My little brother is holding my acceptance letter hostage.
And I’m going to kill him.
“Ellis, do you want to live to see high school?” I snap, jabbing him in the ribs. “Stop playing around and give me that.”
The problem is that at age thirteen, Ellis is already six feet two, which is a whole twelve inches taller than me. Which means that when he reaches his long, brown arm up to the ceiling, I have no chance of rescuing what’s pinched between his fingers.
He squints up at the large, pale-blue envelope, holding it to the light even though the fixture is turned off. “Spelman?”
“It’s in Atlanta, dummy.” I stand on the tips of my toes and stretch my arm, but it’s useless. He’s like a tree.
“I can read,” he says. “What is it? One of those Black colleges?”
“You sound like Dad.” Sometimes our father says Black like it’s a bad taste in his mouth. Which is weird since all of us who live in this house are Black, including him.
That’s enough to kill Ellis’s mischievous mood. “Whatever, Joni.” He drops his arm, tossing the packet on the counter.
I already know I got in, unless Spelman is in the habit of sending thick envelopes when you’re rejected. But I have to see the words with my own eyes before I believe it. That’s what I did with the letters from the other three I applied to, though I was already well aware that a thin envelope probably meant I didn’t get in.
Ellis opens the fridge as I smooth a hand over the front of the packet. I take a deep breath before I slice the letter opener across the top. This is the school that I never told my parents I was applying to because I didn’t want to endure their questions; it’s the school that sent confused looks across my best friends’ faces when I mentioned it.
“What’s an HBCU?” Mona asked, pronouncing the letters deliberately as if she was sure to forget them as soon as they left her mouth.
And after I answered that came Lydia’s question. It was simple, at least on the surface: “Why?”
I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know how to explain that applying to an HBCU seemed like the right thing to do even though it scared the hell out of me. That I truly couldn’t remember the last time I’d been around more than a handful of other Black people who weren’t my immediate family. That sometimes, because of that, I feel like a fraud within my own race. It was bad enough admitting that to myself, let alone to my white friends. All I know is that it was a good fear. The kind of fear that made my stomach flip with excitement as I clicked Send on my application.
Ellis parks himself across from me at the counter just as I pull out the contents of the envelope. He leans over the paper, talking only after he’s taken a huge bite of a sandwich. “What does it say?”
“Stop being gross. And back up. You’re getting crumbs on my stuff.” I look up, eyeing his snack. “Where’d you get that?”
He puts his hand up like suddenly he needs time to chew before he answers, but his stalling tactic doesn’t work on me.
“Did Celia make that for you?”
He finally swallows. “Yeah. So? She wanted to.”
“So? Ellis, you know what Mom said. We need to stop relying on Celia so much. We’re too old to have a nanny now. Even you.”
He looks down at the sandwich. “What’s the big deal? I could’ve made it myself.”
But he knows it’s a lie because he stuffs his mouth again immediately. Celia’s sandwiches are works of art. We’ve both watched her make them countless times over the years, and like everything else she does for us, they’re created with precision and care.
“The big deal is you’re going to have to get used to not having her around anymore.”
Celia is retiring in a couple of months so she can spend more time with her grandkids. And because I’ll be leaving in the fall and Ellis is old enough to stay home alone now and feed himself, our parents decided not to hire another nanny.
I look down at the paper, see my name and address in the top left corner under the date. And under that:
Dear Ms. Franklin:
Congratulations! It is an honor to welcome you to the 137th class of Spelman College . . .
I exhale. My heart is a bass drum pounding in my chest. It’s part fear, part excitement. A thrill. Because I think I’m about to do something that scares me—something huge. And that’s not something I do often.
If ever.
Dinner is . . . edible.
In addition to being our nanny since I was little, Celia used to make dinners a few nights a week. Mostly because our parents work long hours in Chicago, Mom as an architect and Dad as an attorney, and sometimes they’d get home just before it was time for Ellis and me to go to bed.
