When No One Is Watching(30)

“Why would slavery affect people in Brooklyn?” he asks. I can’t even hate because I only learned this shit recently myself.

“Slavery ended in New York ten years before the panic, but not completely. And New York was the banking capital of the U.S. Slavery was a business. Cotton was a business. Rum was a business. Sugar was a business. Banks handle money for businesses. So . . . boom. That’s why.”

He has the nerve to smile.

“What’s funny?” I ask, straightening in my seat.

“I think your tour is going to do well. I never learned any of that, anywhere. And now I know, and I want to know more. And anyone who comes on your tour will know and want to know more. That’s pretty amazing.”

“Oh.” I get a warm feeling in my stomach. Honestly, so much of this project has been fueled by pettiness and escapism, by a need to reclaim what should have been mine, that I’d forgotten there’s a joyful side to sharing knowledge, too.

“Thanks.” I clear my throat and then tap the printout. “Anyway, pink text represents Black Brooklyn history topics. The purple numbers and text are things specific to Gifford Place. There’s stuff I got from my mother, and my own memory, but I want to talk to some older people in the neighborhood. And Gifford Place used to be part of a historic Black community that sprang up after the panic, so I need to look into that too. There’s a heritage center not far away I’ve been meaning to visit.”

He nods, and I wonder if he’s judging me for not having done all this sooner. I thought I’d already done so much research, but it feels like there is so much to do in just a week if I don’t want to embarrass myself.

“Want to go tomorrow?” he says. “To the heritage center?”

I raise my brow. “Did you forget you’re the assistant and not the boss?”

He grins. “Sorry. I’m just excited now. You only have yourself to blame.”

This flirtatious motherfucker. I narrow my eyes at him. “We’re going to the Weeksville heritage center tomorrow. Bring your camera. If you want something to do in the meantime, look into the Dutch West India Company. They were the ones who funded the Dutch coming here, and played a big part in the formation of Brooklyn, but I haven’t done a deep dive on them yet. If you find anything relevant to the tour let me know.” He nods again, his eyes scanning over the paper I handed him.

“I’ll email this to you, too, if you write your email address down,” I add. I’m kind of enjoying this tiny bit of authority—it’s been so long since anyone listened to me without giving me any shit for one thing or another. “You can take these papers and see what else you come up with. I just want to make it interesting for people.”

I lean back in my chair as he jots down his email. My face is still kind of warm despite the fact that by next week Theo will go back to being a neighbor I occasionally peep through his window—except maybe not even that, because I’ll probably recommend he get some blinds.

“I doubt you’ll have trouble with that,” he says as he slides over the paper. His phone number is on there, too, even though I didn’t ask for it, and it’s underlined. “You’re interesting even when you’re not being all passionate about history.”

He smiles at me in that curious way again.

Nope.

“Okay, we’re all set here,” I say, hopping up from my seat and walking toward the apartment door.

“Yeah, cool. Cool.” He gathers the papers up, but when I pull the door open, he stops at the threshold and looks down at me. “I appreciate you letting me help with this. If you need anything else, just text me.”

I don’t think he’s flirting this time, but he’s staring at me like I’m fascinating, and I don’t have time for the way my body responds to that.

“I’m not trying to air-condition the hallway,” I say, ushering him out.

A flush spreads over his cheeks so quickly that it’s almost startling, but he steps out into the humid hallway and doesn’t stop until he’s outside. He jogs down the stairs, then turns to wave and trips over a raised corner of slate sidewalk and it’s cute.

I look away so I don’t watch him head into his house. Somewhere nearby a jackhammer is breaking up solid ground, and the whine of construction machinery floats through the air. A Black woman with high cheekbones and a brown-skinned Asian woman walk down the street, chatting in accented English; each pushes a stroller with a white child tucked inside. They nod at me in greeting, and Toby starts up his barking as they pass by.

As I close the door, I hear the phone ringing upstairs. All the way upstairs. In Mommy’s apartment.

It could be a telemarketer—every time I bother to answer, it’s someone warning about auto insurance default for a car I don’t own or trying to scam me with questions about tax evasion. Those threats are nothing compared to the call I’m dreading, and I can’t keep avoiding said calls because that could lead to worse consequences. I bolt up the stairs, pull the key from my pocket as I round the banister, and fumble the door open.

“Hello?”

I pray for the automated click of a recording trying to sell me something or scam me, but a man’s voice says, “Hello, is this Yolanda Green?”

A lifetime of lying to bill collectors enables me to lie smoothly and without hesitation. “She’s out right now. May I take a message?”