Forty years after my tantrum on the kindergarten rug, my love for schools endures. At this moment, however, given my crushed heart and fluish symptoms, my social and emotional bandwidths are limited to people under eighteen years old. Parents like Courtney Dunn grate on my nerves. I need a minute to talk to Marisol, so I don’t end up calling Courtney back and leaving a voice mail with something like . . .
Courtney, just because you made tasty nachos at last year’s Cuisine of Many Cultures night does not make you any more Latina than my killer Moscow mules make me Russian.
God, I’d love to do it, but what if she actually picks up?
I check my phone to see if Marisol’s responded yet. Apparently, my text isn’t interesting enough for her to bother lifting a thumb. Waiting for Marisol to hit me back, I start and delete several texts to Leo to find out if I infected him for his first day of work. I give it a second thought because other than texting landed, Leo hasn’t reached out, and complaining about being sick is so not hot. I’m already missing our easy banter, but I don’t have it in me to be clever about feeling crappy, so instead I put out a second siren call to Marisol.
Nina 4:48 PM
Just like Tag Team, Whoomp There It Is! Told you!! Courtney named me the FIRST BLACK. I knew it was only a matter of time before she emailed. Call me, ASAP. No wait . . . read email from Courtney first then holla so we can rip it . . . I mean her apart.
Being sick gives me a nasty attitude.
Any opportunity for a poetic performance or a musical reference and I’ll take it. My dad, a novice patois poet, instilled in me a love of colorful wordplay that I enjoy weaving into my daily life. I forward Courtney’s predictable email to Marisol and rest my head back on my desk. Mimi has gone home for the day, so if this is truly my end, it’s unclear who will find me before morning and who’ll be the unlucky one to share the bad news with Xandra at Pemberley.
My cell phone buzzes across my desk. Goody, a lifeline.
“You knew it was a matter of time, right? Everyone’s probably saying it behind your back, but leave it to Courtney, the matron of the hashtag-speak-your-truth movement, to say it to your face. And are you sure you’re sick, not just feeling sorry for yourself over Leo? Or nervous for tonight? Maybe looking for an out after you signed away your life on the head of school contract. Why you want that job remains a mystery to me.” On top of my malaise, Marisol’s line of questioning is feeding my first-year insecurities.
“I’ve told you why a million times,” I whine into the phone.
“I know, I know. So those rich kids can see some leaders of color blah, blah, blah. By the way, I think half of Paco’s eighth grade class is going to flunk out of school and head straight for the thug life. And I’m talking about the White kids.” Marisol knows why I work in private schools. A question, given the color of my skin, I’m asked about a hundred times a year. I’m pretty sure Allister Nevins was never asked that question.
“I’m not nervous, I think I’ve got an early season case of the crud,” I low moan on top of my whine.
“Uh-oh. Sorry, Sweets. You tell that to Leo yet?”
I don’t want to admit to Marisol I haven’t talked to him and he’s already been in Singapore twenty-two hours. “No. I figure if he’s feeling crappy, maybe he’ll blame jet lag instead of me. Starting off a long-distance relationship being judged for spreading germs is not cute. That’s why I’m on the phone moaning to you instead.”
“Legit rationale for not telling the truth. Take three Advil with a Red Bull chaser and pretend it’s a hangover. You need to rise to the occasion tonight, Headmistress Clarke.” Now that’s some quality advice I can use. Marisol’s always been one of the smartest Royal-Hawkins moms as well as my personal favorite. I know where Roan Dawson, my director of admissions, hides the energy drinks he slams before school tours, and I’m pretty sure Mimi has stocked my ibuprofen stash.
“I don’t know what I’m more bothered by, Courtney congratulating me for being the first Black head of school, her throwing down her questionable Latina roots, or chasing clout to be on the Royal-Hawkins board. Can you even be a sixth anything? As a science teacher, I don’t believe the genetics or the math pans out on that one.”
“Sounds like an ancestory.com question,” Marisol says with little interest. I can hear her filing her fingers, keeping her stiletto nails on point.
“Or a question for the puberty lady. Her first trip to the sixth-grade suite to talk tampons and testosterone with the kids is next week.” Lucille Paulson is our high school music teacher with a penchant for animal print scarves and grapefruit-scented body spray who moonlights as the Royal-Hawkins sexpert. Over the years, Marisol and I have speculated about Luscious Lucy’s sex life, since Marisol’s sons and Xandra have both gone through her sex ed class.
“Did you notice how Courtney signed off on her email? Jai? What does that even mean? Speak English, Courtney. I’m not bilingual, despite Pablo’s best efforts.”
“I’m sure as shit jai isn’t Spanish. I don’t even think it’s Spanglish. And you haven’t let poor Pablo off the hook tutoring you yet? That man’s a saint for working with you and that accent. You sound like Chula Vista Barbie when you speak Spanish.” Marisol’s on the other end clucking at me through her teeth. “My offer still stands to be your teacher if you want to give Pablo a break.”
“No, thanks. Last time you gave me a Spanish lesson, you only focused on the naughty words,” I lob back. “And by the way, we were discussing Courtney, not my abysmal accent.”
“Hold on, googling now . . . HA!” Marisol snorts. “Jai means victory in Hindi. If that isn’t some subtle mind fuck, I don’t know what is. That woman is angling HARD for a board seat. Are you sure you don’t know why? Do you think she was with Winn Hawkins back in the day? Maybe she has some unresolved feelings she wants to work out between passing next year’s budget and running a capital campaign.” Marisol’s lost in writing Courtney and Winn’s imagined love tryst. “You know, the one that got away, her one true love, or just some straight-up stalker woman scorned sort of thing. Girl, you know private schools are like Japan. Proper on the outside, deviant behind closed doors.” After Marisol’s ten-day trip to Japan this summer with her younger, unmarried sister-in-law, she learned more about the sex fetish phenomena of Tokyo than about samurai warriors, tea ceremonies, and pagodas combined. Now she’s convinced kinky lurks behind every ramen joint in California.
The image of Courtney and Winn knocking boots is more than I can handle on an already queasy stomach, so I bypass Marisol’s speculation altogether. “I swear I feel like I’m having a bonding moment with President Obama right now. Is it a good or bad thing being called the first Black president of the United States? Or the first Black head of school? Or the first Black anything?! I don’t know. Yeah, it’s the truth, but does it matter? Do I care? Or do I only care because Courtney’s the one always saying out loud what most people are thinking?” I need to remember to read up on how Obama responded to folks when he was referred to as the first Black president versus plain ol’ president. Or how FLOTUS dealt, since we all know who wears the pants in that family.