They’re usually home earlier these days, and they try to pretend like they’re some sort of culinary wizards. Dad, especially, seems like he has something to prove. He won’t start with anything easy—he’s always going for a meal that absolutely confounds him, like coq au vin or paella. It’s absurd and it makes me miss the nights when they were only responsible for bringing home takeout.
“How’s the fish, Ellis?” Dad asks.
Ellis takes a long drink of water and gives our father a thumbs-up. He’s been pushing the overcooked halibut around his plate this whole time, which is a clear sign the meal was unsuccessful. Ellis will eat just about anything you put in front of him; I don’t think he’s ever not hungry.
“We have some news,” Mom says, spearing a piece of asparagus.
“So does Joni,” Ellis says when he realizes it’s safe to put down his glass.
Mom looks at me with her eyebrows raised. “You do, sweetie?”
“It’s okay—you go first.” I kick Ellis under the table. I am excited to share my news, but I want to do it when I’m ready, not because he can’t keep his big mouth shut.
“We’re going on a little trip next weekend.” Mom glances at Dad with a smile I can’t figure out, and I wonder if that means they’re going somewhere alone.
“All of us,” Dad says when he sees Ellis’s hopeful face.
This is weird. They both work so much that we haven’t been on a family trip in ages. The closest thing we’ve had to a vacation in years is a long weekend we spent in Door County last summer.
Mom finishes chewing a tiny bite of fish, tries not to make a face as she swallows, and wipes her mouth. “Mama is turning eighty this month, so we’re going to Missouri to celebrate with everyone.”
“Missouri?” Ellis scrunches his nose.
“It’s been too long since we’ve all been home.” Mom smooths her hand over the edge of her placemat. “It’ll be like a mini family reunion.”
“Your cousins will be there,” Dad says cheerfully.
That’s not exactly a selling point. I remember the last time we went to Missouri, though I wish I could forget. I was twelve and Ellis was seven, and our cousins teased us mercilessly—about the way our voices sounded and the music we didn’t know and, it seemed, every single word that came out of our mouths. I shrank into myself until I couldn’t become any smaller, learning right then and there that “words can never hurt you” was total bullshit.
“Cool,” Ellis says, and he’s so unbothered he even manages to get down a couple more forkfuls of halibut. He must have been too young to remember the way they mocked us.
I push my plate away. I’ve lost my appetite, thinking about being around my cousins again. What hurt the most was that I liked them so much: they’re loud and they’re fun and they seemed to know a little bit about everything—things our parents actively shielded us from, like sex and R-rated movies and violent video games.
I loved being around them, soaking up all their energy, until my cousin Junior called me an Oreo.
My friends and I had recently gotten into Broadway cast recordings, and I’d been listening to them nonstop: Les Misérables, Chicago, Wicked, and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I asked my cousin Della if she had any of them when we were sitting in her room one day, going through her music.
I didn’t see my cousin Junior at the door until he said, “That is some white shit.”
My head snapped up immediately. “What?”
“Broadway—those shows are white as hell. What about The Wiz?”
“Ooh, I love The Wiz,” Della said dreamily. “I helped with the costumes last year when our school put it on.”
“I’ve never seen it,” I said quietly.
“Not even the movie?” Della stared at me in shock.
“No.” My voice was even smaller.
“Bet you never seen Dreamgirls, either,” Junior went on. Then, when I didn’t answer: “The Color Purple?”
I shook my head.
“Damn, you really are an Oreo,” he scoffed.
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open at the way he spit out the word. Worse than any curse word I’d ever had thrown my way. Bursting with so much venom, it stung for weeks.
Della rolled her eyes. “You stupid, Junior. You don’t even like musicals.”
“If I did, they wouldn’t be the white ones.”
I stopped responding, stopped looking at him. And, to my relief, he eventually wandered away—though the word Oreo lodged itself in my chest like poison.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been told I was Black on the outside and white on the inside, but I never expected to hear it from my own family.
“What was your news, Joni?” Mom asks now, turning to me.
