Seven Days in June(16)

“Fifty Shades was okay,” sniffed Cece. “I do wish Ana would’ve shaved her legs. But yes. White authors have the freedom to tell a good story for the sake of a good story.”

“Imagine if one of us tried to get Girl on the Train published,” said Eva. “For Colored Girls on the Train When Suicide Isn’t Enough.”

The crowd erupted in laughter, and Eva beamed like she’d just arrived at the gates of heaven. Sunshine burst from her ears, and her pupils turned into emoji hearts.

“Growing up, I was obsessed with horror and fantasy,” she said. “But Black characters were invisible in those stories. Why couldn’t I go to Narnia or Hogwarts? When I wrote about a Black witch and vampire, the industry was shocked. Like, can paranormal creatures even be nonwhite? Despite there being a rich Black vampire tradition—I mean, hello, Blade, Blacula, Louisiana fifollet folklore. And don’t get me started on Black witches like Bonnie in Vampire Diaries or Naomie Harris in Pirates of the Caribbean…” She paused, realizing she was geeking out and losing her audience.

“Anyway, only a handful of us succeed in this genre, because it can be a stretch to envision a world, even a fantasy one, where all the power players are brown. Comics are the same way. Anybody here been to Comic-Con?”

Only one person, way in the back, raised their hand. She squinted through her glasses to spot the person’s face and saw a forty-something man wearing twinkly eye shadow and Gia’s purple witch hat. A Cursed fan. Aside from wine moms, queer male Gen Xers were her most vocal readers—and were loyally devoted to Cursed’s social-media fan accounts. Which flattered Eva to death.

But the witch hat? Here? When she was trying to look like a Serious Author?

“I rebuke comic culture,” spat Khalil. “Even Blank Panther. The real hero is Erik Killmonger. But of course, Hollywood STRATEGICALLY EMASCULATES THE DIVINE ASIATIC BLACK MAN TO APPEASE EUROCENTRIC AUDIENCES.”

“Do you get your material from a hotep word generator?” Belinda asked him, off mic.

“Fuck immediately off, Belinda,” he hissed, and then continued. “Look, I feel like I’m misusing my gift if I don’t speak to Black-male marginalization. The DUALITY of the simultaneous CONSUMPTION and DESTRUCTION of Black men.”

Belinda let out an exasperated snort. “I just think it’s really tired and ashy, the way you highlight the plight of Black men only. Do Black women exist in your world?”

“Khalil, your misogynoir is showing,” said Eva, to more audience chuckles. She was slaying.

“My only point is, if Black people aren’t writing with the intent to DISMANTLE WHITE SUPREMACIST HOOLIGANERY, then we’re wasting our voices.” He straightened his bow tie. “That said, books like Eva’s are important, too. Fluff provides an escape.”

“Fluff?” Eva was offended.

“Maybe I should’ve said easy reading,” said Khalil.

“Maybe we should move on,” intercepted Cece, who suddenly paused. She peered into the audience and then drew a wheezy gasp, clutching her Pilates-tightened tummy. Since it was impossible to shock this woman, Eva knew something cataclysmic had happened. Had a masked gunman snuck in? Had Zadie Smith shown up after all?

The panelists looked in Cece’s line of vision. There was a tall male-shaped figure leaning in a doorway in the shadowy back corner of the auditorium.

With a recognizable face.

“Shane…,” started Cece.

“Hall,” finished Belinda.

The audience began peering over their shoulders, eyes darting around the room. A flurry of exclamations floated from the seats. “What? WHERE? Stop!”

Eva said nothing.

When a horror-movie character sees a ghost, she emits a bloodcurdling shriek. Claws at her cheeks. Runs for her life. Eva was trapped onstage in broad view of New York’s literary community, so she did none of those things. Instead, her hands went completely slack, and her microphone slipped to the floor with a heavy thunk.

No one noticed, because everyone was focused on him.

“Shane,” Cece bellowed, “is that you?”

He peered around the doorway, wearing a sheepish grimace.

“No,” he said.

“Yes!” someone yelled.

“Get up here,” ordered Cece.

He shook his head, with a please don’t make me do this desperation in his eyes.

“Excuse me? I discovered you cleaning rooms at the Beverly Wilshire, kid—you better get up here. And you owe it to everyone in the room who has contributed to your popularity despite the careless way you’ve treated us.”

Shane looked behind him, as if assessing whether he could make a run for it. Begrudgingly, he headed to the stage.

Eva rarely saw things in crisp focus. Even with her glasses. Her head always made the world a shade fuzzy. But as Shane walked down the aisle toward the panelists—toward her—every detail in the room became razor sharp. She was agonizingly aware of everything and every part of herself.

This couldn’t be real. She knew it was, though, because her physical reaction was operatic. Her breath went shallow. Her pulse was thundering. She began to tremble all over, caught in the cross fire of a zillion powerful, conflicting emotions. Eva wasn’t particularly religious, but she’d always felt there was…something…out there, watching over her. For many reasons, but mostly because she had never run into Shane Hall. Ever. After all this time, it was definitely astonishing, given that they were both Black authors of the same age, who’d become successful in the same era. If that wasn’t divine intervention, she didn’t know what was.