The Other Black Girl(75)

“It’s called Smooth’d Out. I swear by this stuff. Juanita uses it, too.”

So this was the hair grease that Hazel was always wearing. More pomade than grease, Nella realized, as she dipped the tip of her pinky nail into the substance. “It’s a leave-in conditioner?”

“Yep. Use it twice a day, or just once if you want. It’s pretty great.”

“Thanks.” Nella wiped the bit of grease she’d accrued on her nail onto the napkin she still had scrunched in her hand. “Maybe I’ll try it when my Brown Buttah runs out.”

“You really should. Honestly, if I were you, I would start integrating it into your regimen now. Lock in that moisture, prep for the dryness of winter, you know? And this stuff is way better than Brown Buttah. Maybe you can start off by using half-and-half?”

It was Hazel’s version of an olive branch, but Nella didn’t say a word as she dropped the jar in her bag. When she looked up again, she noticed the nearly bald woman had moved toward the door of Curl Central. Their eyes met briefly before Hazel started speaking again.

“I know things just got kind of weird between us, but I just wanted to say that they don’t have to be.”

“I—”

“Wait,” said Hazel, holding up a finger. “Let me finish.” She sighed, casting a glance over her shoulder at Richard. Then she lowered her voice. “It’s just… it’s really so damn unfair. White people never have to be as hyperaware of themselves as we do. When they walk into a room, they don’t have to instantly clock the demographics and analyze what they see. They don’t have to worry about having to represent however many million Black perspectives there are in this country just because hiring managers were too lazy to bring in a few others. They can enter a small store without worrying about being followed around. They never have to worry about having car troubles in the South when they’re driving around back roads at night. Or any time of day, really. You know?”

Nella nodded.

“Half the time, I don’t even think about any of these things,” Hazel continued, lifting her chin. “Not consciously. But that stress, that anxiety—that underlying weight is there. Right?”

“I feel that,” said Nella, “I really do. But going back to the Shartricia thing… you must get why I feel like you turned me into the bad cop at work. Everyone is talking about—”

“I do, trust,” said Hazel, “but forget them. The bottom line is, at the end of day, Colin’s book is going to be better. Because of you and me. We did that, sis. Together.

“Anyway… I guess this is all my way of saying we don’t need to see each other as competition. We already have enough stress being two young Black women in a crazy white environment. And so…” Hazel put her hand on Nella’s shoulder. “What are you doing on October twenty-fifth?”

The question came from way far out of left field. “October twenty-fifth? Um. I’m not sure.”

“I’m having some girlfriends over for a natural hair party at my place. Just a small get-together. Some wine, some cheese. A little Maxwell. Juanita is going to come and show us some new products from Curl Central, and my cousin Tanya is going to braid some hair for free. I could even have Juanita bring some scarves over, too, if you wanted to learn how to tie one.”

“That sounds fun,” said Nella. And it did, even if it did hurt her some to admit it.

“Great. We’ll chat more about it tomorrow at work. You can bring your friend, too. What’s her name, again? Something with an ‘M’?”

“Malaika.”

“Malaika. Right.” Hazel patted her on the shoulder. Nella took this as a gesture that their conversation was finished, but before she could wish her a good night again, Hazel was speaking once more. “By the way,” she said, tugging at one of her locs, “you mentioned something about ‘notes,’ and I was wondering—what did you mean by that?”

“Notes?”

“You said something like, ‘What the fuck is your deal with Richard, and the notes…’?”

“Oh. Right.” Nella hadn’t meant to let that slip, but the words had already escaped her lips and made it into Hazel’s cognizance. “I’ve just been getting some weird notes from some anonymous person,” she said as nonchalantly as she could.

“Weird notes? What kind of weird?”

“Essentially, they’ve been notes telling me to leave.”

“Leave Wagner?”

Nella studied Hazel. The girl had gone pale, her face shifting from a healthy shade of hickory to an uneasy walnut. For the first time during their interaction that evening, Nella noticed that the deep red lipstick on her upper lip, which was almost always impossibly perfect, had faded.

“Yes,” said Nella. “One told me to leave Wagner.”

Hazel stared at her. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—deep, resounding belly laughs that were louder than any sound Nella had ever heard her make. “And you thought I did that?” she practically yelled. “That’s crazy! I definitely didn’t do any of that. You know that, right? Definitely by now, you must.”

Nella stared at her for a moment. “Yes. I do,” she finally said, even though she really didn’t.

“That’s some crazy, hate-crime stuff, you know,” said Hazel, putting her hands in the pockets of her corduroy overalls.