I learn that Tye has never had surgery. I’ve had my tonsils and my appendix taken out.
Tye loves to cook and so do I. He’s never been on a plane, but I have more times than I can count.
We both love to swim.
We both hate hiking.
The train stops, and one person gets on, then realizes this is the local train so steps off just before the doors close. We keep crawling through the tunnel, making our way downtown. By the time we get to South Ferry station, the car is empty and very few people are on the platform. We cross over to the uptown side and make our way back to Harlem. When we get on the train, Tye wraps me in his arms. I fall into a subway-sleep, where I am in a daze, half-awake, half-asleep. Every time we stop I pry my eyes open just a little and as soon as the train is in motion again, I close them. And being in Tye’s arms on the one train heading to Harlem on a summer night is the only place I want to be. We are not talking about activism or community organizing, we are just being with each other, just enjoying each other.
“Nala,” Tye whispers. “Our stop is next.”
We get off the train and climb up the mountain of stairs back into the humid night. Neither of us wants to leave the other, so we walk the long way home.
4 THINGS I WANT TO STUDY IN COLLEGE (IF I GO):
1.Maybe Communications
2.Maybe Photography
3.Maybe Business
4.Maybe there’s a course on How To Be Yourself
16
For the first time I am at Tye’s house. We are in his room, and I am surprised at how neat it is. Tye has everything in its place, and it makes me wonder if it is always like this or if he did some cleaning before I came. I am sitting in an oversized chair watching him shoot baskets in the hoop that hangs on the back of his door.
“So, what’s your plan for the photo legacy project?” Tye asks.
“I don’t have a plan yet. I don’t even know if it’s really going to happen. I have to talk with the head of programming to figure it all out.” I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s not happening. If I tell him the photo project isn’t happening, I’ll have to tell him why. And telling him that I really don’t work at Sugar Hill Senior Living means telling him that I’ve been lying to him this whole time.
“Well, it has to happen,” Tye says. “It’s a great idea. And plus, isn’t it your job to do programs? Why would your boss say no?”
Because it is not my job and she is not my boss.
Tye takes another shot, misses, and tries again. It goes in the second time. “I think you should make a flyer announcing what the project is and ask for residents to give you a portrait that you can copy, or you could even take a day and have people set up an appointment to get their photo taken.”
“I’m not a photographer.”
“But you’re always taking pictures.”
Tye is so into this nonexistent project.
I think maybe I should just get it over with. Tell him now that I am not—and have never been—the activity coordinator at my grandmother’s residence. “Tye?”
“Yes?”
“Um, I—can we please talk about something else?” I thought I was going to tell him the truth, but I just can’t say the words Tye, I haven’t been honest with you.
Tye looks at me like he can’t understand what else I could possibly want to talk about. “Can I just say one more thing?” he asks.
“One.”
“I think we should start thinking about how you’ll do the reveal. You could have the lounge closed for a day while we decorate and set everything up, then you can welcome all the residents in with their families and we could have some light refreshments.”
“Tye—I’m not even sure if this is going to happen. And you really don’t have to help me plan anything. You have your own stuff with Inspire Harlem. I don’t want you to—”
“It’s not a problem. I love doing these kinds of things.”
Obviously.
He tosses the ball again, and I jump up off the bed and intercept it. I hold the basketball away from him.
“What are you doing?”
“I did not come over here to talk about old people and photographs.” I drop the ball, lean in for a kiss. “I mean, we’re dating, right?”
“Yes. Why are you asking me that?”
“Because sometimes I feel like you’re more interested in helping me instead of spending time with me.”
“Helping you plan the photo legacy project is spending time with you.”
“Can we just . . . Can we just have fun? Like, what do you watch on TV?” I take the remote off the TV stand and hit the power button. I sit on his bed, tell him, “Let’s just hang out.” I flip through channels and see that one of my favorite reality shows is on. It follows the behind the scenes of singers as they prepare for tour. Of course, there’s always drama, like the singer being sick or the backup singers not knowing their parts, even personal dramas with family, spouses, and children. I love it.
Tye says, “It’s staged, though, don’t you think? Is there any reality show that is actually real?”
“Just watch. It’s good. And the music is the best. You get to see how artists create songs, how they plan shows.” I try to sell it, but I’m not sure it’s working. “Okay, just watch one episode and if you don’t like it, we’ll watch something else.”
“All right.”
Eventually there is more kissing than there is watching TV. Three episodes later, Tye is the one who is saying, “One more,” and I don’t gloat but inside I am smiling, and when he puts his arms around me, I lay my head on his shoulder and we spend the rest of the day in each other’s arms.
By the time Tye’s mom gets home, the sun is sleeping and the air is relaxed and calm. Ms. Brown has brought dinner home from their favorite restaurant and says, “Nala, it’s so good to meet you. I’m glad you could come over for dinner.”
“Thanks for inviting me. And nice to meet you too.” I’m not sure if I should hug her or shake her hand. Meeting people for the first time can be so awkward. We shake hands. “Can I help with anything?” I ask.
“Uh, sure. Can you set these on the dining room table?” Ms. Brown hands me two large to-go containers. When I set them on the table, I see that one is labeled Mashed Kabocha Squash, and even though I don’t know what kabocha is, at least I recognize the word “squash.” It’s not my favorite, but I’ll eat it. The other container says Teriyaki Seitan. I sound it out in my head: Sei-tan . . . say-tan . . . say-tun . . . satan? Satan as in the devil, as in opposite of light and peace, as in red suit and pitchfork? Who would eat something that literally sounds like one of the devil’s nicknames? No thank you. Nope. Maybe I should have said I needed to go home for dinner.
Ms. Brown comes into the dining room carrying plates and napkins. Tye is right behind her with three glasses. “I am so hungry,” she says. “Aren’t you?”
Not anymore.
Tye goes back and forth from the kitchen a few times to get the pitcher of lemonade and two big serving spoons. He sits down next to me, and Ms. Brown starts dishing out the food. She gives me way too much of everything, and as she piles the food on my plate, she explains, “I love kabocha squash. It’s so much sweeter than butternut.”