“Oh, um, I just—I got an A on my Spanish exam.” I ignore Ellis’s confused eyes.
“We’ll celebrate with pie,” Dad says, and then sighs when he sees our faces. “That I picked up from the bakery. You all are ruthless.”
I think about the big envelope from Spelman, how it seemed like the right choice just an hour ago. But how can I be sure about going to an all-Black school when I’m overwhelmed at the thought of being around my own cousins for a couple of days?
Mom takes the train when she travels to Missouri by herself, and Nana Paulette flies when she visits us. But Dad insists on driving. He says it’s good for family bonding, but I think six hours is too long to sit that close to anyone—especially Ellis, whose armpits reek constantly.
I sleep for a while, play one of Ellis’s video games, text with Mona and Lydia, grudgingly play Dad’s silly car games, like I spy and twenty questions—and still, the drive seems to take forever. I even look forward to the couple of times we stop at gas stations in the Podunk, Illinois, towns where everyone stares as if they’ve never seen a Black person in their life, because at least I can stretch my legs and get some air.
But the closer we get to Nana Paulette’s house, the more nervous I feel. Maybe the best thing I can do is keep my mouth shut. I’ll have to talk, of course, but the less they hear me speak, the less they have to make fun of.
Nana Paulette lives in a big white farmhouse in a small town called Bloom that’s about an hour and a half west of Saint Louis. Her closest neighbors are half a mile away, and there’s only one market, and one movie theater in town that shows one film at a time. I can’t believe Mom grew up here.
Dad has barely pulled the car into the gravel drive before Nana Paulette is on the porch, waving and blowing kisses. She’s leaning on a cane now, which she didn’t have the last time I saw her. But I’m relieved that she doesn’t look any smaller. My chest tightens when I think of her getting older.
Dad parks behind an old station wagon and Ellis bursts from the car, jogging up the front porch so he can be the first one to greet our grandmother. I step out, too, grateful for the fresh air and the promise that I won’t have to spend the next seventy-two hours cramped in the back seat next to my brother.
Nana Paulette squeezes Ellis in her thin arms. She’s not a short woman, but Ellis’s lanky form nearly engulfs her as they hug. She’s exclaiming how big he is as I walk up the front steps. Her eyes find mine over his shoulder and she winks at me, setting me at ease. I’ve always liked being around Nana Paulette. She’s sweet but not afraid to tell it like it is; and when she speaks, we listen.
“Here’s my sweet girl,” she says, opening her arms.
“Hi, Nana Paulette.” As soon as I hug her, I remember that our grandmother always smells like lavender and vanilla, and it calms me even more. Maybe I’ve been nervous about this trip for nothing.
“It’s so good to see you, baby. You doing okay?” she asks as she pulls away.
“I’m really glad to be out of that car.” I glance behind her, where my brother is leaning over the porch railing, taking in the expansive lawn. It’s so big and the house is set back so far from the street that I wonder if it can still be called a lawn. “Ellis hasn’t met a stick of deodorant he likes.”
“Shut up, Joni.” He doesn’t even turn around.
Nana Paulette leans on her cane, the other hand on her hip. “Boy, I know you didn’t just tell your sister to shut up in front of me.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he says, suddenly remembering his manners.
“And you—don’t talk about your brother like that.” She taps me lightly on the nose. “Y’all go on inside and say hello to your cousins. They’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”
I doubt that.
Ellis walks right in, but I take my time crossing the threshold, wondering who’s inside. My mom’s family is small; it’s just her and her older brother, who has a wife and three kids of his own. Uncle Marcus—Junior’s namesake—never left Bloom, and his family lives about a mile up the road from Nana Paulette.
I follow my brother’s path. The whole house smells sweet, and I smile, thinking that Nana Paulette must have baked for us. But when I get to the kitchen, I see that I was wrong. Junior is sliding cake pans out of the oven, and my throat constricts at the sight of him.
