The Other Black Girl(65)

“How are things, by the way? You haven’t gotten any other notes since that second one with the phone number, correct?” Malaika asked, noticing her friend had suddenly gone quiet.

“Uh, nope. No more notes since September seventh.”

“That’s good. But damn, after today… they’ve gotta be coming from Hazel. Right?”

Nella did nothing but shrug her shoulders, a gesture that Malaika either couldn’t see or outright ignored.

“She knows there’s only space for one Black girl, and she wants to be it. I think she wants you out, girl,” Malaika continued, picking up a green tuft of hair next. “She’s playing you. How else would she have snuck those notes to you so smoothly, without you noticing? And the way she threw you under the bus today, in front of everybody?”

“I don’t know. But I plan to talk to her about it tonight. Did I tell you she brought Owen up, too? By name. Even though I’m sure I’ve never mentioned his name to her. Not ever.”

Malaika’s eyes went wide. “Never? You sure?”

“Definitely. I mentioned I had a boyfriend, but that’s it. And you know how he wouldn’t touch social media with a ten-foot pole. He hates it so much he has interns do that part of the job at work.”

“Right. So when you say you want to ‘talk’ to Hazel, do you mean…?” Malaika’s outline mimed removing her earrings one by one.

“No,” said Nella, giggling. “I mean, actually talk. Innocent until proven guilty.” The words, acrid on Nella’s tongue, came out sounding a lot more self-righteous than she meant them to.

“But you can’t—”

“I wonder what kind of chemicals go into ‘good vibes,’?” Nella intoned, changing the subject. “Panthenol, glycerol, fructose…”

Malaika made a pft sound as she sullenly went back to fingerpicking the fake tuft of green hair.

Nella put the Good Vibes grease back and leaned closer to the shelf. She was intent on holding it together tonight. She couldn’t just run into a closet at Curl Central and leave another crazy message on some stranger’s machine.

“This line of hair products is crazy. How is this a thing? There’s one called ‘Chill Pill,’ ‘Turnt ’n’ Free,’ ‘Strut Ur Stuff’—”

“What’s in ‘Strut Ur Stuff’?”

“Probably all of the things that are in ‘Good Vibes.’ And something spicy? I don’t know.”

“Garbage for your scalp,” Malaika said dismissively. She placed the tuft of green hair back on the rack next to the mirror, dejected. “I want to do it so bad.”

“Do what?”

“Put color in my hair. Something plant-based, obviously. I’m just really craving a change, you know?”

“I do,” Nella said, recalling that hot summer day she’d walked by a barbershop in Bushwick and decided to finally cut all of her relaxed hair off. “Why don’t you just go for it? Your hair would look bomb with some blue or green, especially when you pull it into those cornrows like you do sometimes.”

“Even if I had the balls to do it, I know I’d hear about it from Igor for, like, a month. You know how he is about these kinds of things.”

Nella nodded. Igor had had a particularly hard time adjusting to the tiny emerald-green nose piercing Malaika had whimsically had done the previous summer. He’d thrown a fit, telling Malaika in no subtle terms that “her choice in nose jewelry might come off a certain way to potential clients.” Malaika had griped and groaned about it, but she’d received the message and taken out the piercing anyway. The pay was too good, and having her own place in Fort Greene was even better.

“Okay, no hair dye. But did you want to get anything else from this aisle? Like hair grease or something?”

“Girl, you know I don’t believe in buying hair grease. It’s like buying barbecue sauce.”

“You’ve started making your own barbecue sauce, too?”

“Pinterest is an invaluable resource.”

Nella laughed—a real laugh this time—and playfully smacked Malaika’s arm. “Let’s go, Mal. I want to take a peek at Iesha B.’s book before this thing starts.”

“Miss Iesha B.! Oh, yes, please.” Malaika hustled ahead of Nella, the neon pink swooshes of her Air Jordans the only visible part of her shadow. Nella followed giddily behind her. They’d spent an unhealthy amount of time poking fun at Miss Iesha B., wondering whether or not she ate steak or believed in the Illuminati, or if she’d be present at the reading that evening. It was this last reason that had gotten Malaika to attend the reading, since Nella’s plea for Malaika to “do it for the culture” hadn’t quite moved the needle. Not on a weeknight, at least.

“Do we have time before this poetry thing starts?” Malaika asked. “I want to see if the books are actually worth the ten bucks she’s charging.”

Nella nodded. She’d clocked both the bookshelf and the bathroom as soon as they entered, a habit she performed whenever she entered someone’s home, and she led the way to the back of the store, deftly sidestepping two other young Black women who were closely eyeing a selection of bright sprays that doubled as perfumes and moisturizers. One had a mouth full of braces; the other had a teeny-weeny fro that reminded Nella of her own shortly after she’d done The Big Chop.