The Other Black Girl(62)
“Thanks, Hazel, for that,” said Vera. She was beaming so hard that you’d have thought her puppy had stood up on its hind legs and started composing the next great American novel. Meanwhile, the PE still hadn’t taken his eyes off Nella. His eyes were narrowed in hard, indisputable distrust.
Nella fake-coughed into her elbow.
“My pleasure! Thank you for letting me take a peek. And for giving me the opportunity to speak today.” Hazel bowed her head.
Amy bowed her head in reply. “Yes, thanks, Hazel, for your thoughts. We’ll definitely keep in mind the racially diverse angle, too. Great stuff, no?” she asked the room. It was a rhetorical question, but a few people verbally agreed anyway, not wanting to be mistaken for nonbelievers. Richard clapped his hands a couple of times.
“Great!” Vera said. “Okay, next: Kruegler. When we first met Kitty, she was a no-name debut author with no partner, and no kids, with seventy-five thousand dollars of college debt. But when Translucent Shadows hit, all of that changed…”
Nella reached a forefinger up to her face and pressed on her left nostril and counted to ten. The corners of her eyes were beginning to burn, and now that the PE was finally facing forward again, all she could do was focus on the back of his shiny, bare head. The tears were about to fall, she knew, and even though no one would probably notice—everyone was infatuated with Kitty Kruegler, a college dropout who’d gone on to be a professor at Princeton—crying was not an option. Showing any feeling wasn’t an option. She knew what her colleagues would say. What her mother would say. Damn it, Nell, you’re a twenty-six-year-old editorial assistant working at one of the best publishing houses in the country. You’ve got nothing to cry about.
What Nella couldn’t have possibly explained to her mother was that the tears that threatened to flow down her cheeks weren’t tears of sadness. They were hot, heavy tears of anger and embarrassment. She locked her jaw, trying to keep from looking over at Hazel. She was dying to see what the girl was wearing on her face, but was scared that if she moved her head even an inch, she’d need to scramble to the exit—or, worse, spring from her chair, grab Hazel by the shoulders, and give her a shake in front of all of their colleagues.
Nella sat stock-still like this for the next forty-five minutes, focusing only on her breathing and the sounds of the editors’ voices. By the time Amy launched into her usual closing remarks about the market and the social climate for books and how important the work every single person in that room was doing, the heat had left Nella’s face and her jaw had relaxed. She had so many questions for Hazel, but she knew that her best option was to keep calm and quiet. Wagner was not a good place for this conversation—it would be better to wait until they were at Curl Central.
Resigned for now, Nella casually turned her head to the left, feeling the tightness that had formed on her left side unfurl. When she turned back, she was surprised to see Hazel staring right at her, brows scrunched and eyes clouded over, like she was thinking something through.
Bring Owen. Coming from Hazel, this had sounded more like a command than a suggestion. But no. That wasn’t why those words had rubbed Nella the wrong way. What had confused her in that moment was the sound of Owen’s name coming from Hazel’s mouth. Nella hadn’t ever mentioned it to Hazel. Not even in passing. She was certain of that. And Owen was nowhere on her Facebook—he didn’t believe in social media, bless his free-spirited heart, and she respectfully kept him off her page. She didn’t use Facebook like that anymore, anyway.
Nella held Hazel’s stare, radiating as much blatant condemnation as she could. Hazel withstood all of it with an air of neutrality. Then, she slowly turned her head back toward the front of the room, the beginnings of a slow, small smile creeping across her face.
Kendra Rae
September 26, 2018
Catskill, New York
You’ve got to help me. I feel like I’m going insane.
I took a long, deep breath, then raised my glass and took an even longer, deeper sip of my wine. I couldn’t keep running away from this voice mail. I’d done everything I could to take my mind off it. I went out on the trail for an hour; I picked up some groceries and a case of pinot noir, too. I’d even done a little writing, just to give me something to do while I drank.
But I couldn’t find any peace. Not once. I just kept hearing this girl’s squeaky voice instead of my own.
I sighed and hit Play, her frantic rant filling up my kitchen for the umpteenth time.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you keep contacting me. And, actually, I don’t even know why I’m calling you. You… stupid, creeper-stalker weirdo.”
There was that light, snotty snort noise—the one that told me she’d been crying.
“God, I’m a mess. My life is a mess. Owen’s been mad at me. Vera thinks I’m an unreliable assistant, and I’m definitely gonna lose my job… although truthfully, I don’t even know if I want it.”
The caller paused again. I wiped at the drop of pinot noir that had slid off the green bottle onto the table, smearing it across the cherrywood. I licked my finger and wiped at it again, counting down the four seconds that I knew would pass before she said, “No. That’s not true. I—I do want it. I want to be an editor. How many young Black female editors are there? None.” The girl sighed. “You keep telling me to leave, but I can’t. I can’t let Hazel…” Another snort, this one more self-deprecating than the last. “Fuck, I’m not sure why I’m telling you… whoever you are… any of this.”