Ellis is talking to our cousin Della. She’s two years older than me and the sister of Junior, who’s my age. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, watching Junior put two pie plates in the oven. Nobody notices me until he turns around, slipping the red oven mitt from his left hand.
“Joni?” He tosses the mitt on the counter and raises his eyebrows. “Been a long time, cuz.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Six years, I think.”
He gives me an amused look. “You probably got it figured out to the day, huh? Hey, Dell, look who it is.”
“Joni!” Della practically squeals, bounding over. She was always friendlier than her brother, but I can’t help remembering how she giggled when Junior made his cruel comments. My hug back is tentative. “How you doing, girl?”
“I’m good. I like your hair.”
“Thanks, girl.” She brushes a hand over her twist-out, then looks at mine. “You still doing a relaxer?”
“No, just pressing.” I touch my bone-straight strands.
I don’t tell her that I’ve been too nervous to wear my natural hair curly because I was afraid of what everyone at my super-white school would say. They already tease me enough, saying I’m “not really Black.” Sometimes I just don’t want to draw any more attention. Our hometown is only twenty miles outside of Chicago, but they’re completely different worlds.
“Is all this for us?” I ask, gesturing to the baked goods.
“Yeah, it’s all about y’all.” Junior shakes his head as he leans against the counter. “You know you’re here for Nana Paulette’s birthday, right? She asked me to make her some things.”
“Right.” And, just like that, I already feel stupid. “Sorry. I—sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to him, Joni.” Della flicks her eyes to the ceiling. “You want to run to the store with me? Someone forgot to get enough butter and is making me go to the market.”
“Shoulda had y’all pick some up on the way,” Junior mumbles in the general direction of Ellis and me.
The last thing I want to do is get back in a car again, but I gladly agree to go with Della. Anything to get away from the sour mood that’s quickly filling the air.
The big celebration for Nana Paulette is tomorrow, but the whole family comes over for dinner tonight, too. Uncle Marcus is still tall and quiet, with an easy smile. His wife, my aunt Virna, has the same bubbly laugh I used to love, and the same tight hugs. It suddenly hits me that Junior is the only one in his family who wasn’t instantly warm to me.
Junior and Aunt Virna hole up in the kitchen to make a big Italian feast for dinner: lasagna, and mushrooms stuffed with sausage, and garlic bread, and salad. The only thing store-bought is the tiramisu from the bakery in town, and when Ellis exclaims that it’s the best meal he’s had in months, Dad pretends not to hear him.
“How’s Emma?” Mom asks Aunt Virna.
“Still loving Vassar.” It’s my cousin Emma’s last year there. “She’s vegan now.”
“You hear that, Joni?” Dad’s chin dips down as he looks at me. “You’d better enjoy all my cooking now before you have to resort to nuts and berries.”
My aunt raises her eyebrows. “Are you going to Vassar, Joni?”
“No,” I say quickly, before she can get too excited. “But I applied to some schools in the area.”
“And she got into Smith, Barnard, and Occidental,” Mom says proudly.
“And Spelman,” Ellis blurts from across the table—too far away for me to kick him.
“You applied to a Black college?” Dad looks at Mom. “Did you know about this?”
I set down my fork and glare at Ellis. I really could kill him.
“Why do you sound so surprised, David?” Uncle Marcus asks, frowning at my father.
Dad frowns back at him. “We talked about where she was applying, and Spelman was never on the list.”
Mom turns to me, her eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. “Sweetie, when were you going to tell us?”
“I don’t know.” My neck burns hot. “I found out a couple of weeks ago, and we’ve all been so busy, and—”
“Well,” my father says, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with an HBCU, but is it the best education you can get? Listen, I know why they were created, but do we still need them today? Sometimes I wonder if those places are setting us back instead of moving us forward.”
