We. I am still a part of Grandma’s we. She’s mad at me, but not so much that she’s stopped loving me, wanting me.
“You both thinking you know everything, thinking you’re right. Well, you’re both wrong.” Grandma turns to Imani and says, “Life can’t be about trying to prove a point, or making someone feel less than you. You walking around having love for the planet, love for animals, love for every outcast, downtrodden person, but you ain’t got no love for your cousin? For your momma? Me? Since when you so high and mighty that you don’t come to family gatherings? Since when? You think you’re smart and brave and passionate? Who you think taught you to be that way?”
Tell her, Grandma, tell her.
“And Nala Robertson, you have got to start learning how to love yourself. For you, it will always be easier to love other people, to put them first and cater to them, to adapt to their needs. You want to really be something in this world—learn how to walk in a room being yourself and staying true to who you are. Yes, there’s room for growth, always. But if the change isn’t for you it won’t last.”
Imani has her head down, her arms folded.
Grandma gets up, goes into the kitchen, and brings out two bottles of Ting and sets them on the dining room table. Then, she goes back into the kitchen and shakes out plantain chips into a bowl. She sets the bowl in the middle of the table. Grandma walks to the door, slips her sandals on, and before she leaves, she says, “You two are family. Family. That alone ought to be enough for you to respect each other. You’re also two women. Black women. The most radical thing you can do is love yourself and each other.”
We sit and sit. Me sipping the grapefruit soda Grandma left out for us every few minutes and nibbling on the chips. Imani stays in the living room on the sofa. Thirty minutes have passed, and we haven’t said anything to each other. But I can see that Imani’s shoulders have relaxed, that her eyes aren’t burning a curse through me anymore. Her phone is buzzing; so is mine. But we don’t answer them. Somehow, I think we both know that Grandma would not approve of us answering a phone call or responding to a text. Not now.
We sit and sit.
I finish my soda.
Forty-five minutes.
Grandma is still gone, and we still haven’t said a word to each other. I see Imani’s eyes looking at Grandma’s open Bible. She is reading it, I can tell. I wonder what it says today. Every now and then, our eyes meet and linger on each other, and when I look at her, I see past what she said today, past how cold she’s been all month. I see way back to when we were kids and summers were spent splashing in fire hydrants and spending all our allowance at the Coco Helado carts. I see her greeting me at the door when I showed up at her doorstep soaking wet with rain and snot and tears, how she hugged me even though I was wet and falling apart. How she was the one to say, Mom, can she live here?
I see all of that. She is still that person too.
I’ll hold on to that, hope she has some good memories about me to hold on to.
21
I am lying in my bed waiting.
The sun is awake and bright and enveloping my room. It is time to get up, but I stay in bed because I hear Imani moving around and I don’t want to see her. Not yet. Last night we never did speak, not even when Aunt Ebony picked us up from Grandma’s, not even when she asked us what was going on. We were silent the whole way home, and I went straight to my room (with nothing to eat, by the way) and went to bed.
This morning, I am listening to Blue and she is getting me in a better mood. I sing along, distract myself from the fact that I really need to use the bathroom. And I mean in that first-thing-in-the-morning kind of way that is really hard to hold. But I wait. I twist my legs shut, hold it. I can hear everything Imani is doing. First, her five-minute shower and now she must be drying off. I hear the mirror to the medicine cabinet open, then close. She must be getting her hair products out. There is a pause, and the medicine cabinet opens and closes again. Then, finally, the bathroom door opens and she walks out. I hear her bedroom door open, close.
I wait.
The door opens and closes again. Imani runs back to the bathroom, grabs something, and rushes back to her bedroom.
I don’t move.
There’s music playing from her room, and I figure she must be getting dressed. Soon enough I’ll be able to get up, go to the bathroom. If not, I’ll have to get over it because I am too old to wet the bed. I stand up, pace the room (does that really help?), and try to distract myself while I wait for her to leave. I do not want any accidental hallway run-ins. I pull the cord to the charger out of my phone and check my notifications. No text from Tye, no missed calls. I toss the phone back on the bed.
The doorbell rings, and I hear Imani running down the stairs. Then, Asher’s voice is booming through the house with Aunt Ebony’s. They all talk for a while. I can’t make out what they are saying, but their voices are loud and constant. Then, the front door opens, closes.
Imani is gone.
I run to the bathroom, don’t even close the door.
Relief.
I shower and get dressed and listen to see if Aunt Ebony is still here. I hear her walking back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, so I decide to stay upstairs a little longer. I am not ready to talk with her either.
I sit on my bed, pick my phone up, and scroll through Instagram. Sadie has posted a photo of me, her, and Imani at her house from the day she braided my hair. I tap the heart to like it and keep scrolling. I am looking to see if Tye has posted anything.
Nothing.
I go to his page; maybe I missed it. I look over his posts and see he hasn’t been on since the last picture he shared—the one of me and him at Brooklyn Bridge Park. I don’t like it or make a comment. I just stare at it. Tap it and zoom in on his face. His eyes are smiling in this picture. I wonder if I’ll ever look into his eyes again, ever be in his arms like that.
I go to Inspire Harlem’s page, and there are no new photos here either, just the recap of the community block party. I swipe through them: a photo of Asher and Tye setting up, one of the massive crowd, and there’s even a photo of all the tote bags on the table, stuffed and ready to go.
Seeing this photo makes me realize I never looked inside my tote. It’s been on the floor of my closet since I came home that day. I go to my closet, get the bag, and dump everything out. There are coupons to local stores, bookmarks, stickers, hand sanitizer, and tons of brochures. There’s also a postcard-sized flyer that has Inspire Harlem’s core tenets listed with a mural behind the words.
Remember Harlem.
Honor Harlem.
Critique Harlem.
Love Harlem.
I pin it to the corkboard that hangs beside my desk. I stand in front of my mirror, put my braids up in a ponytail, and pick my phone back up. I scroll and scroll. Still no posts from Tye. I think about leaving a comment under the picture, but what can I say?
I waste about thirty minutes looking through Tye’s photos. Besides the picture of us, one of my favorites is the one of him with his mom. Someone caught them in a candid moment—a hug that looks so genuine, so tight. The caption says, Me and my first love. I get caught up on Tye’s page and then snap out of it, deciding that I can’t stay in my room all day obsessing over him. I get out of Instagram, call Grandma, and make a plan to come over.