Second Line, First Dance by Farrah Rochon #3
“The Mardi Gras Indians,” he answers. “There are krewes all around the city. I’m sure—”
I shake my head. “No way. We are not doing that.”
“But it’s tradition.”
“It’s cultural appropriation,” I say. “I just read an article on it.”
“Hold on now,” Brandi Jones, the remaining member from the original committee, chimes in. “My uncle is a Seventh Ward Hunter. So was my grandfather, and my great-grandfather.”
“No cap?” Kendrick says. “That’s what’s up.”
“Just because your family takes part, that doesn’t make it right,” I say to Brandi. “As far as I’m concerned, the Mardi Gras Indians are just as bad as wearing blackface, and it will not be part of any extravaganza that I’m associated with.”
“Are you serious right now?” Kendrick asks. There isn’t a hint of the earlier teasing in his voice.
“Of course I’m serious,” I answer.
“But you’re from Chicago.”
“And?”
“And it’s obvious you don’t understand how we do things down here. If you’re gonna put on an event to celebrate Mardi Gras, the least you can do is honor the local traditions. You don’t get to come in and ignore what the city is all about. Or worse, try to change it.”
“That is not what I’m doing.”
“It’s exactly what you’re doing.” He ticks things off on his fingers. “No brass band. No Mardi Gras Indians. What’s next? No beads?”
“Not those cheap plastic ones,” I say.
“Why is the color scheme white and rose gold?” Tabitha asks, looking down at her phone. “Mardi Gras colors are purple, gold, and green.”
“No.” I hold up my hands. “That is where I draw the line. For the month before Mardi Gras day, it looks like someone threw up purple, gold, and green all over this city.”
“It’s not for the month before,” Kendrick says. “If you took the time to learn about this city, you would know it’s from January sixth, on Three Kings Day, which is the official start of the carnival season. It can last for a month, or six weeks, or even longer.”
Okay, so I didn’t know that, but I don’t see what difference it makes. What matters is this extravaganza. I need it to be the best ever. I need it to be the one alums are still talking about twenty years from now.
“I hate to pull the ‘I’m in charge’ card”—actually, I don’t hate pulling it at all—“but Dr. Cornwall gave me the committee chair position for a reason. If she has an issue with my ideas, she’ll let me know.”
I end the meeting and leave the conference room. Kendrick steps in front of me when I’m still several yards from the elevators.
“Why are you being so hardheaded?” he asks.
I sidestep him. “I’m not. I told you I want this extravaganza to be more elegant.”
“You can have your ‘elegant’?”—he makes air quotes—“extravaganza while still respecting the city’s customs. Save the string quartet and rose gold bullshit for another time. This is Mardi Gras!”
I sigh, making sure it is overly dramatic because that’s what he deserves.
“Fine,” I say. “I may be willing to compromise on the colors— there are ways to incorporate the traditional purple, gold, and green and still be elegant. But I’m drawing the line at the Indians. It’s disrespectful to the Indigenous people of Louisiana.”
“Oh, so you’ve discussed this with the Indigenous people of Louisiana, and they told you that they find it disrespectful? Good to know.”
I roll my eyes. Again.
“Be serious,” I tell him.
“No, you be serious. What about this do you not understand, Jordyn? The Indians are important to New Orleans. It’s not just a bunch of people playing dress-up. There is history behind it.”
“It’s not happening, Kendrick. Deal with it.”
He stares at me with frustration in his eyes. Sometimes our banter can get a little heated, but this is the first time that I’ve felt true disgust from him. It causes a sinking sensation in my stomach.
But then I remind myself that Kendrick Stewart’s feelings toward me are secondary when it comes to my ultimate goal.
“I’m stepping away from this committee,” Kendrick says. “You know so much about Mardi Gras, you handle this on your own.”
This time, he’s the one to turn and walk away.
Excitement simmers in my veins as I wait for Professor Cornwall to finish her call. I’d sent her my ideas for the extravaganza this morning, and the swiftness with which she’d replied, asking for a meeting, was all the indication I needed to know that I was on the right track.
She sets her office phone back on the hook and turns her attention to me.
“We don’t have time for me to beat around the bush, Jordyn, so I will just come right out and say it. I’m a bit disappointed in this.”
My head jerks back.
“Disappointed?”
“Yes.” Dr. Cornwall nods. “The original committee left a solid foundation. All your committee had to do was build upon it, not completely obliterate it.”
“But I didn’t—we didn’t,” I correct. “I’ve included most of what the original committee suggested.”