I’m pretty sure Uncle Marcus’s eyes are going to bug out of his skull. “Negro, you did not just say—”
“Negro?” Dad looks as if he’s been sucker punched, the way I must have looked when Junior called me an Oreo years ago. “Now, listen here, Marcus—”
“Congratulations, Joni,” my aunt practically shouts. She raises her glass of iced tea, glaring at my father and uncle before she gives me a wide smile. “My sister went to Spelman, and it was one of the best decisions she’s ever made. It’s a real sense of community—a true sisterhood. I’d be happy to put you in touch.”
“Thank you, Aunt Virna.” I make eye contact with Junior as I pick up my water. I can’t read his expression, but I know he has an opinion about this.
I wonder where he applied. I wonder if he worries about the way people will perceive him—even a whole campus full of people he’s never met.
The preparation for the party the next day starts bright and early.
It was a tight squeeze in the kitchen yesterday, and this morning there are so many people that I can barely get through to grab a pastry from the box Aunt Virna brought over. I sit at the dining room table, picking over an apple strudel as I watch them through the doorway that separates the two rooms. Junior is overseeing things, and even I’m impressed by the way he keeps so many people on task. Della is in charge of the deviled eggs, and Mom and Aunt Virna are sitting at the tiny table against the wall cleaning greens and shucking fresh corn, which I haven’t actually seen anyone do in real life. Uncle Marcus and my father are setting up the tables and games outside; I guess they’ve called a truce for the good of the party.
Ellis plunks down next to me with a cheese Danish in one hand and a chocolate croissant in the other. “What’s up with you?” he mumbles, but only after he has a mouthful of food.
“What do you mean?”
He swallows. “Why didn’t you want me to say anything about that college? You were so excited when the letter showed up.”
“Yeah, well . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s not the right place for me.”
He makes a face. “How could you know that? You haven’t even been there.”
“Morning,” a voice cuts into our conversation.
I look behind Ellis to see Junior standing in the doorway. There’s a dish towel hanging from his belt loop.
Ellis responds with a cheerful good morning and I wave, my mouth full.
“Soooo, y’all just gonna sit there or you want to help like everyone else?”
I frown at him. “Can we finish our breakfast first?” Damn.
Junior looks annoyed but nods. “Make it quick? I need someone to grate the cheese before I put the macaroni on.”
“Does he have to be so pissy all the time?” I mutter when he walks away.
Ellis pops the rest of the Danish into his mouth and turns to look at Junior over his shoulder as he chews. “I dunno, I think he’s kinda cool.”
I shake my head. “That’s, like, the last word I would use to describe him.”
“He doesn’t really care what anybody thinks,” Ellis says. “And people listen to him. That’s cool.”
Whenever our parents host parties, they hire people to cook, even for small dinner parties. Mom says it cuts down on the stress of having guests and that she can concentrate on the actual entertaining. That’s the norm where we live, hiring out whatever you can: cooking, childcare, housecleaning. It’s weird to think that soon Celia won’t be part of our everyday lives. It will feel like a family member is missing.
But there’s something about this moment, with all of us pressed shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, that makes me hope I never hire out the cooking when I get older. It’s hot and cramped, but it’s almost cozy. Mom and Aunt Virna are chattering away like long-lost sisters, and Della keeps cracking jokes as she tends to the eggs. Ellis is posted at the counter with three giant blocks of cheese and a grater, and I think it’s the most manual labor I’ve ever seen him do. Junior put me to work making all the drinks: lemonade with fresh lemons and two different types of iced tea and a fizzy red punch with cut fruit mixed in.
At one point, everyone leaves to go shower or take a break or help Uncle Marcus and my father, and it’s just Junior and me. I watch as he pulls out trays and party platters and organizes everything we’ve been making.
“Where are you going to school this fall?” I ask, setting my cutting board in the sink. It’s littered with citrus rinds and lemon seeds.
His back is to me. He pauses, then says, “I’m not going.”
“Are you taking a gap year?”
Junior laughs, but it’s not a nice laugh. “A gap year? Is that what all your fancy friends call it when their parents pay for them to go travel in Europe?”
My eyebrows knit together. “I never said anything about Europe. Or my friends.”
