Unbeweaveable (2 page)

“Yeah, maybe. Let me let you get back to it.” We said our good-byes and I hung up.

* * *

Spirit Magazine is the only thing I'm good at.

I looked up from my journal and reached for the remote on my nightstand so I could turn the volume down on an old episode of
Seinfeld
blaring loudly in the background.

Jasmine didn't seem to think that being ambitious was a good thing. And why not? Nobody ever said anything to Donald Trump as he marched his way to the top, why shouldn't I? I've worked too hard all my life to not have the big payoff. I deserve this promotion.

I chewed on my pen.

I've given up a lot for
Spirit
. I can't remember the last time I had a man; college, maybe? I have a stomach ulcer the size of Texas that burns like fire even now.

I reached over to my nightstand, grabbed my bottle of Maalox and took a swig. I belched and then finished writing.

If I don't get it, I don't know what I'll do. Who am I without
Spirit
? What else do I have going on in my life besides this magazine? Norma is out there celebrating her third wedding anniversary and my biggest companion is—

I looked around my bedroom. A stack of books was on my nightstand, all needing to be reviewed for the magazine. My alarm clock, a lamp, and my trusty bottle of Maalox stared back at me.

My biggest companion is my bottle of Maalox. How sad is that?

I slammed my journal shut, and went into the bathroom to begin my nightly ritual of pin curling my weave.

“Baby, how are you doing tonight?”

My weave looked back at me. I shook my head and the strands flung in my face. “Yeah, you're doing fine, just need to get you ready for bed, okay?”

My hands grazed over my skin, and the childhood taunts of Tar Baby rang in my ears. I pushed the thoughts back and brushed my weave out, picked up a small section, and then rolled it between my fingers until it lay flat against my scalp. I secured it with a bobby pin and picked up another section. As my fingers kept rolling my long tendrils, my stomach eased and all was right with the world.

Spirit

It takes me about two hours to get ready for work. Getting up at five a.m. would be hard for most people, but not me. I needed all that time to transform myself—and a transformation it was.

It starts and ends with my weave. My hair—still pin curled from the night before—is protected from getting wet with a plastic shower cap. Before I leave the shower I douse myself in vanilla-scented body oil and then let my skin air dry. The oil turns my skin to the color of wet tar, and as it dries I brush my teeth and floss.

The oil gives my skin a radiant glow and I don't have to worry about turning ashy all day. My skin used to get so ashy it looked like I rolled around in chalk. I walk to my closet and get goose bumps as I look at my clothes, all organized by color, designer and season. The closet was one of the reasons that I'd rented the apartment in the first place, and even though it was bigger than my living room, it was well worth it. My hands caressed Christian Dior, fondled Balenciaga, and petted Chanel daily, and it was something I never took for granted. I pulled out a turquoise Michael Kors turtleneck, a black Gucci pencil skirt, and a black Narciso Rodriguez wool coat. It was January, and blistering cold outside, even for New York. I contemplated wearing my brand new suede Christian Louboutin boots, but with the weatherman forecasting thunderstorms I decided against it, and pulled out a pair of black leather high-heeled Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes from last season. After getting dressed and admiring myself in the mirror for several minutes, I expertly applied my makeup, then snatched the plastic cap off my weave, removed the bobby pins and finger-combed my long tendrils into place.

“Are you going to behave for me today?” I asked as I kept fingering my weave. It looked liked it was going to be a good hair day. I smiled.

Man, I look good.

I checked for lipstick stains on my teeth and then turned off the lights in the bathroom.

I grabbed my digital camera from inside one of my kitchen drawers and took a quick profile snapshot of my hair. I didn't have time to catalog it like I did most mornings, but I would get to that this evening.

Looking fabulous for another day of work, and in record time.

* * *

I live in Manhattan. Yes, my apartment is expensive (I pay a little over five hundred bucks per square foot, but who's counting?) but everything is in New York. Beverly—aka Mommie Dearest—had given me a nice chunk of change when I graduated NYU to help me get started, and I used a lot of it to keep up the lifestyle I worked hard to create.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd driven a car—probably ten years? Maybe longer. I walked to work most days, except when it rained or when it was so cold your snot froze on your upper lip, but that just gave me an excuse to wear my fabulous coats.

The wind blew my weave hard across my face and I tossed it back and shivered inside my coat.

My mind kept going back to Jasmine and what she'd said at her retirement party.

As snazzy as that sounds in the end, it's just a job.

