“Look at you with the mathing.” Marisol elbows me to lighten the mood. I’m too deep in my emotions to turn off my thoughts now.
“You know how it is. It’s not just the dolls, though they were creepy, but at work I’m immersed in a predominantly White universe all day long, always putting a positive spin on everything, making it look easy, making it look like I don’t mind spending my days smoothing an already level path for White folks. That’s all okay, at least for me, because when I come home to my dad and Xandra, I can be the real me no one else sees. And Leo can join if he wants to, but either way for a few hours a day I can truly be me.” I stop, but Marisol waves me on, uninterested in my dramatic pause. “On top of work, I’m going to have to join THEM. The fairest family in America. I can’t even wrap my head around the amount of sunscreen that family must go through after long Nebraska winters.” Marisol stays quiet, she knows there’s a punch line to my predicament.
“If I move in with Leo, my world gets Whiter. If I marry Leo, my life is White. Every holiday spent with the Wests will be me Blacksplaining our Jamaican family recipes at Christmas as well as what it means to be ashy and why shea butter is the cure. And you know I will be constantly encouraging Emily not to use please on the end of every sentence when asking my child to do something; just tell the kid to do it. Twenty years in schools, and I still don’t get why White parents think every interaction with their child is a teachable moment followed by endless explanation.”
“You just went allllllll the way off into left field. When are you going to stop looking at what’s wrong with Leo and start seeing what’s right? Please tell me you did not lug all this emotional baggage with you to Omaha?” Marisol demands. “’Cause that kind of load needs a mule to carry it.”
“Not all of it. Some of it I picked up as a souvenir after four days in Nebraska,” I answer, rubbing my palms against my forehead, warding off a headache.
“Well, we’re not going to solve centuries of interracial procreating in your driveway tonight, so I’m kicking you to the curb. Work tomorrow for both of us.”
Marisol’s right, we both need to be getting to bed, so I feel around on the floor of the car for my purse and open the door. Marisol grabs my arm. I knew her last words were coming. “I’m not going to say there aren’t some complications here, Nina, there are. But come on, you’re way overthinking this thing. I’m here to tell you that you and Leo are not that unusual. You two had the hots for each other, you made each other laugh, you started dating, you knocked boots, and now you have a kid on the way. This ain’t nothing special in the grand evolution of humankind. Spoiler alert, it’s been going on for centuries.”
“Then if what Leo and I have is nothing special, maybe we aren’t meant to be together.”
“You’re nothing special to the rest of the world, but you two are special to each other, and that’s what counts above all else. Besides, how many women can tolerate kissing a man who eats as much cilantro as Leo does. Gross.” Marisol scrunches her face up tight. “Trust, he’s meant to be yours.”
TWENTY
NINA!!” I hear Roan roar, charging toward my office. I fumble for my phone to text Marisol for reinforcements but remember she’s on a seventh grade field trip to the Getty Museum. Said she didn’t trust her son, Diego, to keep his hands off the art. Apparently, he’s behind the rule “you break, you buy.” I bet Roan’s rushing to tell me he and Tate broke it off over the extended Martin Luther King Jr. weekend. Not timing I would have suspected as January can be a long and lonely month, but love is fickle. I move my box of tissues to the edge of my desk.
Weird. Roan’s translucent Irish skin’s aflame, and he looks more angry than sad when he blows through my office door.
“Congrats on crossing the application finish line,” I offer, allowing Roan a moment to compose himself and decide if humility or hysteria will be his tactic when recounting his three-day weekend breakup. Friday at 4:59 p.m. was the last possible moment a parent could slip a Royal-Hawkins application in for fall. At 5:00 p.m. sharp, the WeeScholars submissions link went dark, and every director of admissions at private schools across California released a collective sigh of relief. I have to give Tate credit for holding off on breaking up with Roan until after he cleared his professional Mount Rushmore.
“Six years, Nina,” he begins with a flat tone. Familiar with Roan’s extraness when it comes to relationship stats, I stop myself from pointing out that I’m not sure he had even dated Tate for six months before they became engaged, let alone six years. If Marisol were here, she would jump right to, What the hell happened? I’m more of a dance-around-the-perimeter-of-a-personal-problem kind of woman.
“I was promised, when I took this job, that you would LET ME DO MY JOB.”
I open my mouth to engage in the conversation, but Roan shuts me right back down.
“What happened to your claim at the first faculty and staff meeting that you ‘believe in transparent leadership, empowering your people’？ Or my personal favorite, ‘I trust you as director of admissions, Roan.’” Roan is spinning around my furniture, not sure where to land his amped energy. Time for me to step in and cool this diatribe down.
“So, this outburst you’ve brought to me before I even get a chance to eat my second breakfast has nothing to do with Tate?”
“NO! Wait, why do you ask, have you talked to Tate? Is something wrong?”
“No, no I haven’t talked to Tate. We’re not phone friends.” I cautiously walk over to Roan like I’m approaching a rabid Maltipoo and put a hand on his back to steer him to my wingback chairs. Steps away from plopping him down Roan pivots left to my desktop, and I almost topple over.
“Good. We had a nasty fight over going to Acapulco for our honeymoon. I told him that’s an Acanono.” Okay, that’s progress. A middling joke tells me Roan is slowing his synapses.
“Then what are you talking about, Roan? I promise you I haven’t turned into a tyrant since I left you on Friday. Last we spoke you were waiting to finalize our application numbers. The only thing I’ve done is get a full set of gel nails and send Leo out for bagels Sunday morning.” I wave ten fingers in a perfect shade of firehouse red.
“Friday at lunch when you gave me the names of the two families you want to make sure we give extra consideration to this admissions season . . .” I try to jump in because I know where Roan’s going with this, but he shuts me down with a finger inches from my lips and shakes his head no. “And when you promised me there would be no more than two on your list this year, were you telling me the truth? The absolute truth, swear on that little one’s life?” Roan points to my belly.
“First of all, I’m not swearing one thing on this baby’s life that doesn’t save mine. Second, you know I think you’ve been crushing it running admissions. The way you assist parents in parting with their young students the first week of school is already legendary in the lower grades. Passing out waterproof mascara to the kindergarten moms on day one was brilliant.”