“Yes, but point out one thing in your plans that screams Mardi Gras. When alumni return to New Orleans for the extravaganza, they want a true carnival experience. The proposal you all have put forth has all the makings of a refined, tasteful evening, but it’s…
well…dry. This sounds like a party that can take place in any city in the country, and that is not what the Mardi Gras Extravaganza is about.
It’s unique to New Orleans, just as Xavier is unique to it. The event should reflect that.”
I cannot believe what I’m hearing. There is no way I’ve gotten this this wrong.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Jordyn. Your committee has the weekend to come up with another slate of more suitable ideas. I already have others in mind for committee chair if this is something you can’t handle.”
My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, which feels as if it has just been kicked. To have the chairship yanked from me would be a death knell to my hopes of being SGA president. I cannot let that happen.
“I have a department meeting to get to,” Dr. Cornwall says. She pushes away from her desk and stands. “I’ll see you on Monday. Same time.”
I follow her out of the office and stop short at the sight of Kendrick waiting a few doors down. His piercing brown eyes stare directly at me.
“No,” I say when he takes a step forward. “I am not dealing with you right now.”
I pivot and start marching in the opposite direction.
“Jordyn! Jordyn, wait a minute!”
The sensation of Kendrick’s fingers clasping around my upper arm sends a jolt through me. He quickly lets go, but comes around to stand in front of me, blocking my escape.
“I’m serious, Kendrick. I am not in the mood for your mess.”
“I’m not messing with you, Jordyn. I want to help.”
I fold my arms over my chest and stare up at him. He’s in a hoodie and jeans today. And, yes, they look good on him.
“I heard what Dr. Cornwall said to you.” His hands fly up in front of him. “I happened to be passing by Dr. C’s office, and I heard your voice. I couldn’t help myself. I had to stop.”
My stomach flips at the earnestness in his tone and that sympathetic look clouding his eyes.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders. “First, I…uh…want to apologize for how I stormed out of the meeting the other day. I still don’t agree with the direction you’re taking the extravaganza, and it sounds as if Dr. C agrees with me, but that doesn’t excuse the way I acted.”
Well, he’s right about one thing. Dr. Cornwall is as unhappy with my ideas as he had been at the meeting.
“Apology accepted,” I murmur.
“Look, there isn’t much time before the extravaganza,” Kendrick says. “Do you think we can work together to find a solution before it’s too late?”
“You left the committee,” I remind him.
“I want back on.”
I don’t respond.
His admission throws me. Navigating my feelings about Kendrick is both frustrating and confusing. One minute I’m wishing he was back on the committee, the next I’m glad he isn’t.
“Come on, Jordyn,” Kendrick prods. “Don’t be like this.”
The words come out in a near whisper, but I hear the sincerity in them. I practically feel it.
My first instinct is to reply with one of the usual sarcastic comebacks we tend to trade, but the soberness in his eyes stops me. I don’t want to trade barbs with him. I want to…to…I don’t know what I want.
That’s not true. I do know what I want, but I’m not ready to admit it to myself. How could I possibly admit it to Kendrick?
“Jordyn?”
“The committee is meeting with the catering services,” I tell him. “Four o’clock.”
The smile that lights up his face is one I will no doubt dream about when I fall asleep tonight.
“Thanks,” he says. He hunches his shoulders. “I need to get to class. I’ll see you at four.”
The spicy aroma of jambalaya, crawfish étouffée, and shrimp creole overpowers the small room that has been set up for the committee to sample the proposed menu for the extravaganza.
“This is the reason I didn’t leave the committee with Lacey and the rest of them,” Brandi Jones says. “I didn’t want to miss this day.”
Knowing Brandi only stuck around for a free meal doesn’t give me much confidence in her commitment to the extravaganza, but I also can’t blame her. This food looks amazing. I make my way along the table, scooping a small helping of each dish onto my plate.
“You don’t have anything against spice, do you?”
My spine goes ramrod straight at the sound of Kendrick’s voice in my ear. I didn’t realize he was this close.
“I like spice,” I toss over my shoulder. “I do think these dishes may be a bit rich—”
“Jordyn.” There’s a hint of frustration in his voice.
“I’m joking,” I say. “Lighten up.”
“I can never be too sure with you,” he replies.
I take my plate and sit at the table that has been set up for committee members.
Of course, Kendrick sits in the chair next to mine.
As if my nerves aren’t already at a level ten.
I try to ignore his nearness as one of the catering representatives explains each dish, but I’m aware of his every breath.