Zara started to dig through Shaunie’s closet, and in the next room over, Josefa began to paw through her own. Emira stepped into the adjacent bathroom and closed the door behind her.
Above the sink, Emira wondered if there was an appropriate amount of support and enthusiasm you needed to have for a friend, because if there was, then Shaunie was hitting her retainer. Every week it was something. Wasn’t it so great that Shaunie got this internship? Wasn’t Shaunie’s new boyfriend so cute? Wasn’t it so nice that we got free drinks from that old guy who loved Shaunie’s smile?
And most importantly, why did Mrs. Chamberlain have to lie to Briar as if she couldn’t fucking handle the truth?
At the back of Emira’s calves, on the fabric of her leggings, were leftover white pieces of fur from a dog that leaned up against her at the park that afternoon. There were dogs dressed like celebrities and vegetables, and puppies fighting to get hats and capes off their shoulders. Briar kept pointing and screaming that there were in fact even more dogs, and that the dogs she’d seen before were still there, but every so often, she looked up at Emira as if she’d come into a room and already forgotten what she needed.
Emira couldn’t tell if her annoyance with Mrs. Chamberlain came from the ingrained Tucker standard within her (You start something, you finish it), or if it was mostly to do with missing out on dressing up with Briar. Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that Emira had witnessed Mrs. Chamberlain being an outstanding mother, and was realizing that when she wasn’t being one, it was by choice rather than default.
Emira once spotted Mrs. Chamberlain with Briar and Catherine at the post office on a Tuesday morning. She didn’t say hi, but she watched Mrs. Chamberlain sing with Briar as she carefully placed Catherine into a complicated wrap. Briar was distracted and overstimulated by the post office lights and boxes and people. But Mrs. Chamberlain kept her nearby with precious prompts to “stay here, big sis,” to show Catherine how the wheels on the bus go round and round, to try and jump as high as she could. Mrs. Chamberlain did this all in gorgeous, expensive-looking jeans.
What bothered Emira was knowing that Mrs. Chamberlain had that mommy it-factor. Mrs. Chamberlain could tell when Catherine was about to cry. She gave Briar goldfish in a cup, never on a plate. She could be genuinely congratulatory when Briar successfully pressed the button on the stroller’s seat belt, or when Catherine almost waved buh-bye. But only in the moments when she truly felt like it. As Catherine got bigger and cuter, and still very thoughtfully quiet, Emira noticed that these moments came further and further apart.
And another thing? Emira considered this as she pulled her pants down and sat on the toilet. Laney Thacker was actually super fucking nice. She’d offered to help Emira twice at the birthday party, and she’d tucked in Emira’s tag at the back of her polo. And sure, she was extremely dorky and had a weird laugh and her makeup was a shade too dark, but coincidentally, not telling your child the truth about a first pet, just because you have people coming over, seemed like a very Laney Thacker thing to do.
Someone knocked on the door and Emira said, “I’m peeing.”
From outside Zara said, “K,” but she still let herself inside. Zara closed the door and leaned a hip on the sink. “I thought you’d be hanging from the shower rod.”
This was Emira’s favorite version of Zara. Long twists on her shoulders. Navy scrubs. Orange socks with white grips on the bottom. On a Friday, Zara looked like home. In addition to her annoyance with her employer and the fact that she’d bought stupid cat ears at Walgreens for nothing, Emira felt what she knew was a childish reaction to having to share her best friend.
Zara had two sisters, one of whom struggled with anorexia, and the other with depression, two conditions that Emira’s mother believed black people didn’t “get.” On top of Zara’s energy and humor and wit, Emira treasured her unfailing and nonjudgmental patience for her family, her patients, and Emira herself. Despite the fact that she’d known since she was little that nursing was her passion, Zara never discredited Emira, or the fact that Emira had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. Instead, Zara often covered Emira’s coat check fees, which, for some reason, greatly annoyed Josefa. Zara randomly and privately Venmo’d Emira to cover a well drink or cover charge, and when Emira didn’t feel well, Zara listened to her symptoms over the phone or via texts (she’d either respond with detailed advice or say that it was probably gas). Emira never doubted Zara’s loyalty to her, but Shaunie and Josefa could offer Zara friendship and first rounds, when Emira often ordered appetizers as her meal.
Emira slumped as she listened to herself pee. “I’m sorry. I just had a shitty day.”
“What happened?”
Emira placed her elbows onto her knees. What was she supposed to say? The little girl I spend twenty-one hours a week with is definitely starting to get it. Every day I watch her grip tighter and tighter onto the feeling of being ignored by the person she loves the most. And she’s this awesome, serious child who loves information and answers, and how could her own mother not appreciate the shit out of this? And in the bottom of all of my purses are all these old bags of tea. And sometimes when I grab my wallet some Earl Grey or Jasmine will fall out on the counter, which makes me feel like I need to leave this job, and that there’s no way I ever could. In moments like this, Emira also felt that if she wasn’t careful—that if she brought Zara’s mood down with trivial things like goldfish and tea—that Zara’s patience would possibly run out. “No, it’s dumb,” Emira said. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay.” Zara leaned forward at the waist and whispered, “But you need to check yourself and be happy for Shaunie.”
Emira closed her eyes. “She is so extra right now.”
“That girl is always so extra.”
Emira opened her right eye to watch Zara’s reaction. “I also kind of hate Troy.” Whenever Shaunie’s boyfriend came out, which was not often and took lots of coaxing and bribing, he claimed seats in clubs and bars where he could easily see the television. Whenever Emira talked to him, his eyes were half on her and half on a basketball game. He answered any and all comments with, “That’s tight, that’s tight.”
“Girl, everybody hates Troy,” Zara whispered. “You are not special, okay?”
Emira blew out through her lips. “I think . . .” she said, “I think I need a new job.”
“Umm . . . fucking duh, bitch.” Zara laughed. “You’re mad depressed whenever you get done. But you need to either get a new one or keep the one you got because we are still going to Mexico for my birthday next year. I wanna go all out.” Zara clapped once after all, and again after out.
As she was saying this, Emira was folding toilet paper in her hands. “I know, I know,” she said. But unlike Josefa, Shaunie, and Zara, Emira didn’t have vacation days or spring break. When she didn’t work, she didn’t get paid. Not only would her hourly paycheck be going toward hotels and Ubers (instead of her rent and SEPTA card), but she’d also be losing money every day she was gone, and Zara made her promise five days.