Roommate Wanted (Sharing Space #1) (6 page)

"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."

"Now, saying shit like that, that may make you a
little
white."

After thanking her for the advice we promised to get together soon and said goodbye. I tapped the screen of my phone to disconnect the call. Reading from a notepad on the coffee table, I called Patrick.

Chapter Five

Putting Your Best Foot
Forward
In Your Mouth

Patrick

You're a woman. 

You don't look Irish. 

Well, I suppose I could let you look at the apartment although I really don't want you living here.

With a start like that, I briefly wondered why I accepted when Chloe called to offer me the apartment—but only very briefly. My agent had stressed several times that moving into Manhattan would benefit my career. She said I needed to be "closer to the action.” She'd call me at home for last minute auditions and, due to time and distance, I'd miss out. I took my acting career seriously and if spending a small fortune in rent each month would increase my chances of working, so be it. It didn’t hurt that splitting the rent on Chloe's apartment meant spending substantially less than I’d budgeted. Also the location was perfect, and the building was on a safe block. Well, as safe as you can get in New York City.

I'd gotten a little too comfortable living on Long Island. I grew up in Roman Glen, a small town where everyone was your neighbor. Even if they lived ten blocks away they were your neighbors, and everyone knew the Murphy family. There were so many of us that you could ask anyone walking down the street and they'd tell you their kids had gone to school with at least one of the Murphy children. Our family was a tight-knit one. We still lived in a world where blessings were said before a meal, all meals were held in the dining room, Sunday dinner was mandatory, family meant everything, and Dad was a hero. Well, in our case, Dad really was a hero. My father, Sean Murphy, was a retired firefighter.

My older brothers, Thomas and Kellam, followed in his footsteps, much to my mother's disappointment.  She would have preferred they'd chosen safer professions like my sisters, Margaret and Catherine, a lawyer and pediatrician respectively.  Liam and I were the rebels.  Though we’d both gone to college—I studied occupational therapy and Liam accounting—we were pursuing other avenues.  Whereas I was at least utilizing my degree working at the fitness center while acting, Liam currently worked odd jobs while chasing his dream of becoming an artist.  The only thing that kept my parents from losing their minds completely was the fact that they'd seen his work and recognized his talents. 

I was closest to my little sister Charlotte, and she provided more motivation for the move. Charlotte attended NYU and studied English. Lately, little Char had been spending lots of time with a young man named Orbit. I wish I was kidding, but that's his name. Orbit was a hippie wannabe also attending NYU, but living off campus in a nearby Village loft. The way Charlotte told it, they met in a Comedic Writing class, were paired for a project, and have been inseparable soul mates ever since. To hear Orbit tell it, they were kindred spirits that had lived many lives together, and fate had once again matched them. 

My family wasn’t too pleased with the cosmic salad that had become my sister's life. Over her last winter break, Charlotte had invited a really nice guy named Jason to dinner.  We all loved him. He was polite, good-looking, smart—a pre-law major—and his name wasn't a verb. Poor Jason didn't last long. Charlotte went back for spring semester and we heard less and less from her: no more weekend trips home with tons of laundry and no more daily phone calls to Ma. She was, instead, attending poetry readings and animal rights rallies with her new friend Orbit.  This past summer we'd seen even less of her. She spent most of her time at his apartment and working as a teacher's aide for a summer school program in the city.

My parents were unsure of how to proceed. Her grades weren't suffering, but there were differences. We noticed changes in her clothing and speech, but just the lack of time she spent at home was enough. Like I said, we were tight. You miss two Sunday dinners in a row and my mother will be at St. Joseph's lighting a candle for you because surely you are ill, pregnant, failing school or, better yet, you've gotten someone pregnant. Theresa Murphy was sure her youngest was a shaved head away from joining a cult. 

At first my mother didn't like that I was moving further away. It was hard enough on her when I moved in with my best friends, Max and Paul, just ten minutes away from the house I grew up in. The city was a different story. There were rapists, murderers, and thieves in the city. I tried telling my mother there were rapists, murderers, and thieves on Long Island too, but I don't think she cared. She was somehow convinced that they were not as bad as the criminals in Manhattan. In fact, nothing was worse than living in Manhattan, except maybe living with a woman out of wedlock. Ma didn't like that too much either, but all that was a small price to pay to be able to look in on and live closer to Charlotte.  She was willing to forgive me that sin if it meant I could keep Charlotte away from the man we'd started to refer to as "The Cosmic Freak.” So, not only was it practical and affordable for me to room with Chloe, it was my family's last-ditch attempt to get Charlotte back.

From a totally different perspective, it certainly didn't hurt that Chloe was a knockout. 

When she answered the door that first day, phone balanced on her shoulder, pad and pen in her hands, I was surprised.  She looked stressed and frustrated, but she also looked cool. It was scorching hot out and it had been a two-block walk from the subway station to the apartment.  I could feel my shirt sticking to me and worried that I'd make a horrible first impression. Chloe managed to pull off confident and in control even in her rushed state. She had on those pants that ended just below the knees, the ones all women seemed to be wearing this past spring and summer, but not all women wore them as well as Chloe.