The Other Black Girl(19)
“So did you, right?”
Nella cocked her head, wondering how Hazel had guessed that. She often prided herself on how different she was from her Ivy League, upper-middle-class colleagues—not just in her appearance, but in the ways she moved about the world. Still, Nella knew she had it pretty good, too. Her parents hadn’t been wealthy, but as a child, she hadn’t wanted for anything. They’d lived in a nice house; they’d taken semiannual vacations. She’d attended nice public schools, and it had always been a given that she would attend college. It had also been a given that, if Nella ever really needed financial help, her parents would provide it.
“My parents were pretty well-off when they had me, I guess. If being middle class counts as well-off. But it’s not the same thing as coming from real money. Generational money. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you…” Hazel held up a hand. “I just figured since you work at Wagner and the pay is pretty shitty, you must have a little bit of a cushion holding you up some. That’s all.”
“Not really. I have college debt that I have to pay back on my own,” Nella said, unable to mask the defensiveness that was creeping into her voice and causing her to cross and recross her legs under the table. “And my parents don’t give me money for rent. Not unless it’s an emergency or something.”
“Right. I’m sorry,” Hazel repeated. “Anyway, all of that is beside the point. What I was getting at is, do you think that just because Vera has money she’s automatically incapable of having any kind of empathy for Black people?”
Nella stared at the girl, wondering where her lunch companion’s Black Panther spirit had gone. She’d moved from channeling her inner Baraka to her inner Barack—from confrontational to compassionate—in less than sixty seconds. The change was befuddling, and suddenly Nella wasn’t certain which Hazel she was talking to. “Maybe Vera’s not incapable,” she admitted, “but I do imagine the privilege of money plus the privilege of white skin makes it far less likely.”
Hazel shrugged. “I don’t know. I know I’m new, but of all of them, Vera just seems so… I don’t know. Approachable? At least, she seems way more down than Maisy.”
“Eh. Maybe. Still feels like there are some pretty obvious boundaries keeping us from having a straight-up conversation most of the time.”
“The fact that she’s your boss… yeah. That’s a given. I’d just thought maybe Vera was one of the good ones. I don’t know, maybe that’s crazy to say.”
One of the good ones. One of the most dangerous phrases to ever exist in the English language, Nella’s mother always liked to say, and Nella had grown to agree with her. She could accept the idea of allies—people who “got it.” She’d decided Owen was one of these people a couple of weeks after they’d met online and started dating. Nothing in particular had moved her in this direction. It wasn’t really because he “didn’t see race” or that he knew all the lyrics to Al Green’s “Love and Happiness,” because, respectively, he did and he didn’t (although he did a pretty great imitation of Al Green’s ad-libs). But she refused to call even her boyfriend “one of the good ones,” because such consistency, such innocence, was quite nearly impossible from one human.
Nella had expected her new cube neighbor, who hailed from one of the country’s greatest and richest Black meccas, to feel the same way. Hadn’t Hazel spent her last few years working with white people in Boston?
But then, she considered how warm of a welcome Vera had given Hazel on her first day. And how kind Vera could be one-on-one—when she was willing to let her guard down; when she was willing to let herself wilt just a tiny bit. There was a chance, Nella realized, that she was being a bit too hard on her boss. Perhaps, for Hazel’s sake, she should ease up a little.
“You’re right, though,” she conceded. “Vera’s no Maisy.”
The two Black girls sat in silence again, staring outside the window at the passersby milling around Midtown. It was a particularly warm day, and it was clear that many tourists who were out and about didn’t know what to do with the ninety-five degrees they’d been given. Nella herself regretted not looking at the forecast before putting on a high-collared blouse that morning, noting the little bit of moisture that still remained between her armpits from their three-block walk forty minutes earlier.
Hazel, on the other hand, had looked completely at ease in the sunshine. She’d dressed smartly in a blush-pink halter top, which she’d revealed only after they’d taken their first steps away from the office and she felt comfortable removing her modest button-up sweater.
Nella fanned herself a few times in anticipation of going back out in the heat.
“We should probably head back,” she said at last, crumpling up her garbage with one hand.
“Probably a good idea. Given all the things I’ve already screwed up so far for Maisy, I’m not sure I’ve earned the right to have full hour-long lunches yet,” Hazel joked. “Hey, one last thing, though.”
“What?” Nella was already poised to walk over to the trash can, her bag looped over her shoulder.
“My two cents, for what it’s worth: Whether Vera’s down or not, I think you should say something to her. She’ll thank you for it. And isn’t it better to give her a chance to fix it now, rather than be that one person of color who just let it slip right by, under her nose? Remember how much flak that Kendall Jenner Pepsi commercial got because no one spoke up?”