The Other Black Girl(95)
Imani tapped her long, narrow chin with a long, narrow, peach-colored fingernail. “I’ll reach out to my Spelman contacts. See what they say.”
I nodded. “Great. Let me know, will you?”
“Mm-hmm. Oh, before I forget—” Imani reached into her pocket and pulled out two Ziploc baggies half-filled with a white, greasy substance. “For you. Freshly made. I’ll buy you lunch if you can guess which flower I added to this batch.” She dropped it on my desk and started for the door.
“You’re a goddess.” I wasted no time opening the bag and inhaling its contents. “Ugh, yes, please. Honeysuckle?”
“Bingo!” Imani chuckled. “God, I’ve come a long way since the first one, haven’t I? Remember how awful that stuff smelled?”
Suddenly, Kenny flashed through my mind again. But this time, it wasn’t her face I was seeing. It was her thick, dark hair divided into eight vulnerable parts, my right gloved hand smothered in the cool, creamy formula. I’m positive this batch won’t burn, Imani had promised when she’d dropped the jar off the day before.
I’d done a test run with just my pinky, anyway. Just to see.
“Feel okay?” I’d asked her, hoping she didn’t complain about the smell.
“Mmm. Just, whatever you plan to do up there—braids, curlers—don’t make me look like a fool, Di. I’m trusting you.”
I’d promised not to. Then, I’d reached a gloved hand into her hair, grabbed a piece by the root, and said a little prayer.
16
October 22, 2018
Nella had never particularly enjoyed listening to Pitbull. Not at her senior prom, and certainly not on those nights she’d spent in frat houses, glugging up party juice and bobbing her head to “I Know You Want Me” like it was delivering a vital life force into her system.
Now, huffing and puffing beside Malaika in Bop It Out Fitness, Nella despised it with every burning ounce of her being. But she did have a lot to bop out: the notes, her cover meeting outburst, the pickaninny cover that had inspired the outburst…
And then there was that possible crime she’d witnessed just two days earlier. Even if the music was terrible, struggling to straighten her back and hoist her knees in time with the beat provided a much-needed temporary distraction from her bizarre reality. It also made her feel better that Malaika, who spent most of her day breathing the same air as fitness freaks, was struggling just as much as she was.
“Before you… say anything,” her friend huffed, power-jacking with little power on number fourteen, “let me just say… I’m sorry about this.”
Nella scowled as sweat dripped into her eyes.
“I’ll also say… you owe me,” Malaika gasped. “I feel like… I haven’t seen… you in years.”
“I… know… time flies… when you’re being stalked… at work,” said Nella. “Not so much… when you’re listening… to Pitbull.”
Malaika eked out an apology. “Beyoncé Cardio… was filled by… the time… I looked at… the schedule… this morning. This was… the only open class.”
“I wonder… why!” Nella said, although, she supposed, as she took stock of the burning sensation in her thighs and the prominent sheet of sweat that had already accumulated around her waist, a Beyoncé class probably would be even harder. The woman did have thighs of steel, after all.
So did Isaac, their perfectly tanned fitness instructor, who was now pumping his fist twice to the beat and bending his knees. “And now… SQUAT! IT! OUT!”
Nella obeyed. She lowered her torso, albeit delicately, and took a “break” so she could check out the rest of their class. The forty-by-twenty-foot room was hardly full; eight or nine women and one extremely serious-looking old man had decided to spend their Monday evening exercising with a demonic workout instructor in the Flatiron District, rather than doing something sensible, like restocking their wine supply or doing a crossword. Maybe that was what Nella should’ve been doing instead. What if the kidnapper on the loose stormed into the gym while she was mid-squat, looking to snatch Nella next? What if the kidnapper was waiting outside for her, prepared to pounce the moment she and Malaika went their separate ways?
What if it wasn’t a kidnapper, though?
Nella had never seen a kidnapping in real life before—at least, not that she knew of. Through the glass door of the burger restaurant, she hadn’t been able to see the look on the bald-headed girl’s face. Nor could she see how tightly that hand had been grabbing her arm. Nella just knew that the hand had been one of their own. Black. And she also knew that, apparently, none of the passersby had felt moved enough by what was happening to say or do anything. Which meant maybe the bald-headed woman hadn’t been screaming… which meant maybe she’d known she wasn’t really in danger?
Nella put an end to this line of thinking very quickly. No, of course passersby wouldn’t say anything. This was New York City. And she was a Black girl.
Whatever had happened, the girl’s name was still a mystery—so she couldn’t report much of anything to anybody. She was sure of this; she’d practiced calling an anonymous tip line enough times while she was in the shower. “Here’s what I know: A bald-headed young woman sent me these strange notes in September. Then she started texting me strange things about my coworker who, by the way, is also really strange. And that bald-headed girl and I were supposed to meet up, but then she got put into a car… but not before she threw her phone into a garbage can. Moments after said car drove away, another strange, hooded person dug the cell phone out of the trash can and ran away.” In this hypothetical explanation, she’d leave it there.