The Other Black Girl(8)
But Wagner wanted Nella, and this had delighted her so much that she’d done her finest pajama-twerk as soon as she’d hung up. Then, she’d quit her three food-service jobs in Brooklyn in rapid succession; fewer than two weeks later, she had a new boss, a new desk, and appointments set up for an eye exam, a physical exam, and a much-needed dental cleaning. Goodbye, self-medication of monthlong colds with EmergenC and Flintstones vitamins. Hello, health insurance.
Now, Nella studied the little zen garden that sat on Vera’s desk just below the window. Her boss never let anyone else touch it, but sometimes, when Nella was having a particularly hard day, she’d sneak in and push the rocks around for a minute or two. Thinking of this brought her peace of mind, as did the memory of her pajama-twerk celebration after she got Vera’s call. To Nella, it hadn’t seemed that “raw and bold and unique” to stan Amiri Baraka or Diana Gordon, but it had apparently worked on Vera then, back when she’d been nothing more than a stranger with a run in her stockings and a Public Ivy on her résumé. Why not try leaning into it again? Why not bring out that “raw and bold” (and Black) person from her interview?
Besides… if she didn’t say anything about Shartricia, who else at Wagner would?
“I’d love to know which specific characters you think need more work,” Vera said, her eyes flicking toward the door, then back again. “I saw some things here and there, too.”
Nella sat up straighter in her chair. “Great! Okay. So, here’s my main issue.” She took a breath. “To be completely honest, I think…”
But any steam she’d gained from the start was deterred when Vera’s eyes flashed to the door a second time. They remained there the third time, glowing with interest. This was enough to quell Nella’s mumbling. She turned, too.
Maisy’s tiny fist was poised mid-knock on Vera’s doorframe. “Sorry, ladies,” she said, even though she didn’t look sorry. “There’s someone I’d like you both to meet.” She stepped all the way into Vera’s office, smoothing her hands up and down her maroon pencil skirt. Nella brightened as she watched the Black girl she’d clocked two weeks earlier, in all her dreadlocked glory, take Maisy’s place in the doorway. “This is Hazel-May McCall, my brilliant new assistant.”
“My parents were pretty ambitious,” the new girl said warmly. “Y’all can just call me Hazel. No, please—y’all don’t need to stand!” she added, rushing in vain to meet Vera before she could take one more step away from her wooden desk. She found Nella’s hand next, pumping it so hard that both girls’ pairs of dangly earrings shook violently back and forth.
Face-to-face, Nella could see Hazel had one inch, maybe two, on her. Today, her locs were free of any constraints, sprouting spiritedly from her scalp and pouring down the back of her baby-blue blazer. Nella grew suddenly aware of her own wrinkled gray V-neck T-shirt underneath an even more wrinkled gray sweater. Of her Keds, dirty and basic.
“Welcome to Wagner! I’ve heard such marvelous things about you!” Vera nodded in Maisy’s direction. “You’re working for a great one here.”
Maisy batted a hand in a gesture of Oh, stop it.
“Yes, I know,” said Hazel. “Thank you! I’m so honored to be here at Wagner. I almost can’t believe it’s happening.”
“And we’re excited to have you. Where are you coming from?”
Nella cringed ever so slightly, embarrassed for her boss, and worried that Hazel would be scared away so soon. That question. Oh, how publishing people loved that question. She’d first been asked this by Josh, Wagner’s sales director, at the Keurig. Nella hadn’t known what he’d meant, so she’d mentioned her Connecticut hometown, telling him pretty much everything about it just short of its geographical coordinates. She only understood when Josh said to her, a bit impatiently, “Ah. Interesting. And where in publishing did you last work?”
Nella had looked down at Zora Neale Hurston’s face, printed on the side of a coffee mug her mother had gifted her, and said, Nowhere. “I was in food service,” she’d clarified, and that had been the end of questioning.
But Hazel provided the appropriate prerequisite: a small magazine in Boston. “I lived there for two years and decided to come back here a few months ago. I like New York too much, and I wanted to return to the nonprofit that I started up in Harlem back in the day.”
Maisy nodded with noticeable pride. Nella, in the meantime, marveled at Hazel’s omission of what she presumed was another reason why she’d left Boston: because it was such a shitty, racist city.
“Boston! Such a great college town,” remarked Vera.
“I know,” Hazel said. “But even so, it’s a lot quieter. And cold. I really missed New York’s energy.”
She furrowed her brow, as though a particularly unpleasant corporate memory were washing over her in that very moment. Nella watched her curiously, spotting a small gold stud above Hazel’s left eyebrow, so tiny that it could only be discerned with particular facial expressions such as this one. Had Hazel received nasty emails from her old job’s HR department about her locs? People are starting to complain about the odor coming from your cube, the note might have said. Or maybe something about eyebrow piercings being too unprofessional. Nella had been to Boston only a handful of times, but she’d read enough to know that Hazel probably hadn’t had an easy time.