Emira believed this light take was the consensus because of a few factors. First of all, no one got hurt. Briar was adorable and agreeable and bored with the situation, and Emira’s quick retorts often masked her fear. This was a video about racism that you could watch without seeing any blood or ruining the rest of your day. Emira couldn’t help but think of how the Internet would react if they knew she and Kelley were dating . . . had dated. (Emira ignored the four calls Kelley placed to her cell in the last two days. Zara answered his last attempt with, “Okay, so we’ve calmed down? But we aren’t ready to speak to you yet. Please respect our transition.”)
Kelley wasn’t the only one calling. All weekend, Emira kept her phone on the charger because it buzzed every hour with requests for interviews and one appearance on a talk show called The Real. But Emira answered every call with the scripted phrases that Mrs. Chamberlain left her with. “You tell everyone that you don’t have a comment at this time, and that’s all you have to say at the moment,” she said. “We can turn this around, I promise you. We’ll go in, clear up anything that may have been misconstrued, and you’ll be out of the spotlight as fast as you were in it.”
As it happened, Kelley was correct about the notoriety this video would bring, but on a much smaller scale than he most likely presumed. In the two days following the video, Emira received three voice mails offering employment. One was from an affluent black family in the city seeking a nanny for their three boys. One was from an online publication asking her to do a three-piece series on protecting the rights of caretakers in Philadelphia. And one was from her current employer, the Green Party office. Emira’s Tuesday and Thursday supervisor, a woman named Beverly, phoned her cell three times and left two messages: “Let’s talk about getting you in here more, okay?” After the ream of nice paper she’d spent her money on and the cover letters she’d spent her evenings writing, Emira was annoyed, rather than delighted, by the fact that a viral video seemed to make her more qualified than reference letters and a bachelor’s degree. But that didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t need it. Emira’s parents—who seemed most concerned with her outfit in the video—panicked at the assumption that she was both jobless and coatless. “Mom, it was back in September,” Emira explained. “And I do have a job. I’m a nanny.”
The Thanksgiving invitation didn’t make her feel like family. What did was receiving a contract and 1095 tax form from Mrs. Chamberlain. In 2016, though Emira would technically be making less money per hour because of taxes, she’d still be making more money than she ever had in her life, almost $32K a year. She wouldn’t be moving into Shaunie’s old room, but if she was ever stopped by a security guard again, Emira could say she was a nanny without stumbling over a lie. She’d have a valid excuse not to go out because she’d be working twenty-four-hour shifts. And for Briar’s future preschool, her swimming classes at the YMCA, and fall ballet at Little Lulu’s, Emira’s name and number would be listed at the top of Briar’s emergency contact list.
So on the brink of a new career and Internet persona, it seemed incredible, far-fetched, and slightly amusing when Zara returned with Emira’s backpack, closed the door behind her, and whispered, “So, we got a problem.” Zara dropped the backpack to the floor and pressed her lips together. She held her hands in prayer and placed her index fingers against her mouth.
Emira reached for her backpack and said, “I’m sure it just fell to the bottom.”
But Zara didn’t seem to hear her. With her right hand, Zara made a fist and pumped it in a small circle in the air. After she pressed her knuckles to her mouth she whispered, “Mira, I’m not playin’. Look at me.” Zara took a breath and said, “You can’t work here no more.”
Emira laughed and stood with her edges toothbrush in her hand. She let her backpack fall against her ankles and leaned a hip against the counter. “Excuse me?”
“You need to listen to me right now.”
“I am, what is wrong with you?”
“So I’m downstairs . . . kneeling down to get your heavy-ass backpack, and I hear your boss go into the bathroom.” Zara whispered this as she pointed down toward the floor, where just below them was the guest bathroom. “I’m getting your shit, and then I hear that woman ask if she’d done the right thing.” Zara put aggressive air quotes over the right thing. “And then that Uncle Tom Tamra woman told her, ‘one hundred percent,’ and that this video is the best thing to ever happen to you.”
Emira held the toothbrush in both hands and waved her thumb four times across the white and blue bristles. She set it down on the counter and it made a tiny click. “Okay, no . . . hold up.” She brought her own voice down to match. “She probably means this news thing. Like—this video we’re about to shoot.” But as she said it, Emira realized that if that was what Mrs. Chamberlain meant, then that hurt all on its own. Emira was constantly pointing out the instability of her current situation, specifically so that other people didn’t have to. The implications of Zara’s allegation took their time to be hardened in her mind, and for the moment, all Emira could think was, Mrs. Chamberlain was talking shit about me? I thought we had a deal.
Zara shook her head and held up a pointer finger. “Nuh-uh, girl. You said yes to this news thing. You didn’t say yes to the grocery store shit. That lady did something. Mira . . .” Zara trailed off as she stared into Emira’s face. “That lady leaked your tape.”
“Okay, no . . .” Emira was saying no to this accusation, but mostly she was saying no to the idea of having another conversation in which she had to examine who loved her least: Kelley or Mrs. Chamberlain. She crossed one arm and said, “Z, there’s no way. How would she even get it?”
“I don’t know,” Zara said. “Do you leave your phone out?”
“Sure, but it’s not like she has my code.”
“Do you bring your laptop here?”
“I don’t bring my laptop anywhere.”
“Okay, do you check your email on her laptop?” Zara pointed to the bathroom door. “Or the big-ass computer out there in the kitchen?”
Emira placed one hand against her opposite shoulder. For about eight seconds, her face stiffened into a position of almost remembering a simple word she’d somehow forgotten midconversation. Her mind rounded to three days prior, the day she turned twenty-six, and how short she was with Mrs. Chamberlain in her kitchen. She’d logged into her Gmail to send herself an address, but she didn’t remember logging out. She did remember peeking at the time on her phone to speed up the painfully practiced conversation that she didn’t allow Mrs. Chamberlain to have. And she’d taken Mrs. Chamberlain’s money and returned six hours later to drop off her child happy, sticky, and loved. Emira considered the fact that because she hadn’t let Mrs. Chamberlain endorse or even entertain a breakup with Kelley, that the mother of two had potentially done this legwork on her own. But weren’t they cool now? Wasn’t that why Mrs. Chamberlain had hired her as a nanny? But wait, shit . . . was this the reason she’d hired her as a nanny? Emira breathed out through her nose. She suddenly remembered the first time she stayed late to have a drink with Mrs. Chamberlain. The expensive wine she’d received for free. She’d asked if Mrs. Chamberlain had an event coming up. Mrs. Chamberlain had winked and said, “When my book comes out, I will.”