Being a waitress—that was having a job. I had a
career
. I was going somewhere. No one at the magazine had made editor at my age. That was an accomplishment. Yet, she made it seem like in the end it hadn't been worth it. Jasmine might be regretting her decision, but I wouldn't. I didn't have any kids. No man. I shivered more in my coat as I crossed the busy street.

I looked up at the sky and couldn't believe how deceiving the bright sun made everything. I wouldn't regret putting my career first. This is what I was born to do, what I was trained to do. I had to succeed. I ignored the nagging in the back of my head that said,
But what if you don't?

I took a deep breath, the cold air constricting my lungs but clearing my head. I was fine.

Spirit
Magazine
was on the eighth floor of the Trump Tower. I started interning there while in college, and always thought that I would end up somewhere else until I saw her. Toni Morrison. I was invited to help at a photo shoot where she was to be on the cover and I couldn't believe how humble she was. She made me feel smart, like I could do anything. Books had always been my first real love; when Beverly punished me for doing something bad, she didn't realize that she was rewarding me by giving me more time for my precious books. So seeing her, and knowing that I could see other legends like her made me stay. Getting your book reviewed by
Spirit
Magazine
catapulted several black authors to bestsellerdom, and it was nice to know that I had something to do with that. The work was grueling, but on some days it didn't feel like work at all—no one got upset if they saw me sitting in my office reading.

I ignored Sam, the security guard, as he waved—every morning to get my attention—and waited for the elevator. I squeezed in with a bunch of other people and made the trek to the eighth floor. I got off, pulled open the heavy glass door with
Spirit
engraved in white italics and proceeded down a long hall, nodding at the usual suspects as they hustled around to get their layouts ready. Our office was designed in a square with editors having offices around the perimeter and everyone else in the center in low, no-privacy-having cubicles—affectionately nicknamed “The Pit.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Stevens.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Stevens, your hair looks pretty.”

I was gracious enough to nod my head to everyone and pushed open the door to my office. I slung my Prada bag over my chair and sat down, ignoring the huge pile of books that awaited review.

Cassidy came in with my coffee—black—in her hand. She said a quick hello and didn't say anything else. It took me weeks to train her that I didn't like a lot of conversation in the morning.

I slid my MAC compact out of my purse and powdered my face. My dark skin glowed like a firefly. I constantly had to powder to keep the oil at bay. I fluffed my weave, making sure my real hair was smooth and blended, then closed the compact and placed it back in my purse.

“Did you finish that review?”

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens. I sent it to you last night. Was it okay?”

“I had to do several edits on it, Cassidy. Tell me something, do you want to be okay in this business? Or do you want to be excellent?”

“Excellent.”

“Excuse me?”

“Excellent,” she said, her voice louder.

“Good. Let's try to do that next time.”

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens. Your schedule is up, you have a meeting in ten minutes with Mr. Ryland.”

“That's new. Why wasn't I told about this sooner?”

“I don't know. He asked for an emergency meeting.”

I flicked my hand and she left the room.

An emergency meeting? What was that all about? I called Bill to see if he had any scoop.

“Bill here.”

“Bill? What's going on with this emergency meeting? Matthew's never done that before.”

“I think the magazine's in trouble,” he said, his voice a little higher than a whisper.

“What? How? I thought our circulation was up last month—”

“Not enough, I heard. I think Matthew's been getting a lot of pressure from the publisher. Said we're losing advertisers.”

My mind went back to last night.
So that's what Jasmine was trying
to tell me
. Her baby, her magazine, was losing money.

“The market's bad right now. It'll turn around.”

“Let's hope so. See you in a minute.”

I hung up, grabbed a yellow legal pad and walked down the hall to Matthew's office. I nodded at a few of my colleagues that sat in The Pit and I could see eyes green with envy glare my way as I continued down the hall to the meeting.

Matthew's office was arranged in dark shades of cherry wood, and was as sparse and lean as he was. There were a few chairs around his desk, and I wondered why we weren't meeting in the conference room. He was on the phone when I came in, and I nodded at some of the editors that were littered around his massive desk.

While he talked he kept pulling on his tie, loosening it further from his neck. I felt a chill creep up my spine and I fingered a piece of my weave and twirled it around my pinky. He hung up, loosened his silk tie even further and sat back in his chair.

“Hey, Mike, please close the door behind you,” he said as one of the lifestyle editors filed in.

“Everybody here? All right, guys, I'll cut to the chase. The magazine has seen better days. We're losing a lot of our advertisers, and we need to cut some space. Everyone has to cut their space by half.”

