“I’ve got a small headache,” I lie, and lightly crease my brow like I’m resisting a full grimace.
“Okay, definitely pass on the braids, then,” my friend says with a laugh. “You know my mom braids like she’s trying to cinch your scalp.”
Mrs. Whitman waves us off, jovially, because she knows how to graciously escape a compliment.
“Five minutes, okay, girls?” she chirps on her way out of the bedroom, but Cherish hops up from her mirror immediately after.
“I’m ready,” she says, joining me on the huge bed we share. “You wanna go snatch wigs and whatnot?”
“Snatch wigs?” I repeat back to her with all the intended judgment. “Is that what the white kids at the academy say these days?”
“You know they do. But seriously, there’ll definitely be a few toupees and hairpieces at this thing, and I will absolutely use my birthday pass on embarrassing blue bloods.”
“There’s no such thing as a birthday pass,” I reply, falling back into the crook of her arm.
“There for sure is. Everyone knows that.”
“Maybe for the actual wigs.”
“WGS? Really? Has that come back around already?”
“It never left.”
“You know you can be white girl spoiled even if your parents are Black, right?”
“Mmm,” I hum, so she hears the skepticism. There’s no use explaining what she couldn’t possibly understand. I’ve learned to coddle Cherish over the years, too.
“Okay, my hair’s gonna get flat,” Cherish says, forcing me back up when she rises. “Let’s get into it.”
“Would you be upset if I didn’t come down today?”
Her head falls to the side. “Would I be upset if you didn’t come to my birthday party because you wanted to stay upstairs and sulk?”
“Che. You don’t get to have three birthday functions in one weekend and then act salty when somebody gets tired. And—” Then my voice breaks.
I hate it because it’s not something I planned.
The break isn’t intentional. It’s not the execution of a subtle strategy, timed to elicit a specific response.
When the tears almost come, they’re because I’m not used to slipping.
“I’m not sulking. Thanks for being so supportive.”
However I look when I can’t choose between anger and sadness, the snarky expression slips from Cherish’s face, and it’d be satisfying if I’d done it on purpose. When she grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me in, I have to fight the urge to pinch her the way I used to pinch myself under the dining table, or beneath my desk the first few months at the academy, when I needed to bring the pain to the surface for release. I perfected the kind of pinch that breaks capillaries and really burns, and then leaves a bruise that’s like a tiny drop of purple ink that slowly spreads.
Most people grab a hunk of arm, but I’ve always had self-control. Because the key—after choosing just the right spot, like the place just above the elbow, on the inside—is to trap what almost seems like too small an amount of skin between finger and thumb, so that at first you don’t expect the pain. Then, as you tighten, you twist.
It’d be easy enough to reach that spot on Cherish when we draw back from the embrace, if I let my hands slide down her arms, but I won’t. I’m just sick of feeling unlike myself, of feeling physically ill, and Cherish is just being Cherish. Sometimes obtuse, often insufferably spoiled . . . but always mine.
Even now, even without pinching her, I feel slightly better when I’m wrapped up in her arms.
“BB! I’m so sorry, RahRah, don’t cry,” she says into my hair, and like I’m any other teenage girl, her reaction ensures that I must. I want to be sick right this minute, just to purge the unfamiliar ache and frailty. I am exhausted at feeling like I could break.
“I’m sorry, Che.” I can’t wipe my eyes because she’s trapped my arms between us and she’s hugging me too tight. For a moment, I consider that this was her strategy. That she meant to bring me to tears. I wonder what it’s like to be this fragile all the time, and whether she’s decided I have to find out.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, I was trying to make light of it, but I shouldn’t have.” She moans into me the way Mrs. Whitman does when she’s heartsore for someone.
I believe her—until she speaks again.
“I’ll never act white girl spoiled again. Promise.”
She only says it to make me laugh. Which I do, my shoulders relaxing when my suspicion fades.
“Yeah, right. You are not capable of that kind of self-control.”
“Okay, you’re probably right. Also, it’s just really fun.” This time we both laugh. “Being a spoiled white girl when you’re Black is literally my favorite thing ever. It confuses very literally everyone.”
“That’s the only reason I put up with it.”
“Whatever. You love me.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” We both try to check our reflections in the vanity at the same time and end up shoving each other, playfully. “Fiiine,” I say through a sigh. “Let’s get the finale over with.”
Cherish hoots, grabbing my hand and pulling me down the long staircase, through the house, and out into the backyard.
The Whitmans’ sprawling, triple-tiered backyard is nothing short of a private park. The front has no yard at all, instead boasting an ocean of stone pavers in varying shades of gray and the perfect sprinkling of cloudy blue all the way up to the door. The back more than makes up for it, and today the park is decked out with garden lighting, waitstaff circulating hors d’oeuvres so small you’d have to sneak a tiny army of them off the platter to make them count, and half the city’s rich and/or local famous. There are way more adults than teenagers, which makes sense because we’ve finally arrived at the event geared toward applauding Cherish’s parents for raising an amazing daughter. There’s always one.
As soon as we make our appearance, Cherish and I are wrangled back up toward the house, up the rolling lawn to the patio and pool, and Mr. Whitman holds the mic up to his wife’s glass, which she clinks with a knife to get the crowd’s attention.
“Oh, you can stay in the pool, gang. This’ll only take a moment,” she says, leaning closer to the microphone than necessary, like she doesn’t know exactly how the contraption works. It isn’t age; Mrs. Whitman is barely older than my mom, and her twinkling laugh and bouncy blond hair almost make up for the fact that she doesn’t have her daughter’s built-in font of youth, melanin. She’s just used to a discreet headset during auctions.