Before Imani and I leave we have to go through our goodbye routine with Aunt Ebony and Uncle Randy: Where are you going? Who else is going to be there? When will you be back?
We leave and on our way to the library, I tell Imani, “We should have invited Sadie.”
“Oh, she’ll be there. She’s a member of Inspire Harlem now.”
“She is?” I ask.
“Yeah, I finally convinced her to join.”
Sadie is in Inspire Harlem now. Why didn’t I know this?
Because we are running late, Imani is speed walking, which is hard to do in pouring-down rain. The puddles are splashing, and I am drenched. We don’t say much to each other on the way to the library. Mostly because we are walking fast and are out of breath, but also because I can’t stop thinking about Sadie joining Inspire Harlem. Sadie usually agrees with me about Imani and her woke friends. The two of us tease Imani all the time, calling her Angela Davis Jr., and when we really want to get under her skin, we respond with “Yes, ma’am” when she’s being bossy or nagging us about throwing something in the trash that should be recycled.
Maybe it’s petty to be thinking like this, but I really don’t want to go to this talent show tonight. Normally when I go to an Inspire Harlem event, Sadie and I sit together. We whisper our commentary to each other about everything that’s happening. We nudge each other whenever someone says a corny Save-the-World mantra or cliché. We clear our throats as a signal that it’s time to leave. There’s always been a we—me and Sadie—at these events, with our own inside jokes. Me and Sadie telling Imani that the issues she cares about are serious but not that serious. Imani is my cousin-sister-friend, and Sadie is my best friend.
They are my we.
But now that Sadie has joined Inspire Harlem, who will I have?
2
5 REASONS I HATE THE RAIN
1.It makes my hair poof out into an Afro. And accidental Afros are not cute. At all.
2.It makes walking in New York a hazardous activity. Umbrellas bumping and clashing against shoulders and heads as we all squeeze past one another. (Why do people keep their umbrellas up even when walking under scaffolding?)
3.It makes the trash on the street smell even worse, and is there anything worse than the smell of wet garbage?
4.It settles into deep puddles at corners, and cars speed by, splashing me like I’m on a water park ride. Except I’m not. There is nothing refreshing or fun about this water.
5.It paints the sky gray, and gray skies remind me of the day I left Mom’s house—a storm of another kind. The sky was gray that day, and the rain was angry and it soaked my clothes, my bags, my shoes, and by the time I walked to Imani’s house my face was wet from rain and snot and tears.
The talent show is held at the library on Lenox and 136th Street. Even though it’s just a short walk from our brownstone, by the time we get there we look like we’ve been playing in a dunk tank. But most people here are soaked too, so it kind of doesn’t matter. We put our umbrellas in a bucket at the door and go into the community room. There’s music playing and the lights are dim. The one thing I can say about Inspire Harlem events is that they always have good music and good food. They also know how to transform a regular room into a space that makes you want to hang out, stay awhile. Normally this room is kind of bland, but tonight there’s special lighting that sets a mood like we’re at a real show at some nice theater downtown.
As soon as we step inside, people start crowding around Imani, hugging her and wishing her a happy birthday. Sadie hugs her first, then comes over to me and before I can even say hello, she is apologizing and looking at me with guilt in her eyes. “Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
“Traitor,” I say.
“I know. I know. But my mom told me I had to do something this summer. So it was either this or work at our family’s candy store. And you know I’m not doing that.” Sadie moves her long braids from the right to left. “Come with me. I’m sitting over there.” Sadie points to the front row and starts walking.
The front row? We never sit that close up.
As soon as we sit down, Toya Perkins walks over. She struts in like a peacock. Head held high, showing off her undeniable beauty. Today, she is wearing a jean skirt with a black T-shirt that has the year 1619 in the center of her chest. A patterned wrap crowns her head. I’ve been to at least twenty Inspire Harlem events, but every time she sees me, she introduces herself like we’ve never met. She is carrying two clipboards in her hand, and when she gets in front of us, she hands one to Sadie and says, “You can’t sit down yet, we’re working the event. We need you to greet people and get them to sign up for the newsletter.”
Sadie takes the clipboard and looks it over. “Oh, uh, sorry, I didn’t know I needed to do this. I thought I was on the cleanup committee.”
“We’re all on the cleanup committee.” Toya reaches in her pocket and pulls out a pen. “Here, make sure you give it back.” Before walking away, she looks at me and says, “And hello, my name is LaToya. You look familiar.”
“We’ve met. I’m Nala.”
“Welcome, I hope you enjoy tonight’s show.” Toya shakes my hand and walks away.
Once Sadie is sure Toya is far enough away, she rolls her eyes. Then, she puts a fake smile on and holds the clipboard out to me. “Would you like to sign up?”
I play along. “For?”
Sadie puts on a telemarketing voice. “Our e-blast list. We send out a newsletter once a month. It’s just a way for you to keep up with all our events and an occasional call to action.”
“Oh, um, no—no thank you,” I say.
Sadie says, “Suit yourself. But don’t be mad when you realize you’ve missed the announcement on tips for fighting climate change. It’s a must read.” I know she’s just messing with me when she says this, and it feels good to know that even though now she is one of them, she is still a part of my we.
Just when Sadie is about to walk away, here comes Toya again, hovering and clearly eavesdropping. “Did you need something?” Sadie asks, because she is not the type of person to let people go unchecked.
“Oh, no, I was just taking everything in. I mean, isn’t it such a powerful thing to be here in this sacred space?”
I smile because what else am I supposed to do? I have no idea why Toya is calling this library sacred. Maybe she says this about all libraries. Maybe she loves books. Sadie doesn’t seem to get it either. We both just look at Toya, faces blank.
Toya must realize that we don’t have a clue about what she’s referring to. She lowers her voice. “You do know where you are, don’t you? This is the Countee Cullen Library.”
“Oh,” I say.
But not dramatic or heartfelt enough, because she goes on. “You know, Countee Cullen . . . the Harlem Renaissance poet . . . the teacher?”
I got nothing.
Sadie nods, but I think she is just nodding to make Toya stop talking.
“Before the library was built, A’Lelia Walker’s townhouse was here. You know, A’Lelia Walker—the daughter of Madam C. J. Walker? She opened her home as a gathering space for writers during the Harlem Renaissance, and now it’s this library.”