He turns to face me. “Oh, maybe they’re the type to go volunteer in Africa for a few months so they can feel better about themselves?”
“What is your problem, Junior?”
“I don’t have a problem,” he says, though the heat in his eyes tells me otherwise. “I just call it like I see it.”
The tension is interrupted as the back door creaks open. Della walks into the kitchen and stops, looking back and forth between us. “What’s going on?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Junior says before he leaves the room.
I have just enough time to shower and get ready before the guests start showing up. Nana Paulette has invited a few neighbors and friends, and by the time everyone arrives, it’s a full-fledged celebration.
I guess one advantage to living in the country is that you can play your music as loud as you want and nobody cares. It takes a while for Ellis to get the wireless speakers working, so in the meantime, Della’s friend Terrence opens the doors to his car and starts blasting hip-hop (“What you know about Wu-Tang?” he hollered when he turned it up), making what feels like the entire earth shake. The car is long and old, and it would get triple takes from the neighbors where I live, but it’s in impeccable condition, with a pool-blue paint job and white leather interior.
“How does he get the wheels so shiny?” I ask after Terrence has left to get a drink. I stare at the blinding silver in the center of the tires.
“Wheels?” Della laughs. “You mean rims?”
“Yeah.” My face and neck flush. I knew that.
“This car is his baby,” she says, shaking her head at the same moment Aunt Virna calls for us to put on something else or turn that mess down.
Della slides in to fiddle with the volume, then perches on the passenger seat and looks at me. “You don’t seem like you like being here, Joni.”
Is it so obvious?
“I guess I just feel out of place sometimes.” I touch the shiny blue paint with my index finger and immediately pull it back when Della shoots me a look.
“Terrence will kill you if he sees you smudging up his car. Just got it detailed.”
“Sorry.”
“But why do you feel out of place? ’Cause of Junior?” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t even pay attention to him. He’s always mad about something.”
“But it’s more than that. Last time we were here . . .” I feel silly bringing up something that happened so long ago, but it still bothers me. It still hurts. Especially since he seems to feel the same way now as he did back then. “He called me an Oreo.”
Della bursts out laughing, showing all her teeth.
“Thanks,” I mumble, looking away.
“I’m not laughing at you,” she says. “It’s just—Junior has a lot of opinions, but I wouldn’t listen to most of them.”
“What do you mean?”
She looks behind me and I turn to see Junior walking hand in hand with a girl. She’s pretty, with dark skin and long black braids that hang to the small of her back.
“He has a girlfriend?” I couldn’t be more surprised. He’s not a bad-looking guy, but I can’t imagine anyone would put up with his surliness if they didn’t have to.
“Yeah, Lita. She’s real sweet.” Della looks at me again. “But don’t worry about Junior, okay?”
I stare at her, waiting for her to explain.
Della sighs. “He might listen to our dad too much.”
What’s wrong with Uncle Marcus? Of course I noticed how he didn’t let my father get away with disrespecting HBCUs, but they’ve bickered like that before. And I like that my uncle stood up to him.
“You tell anyone I said this and I’ll deny it till the day I die.” Her eyes are serious as she looks at me. “But . . . Daddy’s got some issues with y’all.”
Issues? I stare at her.
“He thinks your mom ‘started acting white’ when she left Bloom.” Della makes air quotes with her fingers. “That she lost touch with her roots because she wanted to go to a big city and make a name for herself. He thinks it’s bougie that you have a nanny and that you live in a town with so many white people when Chicago is right there.”
“I can’t believe you’re telling me this,” I say as her words sink in.
“Yeah, me either. And I don’t agree with Daddy. Neither does Mommy. Just so you know. But Junior . . . I don’t know if it’s some masculine thing to try to impress Daddy or if he’s just not smart enough to figure it out himself. But he kinda parrots back what Daddy says, so . . .”
