Sharing Space (The Complete Series) (6 page)

"Chloe, is something wrong?"

"Yes and no.  I'll call you later in the week and we'll talk, okay? Don’t worry."

Amazingly, she didn't press. "Fine. I'm running late anyway. I'm speaking at a Women's Auxiliary tea this afternoon."

We said our goodbyes and I called Myra to see if she wanted to go out for lunch.  I felt the need to get out of the office and I had yet to tell her about the day before. We decided on Lindy's Deli a few blocks from the office building. As usual, it was crowded with executive types frantically trying to catch a bite before heading back to the world of meetings and conference calls. We had just gotten our trays when two white women vacated a table by the window.  We hustled to grab it before someone else could.

"Whew. You see how they are, right?  They were trying to hold this table for those white girls behind us even though we were ready first. Shady."

Myra was my closest friend and we'd known each other since high school, but she had parts to her that rubbed me the wrong way.  Sometimes she'd go into what I liked to call Sister-Gurl Mode. Everything was "the white man this" and "the white man that.” I could see her point sometimes. We were both shocked by some of the attitudes expressed openly during the presidential election, but not every problem in my life was at the hands of "The White Man.” Myra seemed to disagree.

No matter what was going wrong in her life, she managed to work race into it. If she didn’t get the repair appointment she wanted from the cable company, it must be because she’s black. If a vacation request at work was denied, gotta be The Man! Menstrual cramps? Well, you know how those white folks do. Okay, so that last one was an exaggeration, but you see my point. It was tiring to be around.

"Anyway, girl, tell me what happened yesterday,” she said. 

I told Myra all about the shower fiasco and my colorful interviews. She nearly spit out her turkey sandwich when I got to the part about Patrick. 

"A white dude?” She laughed. "I would have given my favorite Coach bag to see your face."

Her laughing was contagious. "Girl, and to top it all off, I was on the phone with Lawrence at the time."

"I know you didn't call him."

I gave her a look like she'd lost her mind. "Please. He called saying he wanted to explain things.  I told him there was nothing to explain, my eyes are not faulty, and it was exactly what it looked like."

"Good for you."

"So I hung up on him, he calls back, blowing up my phone. There was a message from him on my office phone when I got in this morning. He‘s tripping cause a guy came to see the apartment.  He thinks I was letting a man move in to make him jealous. Can you believe his ego?"

"Yes, I can, because he's a man. Still thinking he has the right to an opinion on what happens in your life. And when you tell him Patrick isn't moving in, he'll swear he had something to do with it."

I was suddenly very interested in my ham sandwich on rye. Myra noticed since I'd barely touched it since sitting down.
Damn, she knew me too well.

"Chloe. You are not considering letting that white man move in with you, are you? Chloe, look at me."

"Myra, listen. I know I told you about them, but you had to see those women to believe it.  There's no way I could live with any of them."

"So, that means you have to let him move in?  And Lakeera didn't sound
that
bad."

Again I shot her the "You Must Be Crazy" look.

"What? Are you forgetting where you came from? We grew up in the same neighborhoods that girl lives in; now you're too good to live with somebody like her?"

Here we go. I had no desire to cuss out my best friend in front of a bunch of strangers. I took a deep breath. "First of all, Myra, I'm not saying that I'm better than anyone. LaKeera seemed to have the same immature mindset as most of the girls we grew up with; the way she carried herself, the way she talked... I could just tell we wouldn't get along. Second of all, I've never forgotten where I came from. I just don't hang on to it and wear it like a badge. Just because I'm from the hood doesn't make me
of
the hood."

"You are so bourgie."

No. She. Didn't.

"What did you say?"

"You know, bourgie, short for
bourgeois
.” Myra said.

"I know what it means. I just can't believe you called me that. How am I bourgie? Because I don't wanna let some stripper move in with me, I'm bourgie?"

"That girl is doing what she has to do to make ends meet.  You have no right to judge her."

"Like you're judging me, Myra?"

"Whatever."

"Are you done?” I gestured toward our half-eaten lunches.

"I am now."

We didn't say a word the whole three-block walk back to the office. I hated fighting with Myra, but I refused to be the one to break the silence. I was hot. How dare she call me bourgie when she was the one who always had to have the Coach handbags, Louboutin shoes, and Armani gear?  Talk about a sister living beyond her means, and all to prove to the white people at the office she wasn't poor, or uneducated, or whatever it was she was trying to prove. I was so pissed at her butt that I giggled loudly—louder than I normally would have, anyway—when one of her heels got caught in a sidewalk crack outside our office building.

Served her stink ass right.

Being the only two in the elevator, I guess Myra decided it was safe to get in the last word right when the doors opened on the thirtieth floor.

“If you let that white boy move in with you, you a fool.”

