The Other Black Girl(69)

“Well… I haven’t exactly told him.”

“You haven’t told him about the notes? Or how Hazel has undermined you in every possible way? How she took that front desk lady with the scarves away from you? How she’s even taken Vera—although we didn’t really want her?”

“Nope.”

“But why not?”

“The Hazel stuff, I’m not sure he’d understand. The notes stuff… I know he’ll flip and tell me to do something I don’t want to do.” He’d also chastise me for calling the phone number, Nella thought, and so would you.

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Report it to HR.”

“And that doesn’t seem like a good idea to you at this point?”

“I told you already. I feel like I’m still kind of on thin ice with the higher-ups. I should probably figure this one out on my own.”

Malaika crossed one leg over the other and bounced her foot—a clear sign of impatience. “You wanna know something?”

“I already know it. I’m being irresponsible.”

“Wrong. Well, yes. But I was going to say that you still could have met that agent for a drink. See what time it is?”

“Please. Don’t,” Nella grumbled. She was about to check the time on her cell phone when the front door of Curl Central swung open. In clicked Hazel, looking like a literary deity in a black turtleneck, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and tight-fitting violet corduroy overalls. The young readers followed closely behind her, all flushed faces and guilty smiles as they quickly hurried into the four empty seats in the front row.

Just like that, the tension in the room melted into a shower of applause. Someone called out, “There you are, Hazel-May!” Another person hooted, “Yasss, you go, girl!”

Nella was slow to put her hands together.

“He’s not here,” she said, having to strain a bit to be heard above the cheers.

“Who’s not here?”

“Richard Wagner.”

Malaika stared at her blankly. Not one for clapping or for waiting, she’d stopped after a few seconds and had gone back to resting her free arm across her torso.

“My boss-boss. The real reason why I came here, instead of meeting up with that agent.”

Malaika shrugged. “I thought your main mission was to confront the new Black girl. You’re not going to back out of that now, are you?”

“No. And I can have two missions,” Nella snapped, sounding a bit like a child as Owen passed in front of her once again to get to his seat. He looked at her quizzically as he handed her a Red Stripe, but said nothing.

“Y’all, I am so sorry!” Someone had handed Hazel a headset and now she was walking, TED Talk–style, across the front of the room. “I was just grabbing some food with these amazing girls and we got held up by the buses. MTA, my people, amirite?”

The crowd murmured collectively in agreement.

“Alright, before I get started, I’d just like to tell y’all a little something. Is that okay? Do any of you mind if I tell y’all a little something first?”

“Tell it, sis,” a woman—probably the same woman who’d told Hazel to Go, girl!—cried out.

“We were over at Peaches before we got here. Y’all know Peaches, right?” A cheer from a few of the audience members. “And we had a damn good meal, let me tell you. Fried green tomatoes, catfish, you name it… all the fixins. I swear, when someone asks me which has better cuisine—Harlem or Bed-Stuy—I have to betray my grandmama, God rest her soul, and say Bed-Stuy does it better.”

A few more cheers and a No she didn’t. Nella’s stomach gurgled. The cubes of cheese Juanita had set out for the event were no hush puppies, but she was beginning to regret not popping a few pieces into a napkin the way that Malaika had upon their arrival. She’d resisted because she didn’t want to have bad breath when she spoke to Richard. But now, with Richard nowhere in sight, she felt like she could eat an entire fistful of pepper jack and cheddar cheeses, toothpicks and all.

“I bet he’s not coming,” Nella grumbled, leaning over so she could whisper in Malaika’s ear.

Malaika put her hands up as if to say What can you do?

“—Peaches, with a gentleman I started working for nearly two months ago,” Hazel continued. “Richard Wagner: Do any of you know him? Maybe you don’t, specifically. But you do know his books, and you know his authors, I’m sure. You know Blue Sky and you know Going, Gone. You know Leaving Jimmy Crow. And I know you all know Diana Gordon’s Burning Heart, too.”

Someone sitting behind Nella let out a whoop. Hearing this, Hazel held up the drink that someone had handed to her at some point during her soliloquy. A smattering of others lifted their own cups in solidarity.

“Burning Heart was a shining light in a valley of darkness. Or should I say, whiteness,” Hazel continued, and a few people nodded their heads. “It took on some very difficult topics, and we are all the better for it now. So, when I finally found myself at Wagner, I took a chance and asked him how he’d feel about helping sponsor our girls. A small piece of trivia that some of you may know: Ms. Gordon and her editor, Kendra Rae Phillips, were both teenagers when they discovered their passion for the written word. It’s such an impressionable time, you feel me?