So this whole time it’s been someone else putting ideas into Junior’s head? And my Uncle Marcus thinks all of us are Oreos because of the way we live? I look over to the card table, where they’re setting up a game of spades. Uncle Marcus is laughing at something a man next to him is saying—so hard that he’s bent at the waist, hands clasped to his knees.
“Don’t hate Daddy,” Della pleads. “He loves you guys. And listen, I’m majoring in journalism, not psychology, but I think he misses your mom. And maybe he wishes he’d been brave enough to leave, too.”
“My dad says some messed-up things about Black people sometimes,” I say after a moment. “My mom, too.”
Della laughs again. “So does Daddy. I have a friend at Howard who’s half Black and half Chinese. She says some of the meanest things about Chinese people sometimes. But she’d rip us to shreds if we ever repeated it—as she should.” She shrugs. “It’s just what we do. We’re always harder on our own people.”
Finally, Ellis gets the speakers set up and they start playing old doo-wop, and Motown, and slow, steamy D’Angelo and Prince songs that are entirely inappropriate for a family gathering.
When the spades game is done, we line up at the tables around the side of the house to fill our plates. We have all the food Junior organized in the kitchen, along with the meat and veggies Dad and Uncle Marcus grilled and the dishes the guests brought. The spread is admirable: deviled eggs, hush puppies, fried chicken, collard greens, mac and cheese, hot links and ribs, corn on the cob, and more. The pitchers of drinks I made are sitting on their own table, and we haven’t even set out all the desserts Junior baked. Everyone urges Nana Paulette to get in line first, but she insists on standing behind the table to help serve. She looks too happy to be argued with.
Della saves me a seat at a table that just happens to be right across from Junior and his girlfriend. Even if I feel a little better knowing his comments were spurred by my uncle’s feelings, I don’t know that I’m ready to forget the things he’s said to me.
His girlfriend smiles as I sit down. “Hi. I’m Lita.”
“Joni,” I say, surprised that she’s so friendly. “Their cousin.”
“I only have one cousin.” She sighs as she forks up a bite of mac and cheese. “I wish I had more, like y’all.”
“There’s just five of us,” Della says. “Four this weekend, without Emma.”
“I guess it’s nice having fewer people to leave when you go away.” Lita bumps Junior’s shoulder with hers. “I’m going to miss this guy a lot.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Georgetown. My parents’ alma mater, so I almost didn’t have a choice.” She shakes her head, but I can see the pride in her eyes. “And I’m trying to get Marcus to apply so he can join me after his gap year.”
It’s strange to hear her call Junior by his actual name, but even stranger to hear his girlfriend use the same term that he snarled at me for saying only hours ago. I look at him to see if he noticed, but he’s staring down at his plate, his mouth full.
“I don’t know—with me in DC too, he might end up in California or something,” Della says. But even her smirk can’t get Junior to look up and join this conversation. “Joni’s going to Spelman in the fall.”
“Probably,” I say, though I know in my heart it’s where I want to be.
Lita’s face lights up. “You are? Oh, I’m so jealous. That was on my list, but . . . you know. Georgetown. My parents are die-hard Hoyas.”
Junior finishes his plate before we’re even halfway done with ours and stands up immediately, mumbling about having to go finish the birthday cake.
“You want help?” Lita asks almost reluctantly. It’s clear that she’s perfectly comfortable sitting here with Della and me.
“Nah, I got it.” He gives her a soft smile and rubs the back of her neck before he leaves.
“Girl, you gotta tell me all about DC,” Lita says to Della. “I’ve only been there a few times, and it’s always with my parents.”
They start discussing the differences between Bloom and Washington, DC, and Georgetown and Howard, and I zone out, taking in my surroundings. The song on the party playlist changes and Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up” comes on—an old song I know because Dad likes to put it on while he’s attempting to cook. He usually ends up dancing too much and burning things.
My grandmother starts bopping in her seat, and on the other side of Della, Terrence calls out, “What you know about Marvin Gaye, Miss Paulette?”
Nana Paulette just laughs, one hand waving in the air as the other taps the cane leaning on the table.
