“I don’t try hard enough?” I put my hand up. “What can I talk about when bonding time equals talking about lavish vacations, brand-new cars for birthday gifts, all things Starbucks? And music? Have we ever tried to listen to a Black radio station? Don’t even get me started on television references to reruns of Friends and Gossip Girl.”
What I don’t say is it’s the talk about the weekends that shuts me out. Mine are filled with prison visits, church, and me babysitting Corinne while Mama and Jamal work.
Angela’s face softens, but she says, “And that has what to do with Jamal’s interview?”
“I work just as hard as everyone does.”
“I never said you don’t work hard,” Angela says. “I said adjust your approach.”
“That’s why I came to talk to you.” I’m tired of explaining to her, so I switch subjects. “I want to be editor next year so I can change things. Make it more inclusive. There’s nobody of color who works on the paper except me and Rosa. That’s a problem.”
“What can I do about you getting the editor role?”
“I’ve worked hard for this. It hasn’t been easy. I’m trying to make the paper something that matters, make an impact. Be real journalists. If Natalie gets the position as editor, we’ll go backward, and I’ll lose ‘Tracy’s Corner.’ Stuck writing about graffiti behind the school or cafeteria exposés. I want to write about real stuff.”
I play up the fact that Angela takes her work seriously. She has always pushed Mr. Kaine to have our stories be meaningful. When “Tracy’s Corner” was up for debate, I wanted to solidify it as a social justice corner, and Angela gave me a vote. Even said my articles about my dad’s case were important. That she learned about her rights with police through my write-ups.
Angela sits down, runs her hands through her blond curls, then ties them up and puts on her glasses. She never wears them outside the newsroom.
“I’m not going to block you, Tracy. But Natalie has some truth to what she’s saying. You aren’t a team player.”
“That’s not—”
“I get why you don’t fit in. Everyone’s got their own interests. But you don’t even give people a chance to try it their own way, because you can’t trust them. If you want to be editor, you have to work with everybody—even if you don’t like them.”
“They don’t like me.”
“Not everyone likes me.”
I scowl. Everybody on the paper likes Angela. Hell, she was homecoming queen.
“What about Jamal?” she says. “He told me he didn’t want to talk about his dad. That your mom wouldn’t allow it. You did it anyway.”
“Because I’ve tried everything else to help my dad. What do I have left to lose? I thought I could get Jamal to talk about it, but he wouldn’t.” I don’t know why I’m telling her all this. Maybe because Jamal won’t talk to me. Maybe because Angela knows how to woo people with her reporter skills to get answers. She set me up for that one.
“Do you really have evidence for your dad? Jamal said it’s bullshit.”
“They never found the murder weapon, and there were no witnesses. There should have been reasonable doubt, but the all-white jury felt otherwise.”
“Do you know much about the missing gun?”
“No.” I pause at the way she asked the question. Like she’s setting me up to give her more information than I planned. I shake off overthinking things. “But I know my dad is innocent. I’m a team player, I swear, and I’ve worked hard to be in the running for editor. But my dad’s in the last year of his life—I was desperate.”
Angela pauses. Her shoulders settle and she lowers her voice. “You think you’re a team player?”
“I am.” I put my hands down in front of me. “I earned the right to be editor. Giving it to anyone else would be wrong, and you know it.”
“Prove it. Prove you can work with me on something, and you won’t go off on your own. You think you can do it, without telling anyone?”
“Of course. I’m loyal.” I know if I work well with Angela, she’ll put in a good word with Mr. Kaine, then secure more votes.
“All right. I’ve got an exposé that’s good for ‘Tracy’s Corner.’ ” Angela sticks her hand out. “Meet me here tomorrow at eight a.m.”
I agree. Then turn to see if I can catch the last half of my first-period class. Angela calls out when I reach the door.
“Don’t tell Jamal we talked.”
I nod, even though her request seems strange. Angela’s always been a straight shooter, so why do I get the sense she might need me as much as I need her?
FLESH AND BLOOD
After school, I walk alone to Herron Media, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass. Still, I can’t help but notice an older white lady pull her purse closer as I walk by her on the sidewalk. Her action sends my mind spiraling on high alert to the people around me. Every time there’s a whisper in the ear, a stare in my direction, a flinch from someone passing me. A million subtleties that let me know my place. Branded as an outsider more than seven years ago, like each member of my family. We don’t belong. The Davidsons’ office was in this same business complex, and although Mama and Jamal kept ties, I’ve never felt we were accepted back in the community. Each visit is a reminder that life changed for us.
I snake through the crowd of passersby, turning my head, hoping their focus will be on my big black natural curls that take up their own space, rather than on my face. I used to love having Daddy’s uncharacteristically slender nose, full lips, bright white teeth, and wide smile that used to draw people in, always catching attention. But now when people see me, they perceive something different. Something appalling. Layered with their unforgiving small-town judgment about the family of someone on death row.
If Daddy were here, he’d say, Chin up. Nothing to be ashamed of. His words fill my head like music as I enter the administrative building for Herron Media and wave to Valerie at the reception desk before heading to the staircase.
I make my way upstairs to the third door on the right, the production room. It’s always mesmerizing stepping into the audio room where the commercials and voice-overs are made. The buttons and displays blink like flashing lights in the sky. When the door swings open, my mouth drops.
Jamal freezes, stopping his rubbing all up on Angela, who’s sitting on top of the audio table. Her blond waves are all mussed up, the audio control’s surface out of place, tucked to the side. Although Mr. Herron’s cool for white folk in Texas, he ain’t that cool.