the small tub of salad dressing that she was having trouble peeling open. She picked up her fork and stabbed at it. “So, Maisy mentioned that Vera has some pretty big books in the works right now,” she said. “You must be really excited about that.”

Nella grimaced as the sound of Colin Franklin’s voice reading with a downtrodden Black woman affect echoed in her ears. “Yeah, you could say that Vera has some pretty big-name authors.”

“Sam Lewis, right? Evelyn Kay. And… Colin Franklin?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And what’s he like?” asked Hazel, her eyes widening. “He must be interesting.”

“Interesting is… a good way to describe him.”

Hazel grinned, leaning in. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more you’re not saying?”

“Well… he’s not an easy man to work for. Although he has mellowed out some.”

“Yeah, but, like—where did he start off, right?”

“Right. Exactly. But the thing is…” Nella looked around Nico’s to see if she recognized anyone within earshot. “I try not to talk about Vera’s authors with anybody else, really. It’s a good rule of thumb—some editors see it as airing out their dirty laundry.”

“I get that.”

“And I hate complaining… because really, it was so hard to get a job at Wagner in the first place. I should be thankful.”

Hazel put her fork down. “Sheesh. What is it? You can tell me. I don’t really have a horse in this race.”

Nella angled her neck, her eyes full of questions.

“Not yet, anyway. Hey, I’m not even sure I want to be a book editor,” Hazel added. “I’m still feeling this whole thing out.”

“Oh.” Still, Nella wasn’t convinced. “You promise you’ll keep this between us?”

“C’mon. You and I both know we gotta stick together here. And who knows, maybe my outside perspective’ll help.”

Nella couldn’t argue with that. And so, she told Hazel everything about Shartricia in Needles and Pins. Her disgust, her reservations—she dumped everything she’d been sifting through in her mind right there on the table between them.

By the time she finished, Hazel had eaten her entire lunch while Nella still had a whole sandwich in front of her. “Sorry,” she said, peeling back the plastic so she could take another bite. “It’s just that every time I talk about it, I get even more frustrated. And I wonder, am I just crazy? Am I overreacting?”

“Sheeyit. From what you’ve told me about Shartricia, it sounds like you’re right to feel the way you do. I read one of Franklin’s novels for a book club in high school. Illegally Yours, I think it was? The portrayal of the Mexican woman in that is so problematic. I can already imagine your pain.”

Nella made a face. “I know. Thankfully I wasn’t here when he was writing that one.”

“And what kind of name is Shartricia, anyway? Sweet lord. Shaniqua wasn’t good enough for the stereotypical Black girl name? Of all places, that was where he really felt the need to get creative?”

“Girl, preach,” Nella said, snapping her fingers. This was exactly what she needed to hear. “I’m with you on that. But that’s why it really sucks—because I can’t call him out on it.”