Aunt Virna whips her head around to look at him. “What do you know about Marvin Gaye, little Terrence?”
“I’m about to show you, Miss Virna!” He leaps from his chair and pulls her to her feet so they can dance.
More people get up, including my parents. Mom usually rebuffs Dad when he tries to get her to dance with him in the kitchen, but this time she willingly lets him twirl her around the table. It makes me smile.
I get up to dump my plate and wash my hands, and narrowly miss being pulled into the dance party. Uncle Marcus taps my arm on my way to the porch and I think he’s going to try to get me to join them, but he just scoops me into a quick hug and kisses the top of my head.
Inside, I use the bathroom, and as I’m walking back to the front door, I hear noises in the kitchen. I follow them to find Junior standing at the counter, carefully icing the cakes he made last night. He’s almost done.
“Hey,” I say.
He startles, then turns around and nods. “What’s up?”
I didn’t know I was going to say anything until I was standing here, but we’re all alone and I feel like I can’t let the opportunity pass. “Do you remember calling me an Oreo? The last time I saw you.”
His hand pauses, hovering next to the cake. I don’t wait for him to answer.
“It hurt my feelings. Especially since it came from you. I go to school with almost all white people and they say really crappy things to me. Even my friends, sometimes. It’s not my fault where I grew up.”
“Sounds like you need some new friends.” But there isn’t much fire, if any, in his voice.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe I’ll find better ones when I get to college. But maybe you should think about not judging someone before you really know what it’s like to be them.”
Junior turns around. “What about you? Last time you visited, all you did was talk about everything that’s different here. How you couldn’t believe we don’t have a nanny, and that it smells weird out here and it’s boring and you’d hate to live in such a small town. And your dad . . . Look, I like Uncle David, but sometimes he says some weird shit.”
Did I say that? All these years, I haven’t been able to shake what Junior said, the name he called me. But judging his life and his home . . . Even if I didn’t mean to, I get how deeply that would hurt, same as his words hurt me. And I don’t remember saying it, but the conviction in his voice convinces me it’s true—that maybe he’s been struggling with that memory as much as I’ve been wrestling with mine. It makes me feel awful, that I was so careless with my words.
“We’re not some poor Bamas you have to feel sorry for,” Junior grumbles. “Some of us like living here.”
“I don’t think that,” I say. “I’m sorry for what I said, Junior. All of it. But you can’t judge me based on what my dad says. I don’t like it, either, but he gets defensive when we call him out, so I stopped speaking up.”
“Well, it wasn’t cool that I called you an Oreo. Sorry about that.” He’s quiet for a moment, then lets out a long, slow breath. “To be honest, it’s not just you that’s said stuff like that about Bloom. People around here talk that mess. They can’t wait to leave. Even Lita . . . I don’t think she’ll ever come back once she leaves.”
“Her parents did, right?”
Junior shakes his head. “She’s not like her parents.”
“Did you ever think about culinary school?” I gesture to the cake and the kitchen in general. “All the food was so good . . . and obviously you know how to crack the whip.”
He shrugs. “Thanks. It’s not hard. And I guess I’ve thought about going into hospitality management, but that means leaving Bloom, and like I said, some of us don’t want to leave.”
“Couldn’t you take classes in Saint Louis or at one of the other schools near here? That’s not so far. Not like going to DC.”
“You some kind of guidance counselor?” The corner of his mouth turns up in a tiny, quick smile. “But, yeah. Maybe I could.”
I return his smile with one of my own. It’s funny how my fear can push me to do something that might lead to one of the best experiences of my life while Junior’s fear threatens to hold him back. And strange that I didn’t see that we’re battling the same thing, even though our lives and ambitions are so different.
I guess, deep down, we’re not so different.
He clears his throat. “You want to help me finish up this cake? We’ll burn the place down if we try to do eighty candles, but if we line them up like this . . .”
I stand next to my cousin and grin.
Nudge him in the side as I say, “Hand me those matches.”