“Your voice is tense,” she said.
“Is it?”
“Yeah. But, I mean, we don’t have to talk about her, I just wondered.”
I took a deep breath.
“Taylor …” I began. “Went another way.”
“What does that mean?”
“She … relates more to my mother’s side of the family, let’s just say.”
Lila’s mouth opened, like she was trying to think of a polite response.
“Oh,” was all she managed.
“This?” I said. “Out here? Taylor would never in a million years. Her mission in life is to be the least aggrieved Black woman in the United States.”
“Well,” Lila said. “If her mission is to not be aggrieved, she’s got her work cut out for her.”
I laughed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her.”
We didn’t say anything more for a little while, but the crowds were getting thicker as we got closer to the parkway. There was an almost carnival atmosphere among some of the groups milling around. You could almost pick out the real protesters and distinguish them from the people who were out there for the thrill. Their expressions were different. I wondered whether I would run into Lamar.
And because Lila’s question made me think about her, I wondered whether back home, Taylor was sitting stiff-backed on the sofa with my parents, watching things unfold, desperate to take from it all a different meaning than the obvious.
Because we were so close in age and had similar coloring, people used to think Taylor and me were fraternal twins. And because we were pretty tight, we liked it when they did.
Nooo! we would intone. We’re not twins.
He’s my big brother, Taylor would say leaning into me.
In high school things changed. Taylor got adopted into a group of shallow, catty girls who gave her compliments that I thought were pretty loaded, but she basked in. They told her she was lucky because of how thick her hair was, and because she had the perfect skin for suntanning, weird crap like that which made her sound like an exotic toy, or their mascot. They were so earnestly, cloyingly white with their Lululemon yoga pants and uptalk that I couldn’t see what the appeal of being part of their clique might be. For the longest time, it felt like they were letting her hang out with them, rather than that they wanted to hang out with her.
But Taylor didn’t seem to notice. These were the popular girls, the ones everyone wanted to befriend. And worst of all, they stayed throwing shade at all the darker-skinned Black girls in school, except for one named Bailey, who looked like Barbie dipped in milk chocolate.
Around that time was when Taylor started saying things like, Not everything’s racist, Kai! whenever one of her friends did or said something racially suspect. Soon, I stopped pointing things out, not because I didn’t think she should see them for what they were, but because I knew she did see them for what they were, she just didn’t know where to put, or how to sort those emotions.
We hadn’t even talked about the video. I knew she had to have seen it like almost everyone else in the country. But I couldn’t even imagine what words I might say to her about it. And to be real? I was afraid of what she might say to me.
“I have kind of a weird relationship with my mother as well,” Lila said.
No kidding. All the time we talked, she had only mentioned her mother once, but her father was like the hero of every story. Even the way dude fried and ate an egg had become worthy of emulation, meanwhile her mother was a footnote.
“Why?” I asked.
“We don’t fight or anything, we just see the world differently. Like, for example, she doesn’t like Tianna at all.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“I invited her over once for Sunday dinner and Tianna was off on one of her rants about the Democratic primaries and my mother thought that was ‘inappropriate’ of her to be talking about to people she had never met before. Later she told me she thought Tee was a little … coarse and said I should choose my friends wisely at this stage of my life.”
“Damn,” I said.
“Right? I thought that was way harsh first of all about not wanting her to talk about politics. Like … what did she expect from an educated, well-informed Black woman?”
“Nah, yeah. I see what you mean.”
A picture was forming, of Lila’s life. Even her name made more sense now. Lila. It wasn’t just unique. There were definite shades of the Talented Tenth in that name.
“I should text her, just to see.”
“Who? Your mom?”
“No, Tianna. She’s probably out here somewhere.”
“Yeah, you should check,” I said.
It wasn’t that I wanted to introduce someone else into the mix, because it was hard enough trying to get to know her under these circumstances when it was just the two of us. More than anything, I was curious to meet this bone of contention between Lila and her mother, this second-place winner, usurped only by Lila’s father in her esteem.
The closer we got to the east entrance of the Museum of Art and those famous steps, around us, we saw more and more mini-encampments, groups sitting in circles, beating drums, smoking weed, straightening out the creased corners of droopy signs and placards. Just before dark, there were supposed to be speakers, folks to keep our energy up before we all scattered to our homes to rest up to fight the good fight once again tomorrow.
“You mind if we …?” Lila indicated a tree nearby and we went to stand under it while she fished out her phone and tried to locate her friend.
While she was doing that, I sent Lamar a quick text, asking if he was alright, and stared at the screen for a few minutes to see whether he might respond right away. He didn’t so I double-checked to see whether my phone was on vibrate and shoved it back into
