Alix bounced Catherine in her arms as she walked into the kitchen and around the table. On her third rotation, she glanced at her computer screen and caught sight of the word Inbox on a tab she hadn’t opened. It was followed by EmiraCTucker@ before it was cut off. Alix slid Catherine into her right arm.
It was just so easy to type his name. After Kell it came right up. It was even easier to find the attachment dated September2015; it was the first and only email they’d ever exchanged. And once it was downloaded, Alix dragged it into a folder marked Spring Blog Posts that she hadn’t used since last spring. Without watching the video, Alix quickly emailed it to herself as well—now she had it twice—and then she erased the email in the Sent folder and logged out of Emira’s email. Alix cleared her browser’s history and put in two new searches before she left the computer—winter toddler crafts and organic teething bars—and then she reached for her phone.
“Hi, Laney, are you busy right now?” Alix sniffed audibly and let her voice shake as she greeted Peter’s co-host. She kissed her daughter’s cheek and continued to bounce her. “Well, I might need your help . . . but can you keep a secret?”
Twenty-two
Under peach neon signs and acrylic palm tree leaves, Emira sat with a plastic tiara on her head in a plunging black dress and sheer black tights. The implication that this was Emira’s “favorite place” only slightly bothered her. Yes, the DJ was lit and played the best reggaeton in her opinion, but much like baking brownies and matinee movie showtimes and boxed wine that you kept in the refrigerator, Emira loved Tropicana 187 because of the low prices (two for ones, ladies’ night specials, three-dollar beers, six-dollar palomas). It wasn’t half as fancy as the places Zara, Josefa, and Shaunie had picked for their birthdays, but the drinks and the night were aggressively sweet.
In a red and squishy booth, Emira’s three friends sat around her in tight dresses and heavy bronzer. The table was covered in piña coladas, fish tacos, pineapple salsa, and pulled jerk chicken. Everything reeked of sugary mai tais and fried coconut shrimp, and every song that came on was another killer. As she opened her last birthday present, a new phone cover to replace her faded and cracked one, Emira unstuck her heel from the floor and said, “Ohmygod, thank you, Z.” She began to rip the packaging open using the side of her black nail.
“Yeah we can’t have you carrying this around anymore.” Zara grabbed Emira’s phone and began to remove the worn, pink rubber casing. “Ohmygod, this thing is so tired and done. It wasn’t doing anything for our brand.”
Zara applied the new, matte-finished gold casing onto Emira’s phone. Emira placed her other gifts into one bag (metallic earbuds and an iTunes gift card from Josefa, two silky “interview shirts” from Shaunie) and announced to the group, “The next round is on me.”
Josefa removed her straw from her lips and dipped her head so hard that her ponytail swung. “Excuse me? Did you just have a stroke?”
Shaunie laughed and wiped the side of her mouth with a napkin. “But Mira, it’s your birthday!”
“Nah, I wanna do this real quick.” Emira got the attention of a waiter and ordered four tequila shots. They arrived with a coppery glaze of sugar and pineapple slices around the rims.
“Okay . . .” Emira watched her girlfriends hold their shots up and lick the excess from their fingers. For a moment, she felt the way she did when Briar saw a picture of a flower, sniffed it, and said, “Delicious,” but she pushed these feelings aside so that she could speak. She sat up and raised her voice above the bass and steel drums.
“Sooo I’ve been a little cranky and like . . . broke these past few months. And I really appreciate you tolerating me. Next year is gonna be different and I’m really thankful for you guys helping me get my shit together. Sefa, thank you for helping me print out my résumé on nice paper.”
“Nice paper, yasss mija.” Josefa snapped her fingers four times.
“Shaunie.” Emira turned to her. “Thank you for emailing me about new jobs. Every day. Multiple times a day . . . can’t wait to unsubscribe.”
“You said you wanted help!”
“And Zara, thanks for helping me write stupid-ass cover letters and making me not sound like an idiot.” Emira leaned into her friend. “And thanks to you ladies . . . I officially have an interview next week.”
Zara and Josefa together said, “Ayyeee!” Shaunie appeared overjoyed at this news and also devastated that both of her hands weren’t available for clapping. “Ohmygod, yay! Emira, that’s amazing!”
“Okay, okay, that’s it, though. No more work talk.” Emira held her drink up. The girls followed suit.
“To Mira being all professional and shit in 2016,” Zara said. “Cheers, bisshhh. Happy birthday.”
Emira touched her chest as she tipped the glass back. Josefa pulled out her phone and said, “Mira, smile.” Emira pursed her lips. “Oh, that’s cute.” Josefa examined it. “That’s real cute. I’m posting this.”
Earlier that day, when Emira returned to drop Briar at home, she didn’t give Mrs. Chamberlain the fifteen dollars remaining in her jacket pocket. She’d spent $6.50 on a movie ticket for herself (Briar’s ticket ended up being free), five dollars on a small popcorn, and then $2.25 on a red velvet cupcake. She and Briar split the treat sitting across from each other in a bakery filled with white people and pictures of vintage chickens framed on the walls.
“Hey, B. Guess what?” Emira said in between two licks of frosting. “It’s my birthday today.”
Briar seemed both charmed and unsurprised by this information. “Okay. Then you . . . you a big girl now.”
“I am a big girl.”
“Good job, Mira.”
Emira said, “Thank you.”
Emira had done a good job. That week, she’d spent her days giving Briar the time of her life, taking her to new places (she was fairly certain that Briar had never even heard of a mall), and teaching her what the words curious, alarm, and dimple meant. At night, she Googled childcare and administrative positions, sent out six résumés, and dropped off two more. Emira’s upcoming interview was for a full-time childcare manager position at Body World Fitness down in Point Breeze. She didn’t mention to her friends that the pay was shitty, four dollars an hour less than she was making now. And she didn’t mention the quick onset of depression she’d felt when she dropped her résumé off at the colorful but faded room that smelled of sanitizer and spit-up. (One of the workers there, a girl a few years younger than Emira, had run to catch up with a mom and son, saying, “He forgot his cup!” while laughing. There was something about the way she trotted and held the dirty sippy cup that made Emira surprisingly sad.) But when she got the call back later that day, she said she was very interested in the job and would love to come in for an interview next week. Emira couldn’t wait to tell Kelley. Kelley who’d sent flowers to her apartment that morning, who texted happy birthday at midnight the night before, who was working late but would arrive later for drinks and dancing.