The Other Black Girl(67)



She stopped speaking for a moment and peered closer at Nella’s hair. “And, just so you know, we have plenty of deep-conditioning moisturizers and sprays that will zip your roots right up, too.”

Nella’s hand flew up to her scalp, which did, now that she thought about it, feel a bit dry.

“So great to meet you both! One last thing: If you Instagram anything—please, if you can, remember to tag Curl Central. But be sure to try to leave any drinks out of the photo,” she added hastily, “since we don’t have a liquor license yet. You feel me? Great! See you ladies soon.” Juanita clapped her hands once, then made her way over to the high school girls who were still debating on the Serenity Spray.

Nella felt her roots again, then looked over to see which face Malaika was wearing. It was hard to tell, since she wasn’t quite in Miss Iesha B.’s spotlight. But before Nella could ask, Malaika snorted once and said, “She looks like a Real Housewife.”

Nella snorted, too. “She doesn’t have a liquor license, and she’s serving alcohol in a place where high school students will be reading? No judgment, but… judgment.”

“Judgment,” Malaika said. “But I’m also just a little bit here for it.”



* * *



Not altogether atypically, Owen showed up two minutes before the reading was supposed to start, after nearly every seat had been filled. Nella waved at him, first casually and then, when this method did not work, spasmodically, until he noticed the three center seats that she and Malaika had secured in the back row.

“Leave it to one of the only white people at this event to show up on CP Time,” Malaika observed as Owen made his way over to them.

“Didn’t Jesse tell us to give up ‘CP Time’?”

“Oh god, yeah. ‘Time is yet another construct that was created and upheld by people who don’t look anything like me. Some constructs are valid. Other constructs are constructed just to prevent other constructs from being constructed.’ Whew, he was definitely…” Malaika took a hit from an imaginary blunt.

Nella laughed, continuing where Malaika left off in her best old Black man impression. “?‘Therefore, my brothas and my sistas, we need to stop and think every time we use the phrase “Colored People Time.” Each time we use it, we’re merely reinforcing the stereotype that there is just one kind of “time,” and that there is a problem with Black people not adhering to this particular kind of time. I show up when I show up. It’s my prerogative. I make my own constructs.’?”

“Man, fuck that. Talking about CP Time is as natural to Black folk as worshipping Angela Bassett. There’s no denying it. Maybe that’s why he’s taking a break from social media now—because he finally accepted that all of that is a construct, too.”

It was a fair point, but Nella was more interested in Owen’s progress than continuing the riff. It had taken him far too long to get past a Black bookish couple who were deep in the throes of a heated debate; now, the only thing in his way was a group of four eclectically dressed Black women. As he climbed over them politely, offering apologies galore, each one of them looked up at him with curiosity, trying to figure out where this young white man—red-faced and brown-haired and one of now two white people in Curl Central that evening—was aiming to sit. When he stopped by Nella and Malaika, the woman sitting on the far end of the row said something in a voice too low for Nella to hear. Another woman responded spiritedly, using her hands to help illustrate whatever point she was trying to make, and they all nodded in consensus with raised eyebrows.

Nella tried not to wonder what their court had decided as she stood up halfway to plant a kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek. “You made it!”

“Sorry. I had to go into the office because something was up with the Internet. And by the time I got to the theater, there was a long line at the ticket booth, and I just missed the first train.” Nella got a faint whiff of perspiration mixed with a little bit of ire as Owen removed his messenger bag and stuffed it under his folding chair. “What’s up, Mal?”

“Oh, the usual. Drinkin’ wine. ’Bout to get ‘cultured.’?”

“Any luck getting our Blob tickets switched?” Nella asked him.

“Nope. The other showing is full, and even if it weren’t, the guy at the booth said their return policy doesn’t include swapping movie showtimes as an option.”

Nella groaned. “Damn, babe. I’m sorry. We’ll definitely catch the next one. And it’ll be on me.”

“It’s fine. I just better hear some really good poetry tonight. Like, for colored girls–level,” Owen said, a little less grumbly. “My soul better grow wings and fly away by the time this thing is over. Then, I’ll forgive you. Maybe.”

“I appreciate that you referenced Ntozake Shange,” said Nella playfully, “and not Maya Angelou. Ntozake’s kind of a deep cut.”

“It shows he has depth,” Malaika agreed. “Let’s keep your boyfriend, shall we?”

“I think we should.” Nella smiled and squeezed Owen’s thigh.

Owen rolled his eyes, although their banter had visibly loosened him up some. He probably would never admit it, but Nella knew he secretly reveled in the attention she and Malaika gave him. After all, Owen had come a long way from being referred to by Malaika as just “Nella’s Latest White Boy” for much of their first year together, and not always behind his back. A cross between the sister Nella had never had, and the mother that she did, Malaika had been fairly skeptical about Owen’s intentions from the get-go. She’d had enough of her own experiences with white dudes to believe that Owen would inevitably unleash the douchebag entitlement that she presumed more or less every white man had within him.

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