“You do?”
“Of course. Why do you sound surprised?”
“Well, I mean, you’re the one who broke up with me.”
Is this his way of saying he’d take me back?
I don’t get to ask him because Ms. Brown comes out, carrying a to-go container, and says, “Come on, Tye.” She looks at me without emotion and says, “Hi, Nala.”
I can barely get a hello out. I’m not sure either of them hear me say it as they walk away.
MORE THINGS I MISS ABOUT TYE
1.That I can’t call him whenever something good is on TV that I know he would want to watch too.
2.That we don’t text each other good morning or heart emojis or see you tomorrows anymore. No one is checking on me just to say hello, just to say hey, I’m thinking of you.
3.That I don’t have anyone to roam New York City with. Sure, I can explore by myself or with Sadie, but sometimes—most times—I want him with me to see the street performers at Union Square, to witness the wild happenings on the subway, to share a too-big pizza slice, to grab a table at the crowded coffee shop while I order at the counter. Two is better than one sometimes. Most times.
28
Aunt Ebony invited me and Imani out for lunch, but I told them I think she should have a day with just Imani. Once they both leave, I go over to Grandma’s, and I realize that JT is right about Grandma. She knows that I bring him an ice cream sundae every now and then, but she isn’t saying anything. Today, when I get to her place, she absolutely sees me with the sundaes, getting on the elevator. “Going to visit JT?” she asks.
“Yes. I was going to call you when we’re done talking.”
“Okay. I’ll be in the lounge.” I can’t believe that Grandma doesn’t fuss at me or come with me. She just walks away and acts like it doesn’t bother her at all. She doesn’t even get on me for hiding this from her.
I knock on JT’s door, and when he opens it, he says what he always says, “Nala, my dear, you are too kind. Too kind.”
We sit and eat our ice cream like we always do, but today, JT doesn’t ask me any questions. He doesn’t pry about Tye or ask me about college. After a while, I say to him, “Everything okay?”
He nods.
“You seem quiet today,” I tell him.
“Just waiting on you,” he says.
Waiting on me?
JT chuckles. “I thought we had our routine down, Nala. You know the drill. What’s on your mind?”
I guess I just needed him to ask. I tell JT, “I need to figure out what I’m going to do for college.”
“Tell me more,” JT says.
“I need to write my personal essay, but I don’t know what to write about. I hardly even know what I want to study in college.”
JT says, “You don’t have to know right now.”
“Yes, I do. Aunt Ebony keeps asking me about the essay, and pretty soon she’s going to want to read it but I haven’t even started yet.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” JT gets up and throws his ice cream cup away. “Maybe you are writing it for your aunt Ebony and not for yourself.”
Now JT sounds like Grandma. What is it with all this talk about doing things for myself? How do you know if you’re doing something for yourself or someone else?
“Just write,” JT says. “Just write as if no one is going to read it. Write as if you’re telling yourself what you need to know.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon helping Grandma with her puzzle. Grandma gives me the honor of snapping the last piece in. It’s a beautiful scene. Maybe a summer afternoon. Women are sitting on the porch with the backdrop of clothes hanging on the clothesline. There’s a woman holding a baby, a woman holding a cat, and children hanging on the banister, all listening to the men who are scattered around the yard playing instruments—a washboard, a bucket, a banjo, and a guitar. Even animals have gathered to listen to the jam session.
“I’ll leave it here for a day or two and then start on my next one.”
“You’re not going to keep it here longer?” I ask. “After all the work we did.”
“It’s not meant to last forever,” Grandma says.
We go back to her apartment, and even though I am not hungry, Grandma makes fried plantains for us to eat. I don’t think I’ve ever come over without her feeding me. I sit on the sofa, and it just feels good to be together, Grandma in the kitchen, no words being spoken, just the two of us hanging out. It reminds me of when I was little and I’d sit on her living room floor, coloring book and crayons spread out, making something while she was in the kitchen cooking up something. I look at Grandma’s Bible, see which passage it’s open to today, have my three-minute church service. It’s placed on 1 Corinthians 13. I start reading.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. . . . And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
I take a photo of the thin paper. I’ll copy these words in my notebook. How is it that these words have existed for so long and I have never heard them? How is it that these words are easy to say, easy to believe in, but so hard to actually do?
“You ready to eat?” Grandma says.
She fixes a plate for me, and we sit at the dining room table and eat. When we are finished, I promise to come back in two days and work on the next puzzle. I hug Grandma, and as I am walking out of the door, I tell her, “Imani said she’s coming over with me next time.”
“I’d like that,” Grandma says. “I’d really like that.”
After leaving Grandma’s, I make my way to the library, and as soon as I get inside I get to work on my personal essay. I don’t know what I want it to be about, but I take JT’s advice. First, I look through my lists and think about all that happened this summer. My lists are all over the place, and a lot of the bullet points I would never share with a panel of strangers who are deciding my educational future, but finally I feel like I’m onto something when I decide to write about what I’ve learned this summer, all the things I am learning. I look through my notebook and see all the lists I wrote about Tye, about loving him. I only have a few pages left. I turn to a blank page, start another list.
3 THINGS I LOVE ABOUT MYSELF
1.My hair. After experimenting with different styles, I’ve come to love it for the many ways it can transform, for the story it is always telling.
2.My skin. It is dark brown and looks good in yellow and green and any shade of blue and also white and also gray, and its scars heal like no pain ever happened, and it glistens under the sun, and in the winter it soaks up shea butter and cocoa butter, and this summer, this summer it soaked up kisses, so many kisses imprinted in this skin of mine.
3.My mind. It is its own. Even though sometimes it is tempted to change, falter. Deep down it is sure, made up, full of ideas and thoughts and sweet memories and an imagination that built faraway places when I was a child, places I transformed into playlands: under tables, in the back seat of the car, on fire escapes and stoops. My mind. It is strong and holds all of who I am. It is still forming and growing and in so many ways, still the same. My mind. It is expansive, and there is so much room to fill, so much more to know.