“Half?” I screeched. “Matthew, I only get one page as it is, you want me to cut it down to a measly half a page?”

Other editors started grumbling and he held up his hand. “Guys, things are looking bad. I'm going to level with you; this next issue could be it. For all of us.”

My heart seized.

“You mean—”

“You know what I mean,” he said, his dark brown eyes meeting mine. “I need everyone to put in their best effort.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Let's just say you won't have to set your alarm in the morning.”

Sinking Ship

“Mrs. Stevens?”

“Yes, Cassidy?”

“Just letting you know that I'm going home.”

“All right.”

“You need anything else?”

“Did I ask you if I needed anything?”

She shook her head. “Good night, then.”

I flicked my hand and she left.

I looked around the office and saw other editors sitting at their desks, all rearranging their pages and trying to figure how to work their ideas into half the space. Half a page wouldn't do Abraham Williams justice. He'd just won the Pulitzer Prize for his latest book,
Fatima's Story
. It was the journal of Fatima Nzhinge, a black slave who kept a journal full of her sketches of what went on around her. You could see her progression as she learned to read and write a few words, syllables really. The words were so haunting and pictures so dramatic and chilling I cried when I read it. I couldn't cut his interview into half a page! He didn't deserve it, and neither did the magazine. My stomach burned and I crunched on a Tums.

I wouldn't do it. Matthew said to send out my best, and this is it. I was not cutting one word of Abraham's interview, and I was adding the review, too. I looked at the other books slated for review this month—a cookbook with recipes specially tailored for diabetics, and two novels, one of which was our book club pick of the month. How was I supposed to fit all of this on half a page?

“Knock, knock.”

I jumped.

“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you,” Bill said, coming in my office and taking a seat.

“No, no. I was just thinking.”

“Heavy news today, huh?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“People have been talking. How did you
not
know the magazine was in trouble?”

“I knew we'd lost some subscribers and advertisers, but I just figured we were in a slump.”

“Yeah, a slump that we can't dig our way out of.” He sighed. “I've already found another job.”

“What?”

“Yeah, put in my resignation today. Matthew didn't even blink. Just told me to hand in my boards.”

“What are you going to do?”

“My wife's business is really picking up. I told you about her bakery, right?”

I nodded. “Sweet Tooth Bakery. I think I've gotten a cupcake there once.”

“Right. Anyway, one of her managers quit on her—just as she was planning to open another location in Brooklyn. I never believed that her little business would grow so fast…Anyway, she needs my help.”

I sat back in my chair. “Wow. You go from
Spirit
to a bakery. I know the economy's bad—”

“The economy's shot, Mariah. And I told you, her business is growing. I can't take this kind of stress anymore. You work and work and work, and for what? The magazine will always be called
Spirit,
not
Bill.
Besides, you know I've always wanted to own my own business. Even if it means that my wife is the boss.”

“Yeah, but you didn't even give this a chance, Bill. You're leaving?”

“This is a sinking ship, Mariah. You need to get out, too.”

I shook my head. “I've worked here too long. I believe in
Spirit
. I'm staying.”

“Don't be a fool, Mariah. You're a talented editor, one of the best. And you can write. The market is crowded enough as it is; why don't you find somewhere else before it's too late?”

“No.
Spirit
is where I belong. We can pull through. It's happened before.”

“I think you're making a mistake.”

“It's mine to make.”

“You're right. And maybe this place will turn around.” He got up and left, throwing “Good night” over his shoulder.

“Wait,” I said, getting up from my desk. I walked toward him as he waited by the door. “If you're leaving, do you think you could ask Matthew to give me more pages?”

“What?”

“Abraham Williams deserves better than this. Half a page? Come on.”

He looked at me for the longest time and then nodded. “I'll see what I can do.”

* * *

I caught a cab home. It was a little past two in the morning when I left. I didn't care whether Bill got the extra pages for me or not, I was still turning in a full page. I'd explain to Bill in the morning why I needed the space.

I was home in minutes and was sliding out of my heels. I poured myself a glass of milk and threw a handful of saltines onto a saucer and opened my window in the living room. I sat down, feeling the frigid air blow into my face. I munched on a cracker and thought about what Bill had said.

Was I making a mistake? Should I pack up and leave, too?
I had to believe that everything would turn out okay. But with Jasmine gone, and now Bill, what if
Spirit
was going under? Where would I be?

You're a smart girl, Mariah. You have six months of savings, you'll be just fine. Don't panic.

I took a deep breath and took a sip of my milk.
I was fine. Better than fine. I was great. Everything would be okay.