***

For the next two days I avoided Myra like my hair was freshly relaxed and she was the rain.  Our fights didn't normally last long, but I knew this time I wasn't about to be the one making the first move. She was wrong, period. That "I’m blacker than you are" attitude was wearing on my nerves.  She always felt the need to prove her blackness and never missed an opportunity to tell me I was losing mine.  In college, Myra decided to stop processing her hair, go natural, and cut it short. The style looked good on her. For years she has been getting on me about my hair, which I get relaxed regularly. Once I let my hairdresser experiment with blonde highlights and Myra hit the roof.

"Who are you? Beyoncé? Next you'll be wearing blue contact lenses,” she'd said.

Over and over I had explained to her that I had no desire to be white and that my hair preference had more to do with styling flexibility than a racial identity crisis. Heaven forbid I have a civil conversation with a white person at work or, even worse, have one with a smile on my face; Myra would label me a race traitor on the spot. To most people at work I'm sure I came off more approachable. Myra, on the other hand, had a "back da hell up, whitey" air about her. She seemed to relish portraying the angry black woman, but I had no idea why she was always so damn mad.

***

With Lila in Chicago there wasn't much for me to do on Tuesday. I took advantage of it by leaving work early, picking up a pint of Ben & Jerry's "Everything But the..." ice cream, and plopping down on the couch when I got home. I checked voicemail. In the time it took me to watch an episode of
Scandal
, Lawrence called three times. All calls were ignored and went right to voicemail. Unfortunately, there were no calls about the apartment. 

The show made me realize I hadn’t spoken to my cousin Crystal in more than a week. We usually dished about the steamy sex scenes and Kerry Washington’s wardrobe. Crystal was the daughter of Uncle Troy, my mother’s only sibling. He ran
Home Sweet Home,
a soul food restaurant in Harlem. Since we were both only children, Crystal and I bonded and became like sisters. Some of my fondest childhood memories involved the two of us hanging out in her dad's restaurant, sampling the food before the customers, playing "restaurant" and fighting over who got to be the chef while the other was stuck with being the lowly waitress. 

We were the same age, but our lives were very different. Crystal had gotten pregnant when she was just seventeen. Seven months into her pregnancy the baby's father, Jermaine, disappeared. People in the neighborhood had passed on gossip they'd picked up over the years. Some heard he'd moved to Jamaica, while others heard that he lived in Brooklyn and had married a Puerto Rican girl with four kids of her own. Crystal wasn't sure what to believe and Jermaine's family was no help; they were as trifling as he was. The whole situation left Crystal bitter, but very much in love with her daughter, Brianna. I picked up my cell and dialed her number from memory.

"Girl, about damn time!” Crystal said by way of a greeting.

Just hearing her voice made me realize how much I’d missed talking to her. I instantly relaxed. Crystal only had to ask me what was going on once before I unloaded.

“Chloe, you know I think Myra is cool, but girlfriend has issues. Don't let hers become yours.  Having a nappy head don't make you black. Walking around being mean to white folks don't make you black either.  I've told you before, that girl is jealous of you."

"Oh, shut up. She is not."

"Hmm. Okay. I'll let that one go… for now."

I smiled. "How's Ms. Brianna?"

"Grown: eight going on eighteen. Had the nerve to tell me she has a boyfriend in school.   I told her she better not fix her lips to tell me such things before she's thirty."

"You are too much."

"I'm serious. She better be into them books and leave those boys alone. See what happened with Lawrence’s ass. You sure you don't want me to get some of my boys to pay him a visit?"

"Tempting, but no." I tried to laugh it off. Although she wasn't serious, Crystal did have trust issues when it came to men. Who could blame her?

“So what else is new?” I asked.

“Not much. Well, if you want to count my stalker as news.”

“Your what?”

Crystal told me about a series of calls she’d been getting for the past two weeks. They all came from an unknown number and the person would hang up a few seconds after she answered.

“What the hell is up with that?”

“Girl, I don’t know. I’m calling Verizon tomorrow to see what I can do about it.”

“Uh. You can change your number. That’s creepy.”

Crystal sucked her teeth and I knew her well enough to know she’d also rolled her eyes. “Why should I? I’ve had this number for years. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

"You’re as stubborn as ever. Just be careful. Are you working tonight?”

"Yes. Unfortunately. I'm so tired." Crystal managed the restaurant for Uncle Troy. He was getting up in age, but he still managed to be a feisty dude. "Pops is going to a Yankees game tonight so I'm running the show.  Miss Etta is coming over to watch Brianna."

"When are you going to let her stay with me again? I haven't seen my girl in forever."

"Well, I don't know now." She sucked her teeth. "Seeing as how you gonna be living with that white boy."

Just the way she said it had us both rolling with laughter. 

"Seriously, Crystal.  What should I do?"

"You are stressing over this
way
too much.  If the man can pay the rent, move his ass in.  Yesterday. I wouldn't call any of those loony broads you told me about, and it doesn't sound like people are knocking down your door. You sure shouldn't worry about Myra. Having a white roommate doesn't make you a sellout and it damn sure don't make you white."

"You rock."