The Other Black Girl: A Novel by Zakiya Dalila Harris

Author:Zakiya Dalila Harris [Harris, Zakiya Dalila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781982160135
Google: UuYJEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1982160136
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2021-05-31T23:00:00+00:00

Kendra Rae

September 26, 2018

Catskill, New York

You’ve got to help me. I feel like I’m going insane.

I took a long, deep breath, then raised my glass and took an even longer, deeper sip of my wine. I couldn’t keep running away from this voice mail. I’d done everything I could to take my mind off it. I went out on the trail for an hour; I picked up some groceries and a case of pinot noir, too. I’d even done a little writing, just to give me something to do while I drank.

But I couldn’t find any peace. Not once. I just kept hearing this girl’s squeaky voice instead of my own.

I sighed and hit Play, her frantic rant filling up my kitchen for the umpteenth time.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you keep contacting me. And, actually, I don’t even know why I’m calling you. You… stupid, creeper-stalker weirdo.”

There was that light, snotty snort noise—the one that told me she’d been crying.

“God, I’m a mess. My life is a mess. Owen’s been mad at me. Vera thinks I’m an unreliable assistant, and I’m definitely gonna lose my job… although truthfully, I don’t even know if I want it.”

The caller paused again. I wiped at the drop of pinot noir that had slid off the green bottle onto the table, smearing it across the cherrywood. I licked my finger and wiped at it again, counting down the four seconds that I knew would pass before she said, “No. That’s not true. I—I do want it. I want to be an editor. How many young Black female editors are there? None.” The girl sighed. “You keep telling me to leave, but I can’t. I can’t let Hazel…” Another snort, this one more self-deprecating than the last. “Fuck, I’m not sure why I’m telling you… whoever you are… any of this.”

I don’t know why you are, either, I’d thought on my first listen, pretty peeved, because you’re the unhinged wackadoo who contacted me. The only person I ever contacted was Trace. She was my lifeline, the vein connecting me to my money, my family, the life I had before. Everyone else, it was better to avoid—my ex-colleagues, the few friends I had left over from Harvard.

I’d even left Diana behind, although that part was easier than it should’ve been. Honestly, I thought she’d at least offer a hollow apology to Trace for leaving me out on the vine to wither all those years ago. For making me feel like I was no longer welcome. For trying to change me.

Shoot, don’t get me wrong—I know the timing of what I said wasn’t perfect. But it didn’t give her the right to try to do what she did.

I listened as the girl rambled on a little while longer, waiting. And then it came: the reason why I hadn’t been able to think straight all day.

Wagner.

Hearing it for the fourth time didn’t make it any easier. It all came surging back: the decades

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