Chapter 7 #2
I started to talk about my journalistic prowess and fashion connections, but Barbara waved her hand to silence me.
She leaned forward and said, “Sugar’s readers will be able to tell a pretender from a mile away, and you’re talking about a role that goes beyond anything you’ve ever done.
I assume you’re decent at what you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be creeping up the StyleList masthead.
My question is: Can you represent the Sugar brand to an unforgivingly perceptive and judgmental audience? ”
The Giants had just scored another touchdown and I could barely hear her over the yelling, backslapping, and clanking of glasses. One of the middle-aged suits looked over at me at winked. Not a chance, Thurston Howell, I thought.
I drained my flute and put it down on the bar. “Barbara, my friends are the audience. I am the audience.”
“Well, I must say I am surprised by your conviction. I admit that I took you for another Lucifer sycophant.” I flinched but kept quiet. “And, so you know, it’s not as if I did not recognize that Sugar has its problems.”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. And that’s okay, because I like opinionated people. But let me repeat: I do see everything.”
I wasn’t sure what she was referring to but had to assume she meant that she didn’t trust me. There was no response other than “Of course, Barbara.”
She nodded again. “As I said, I’ve been having my doubts about the direction Sugar is going and the current EIC.
” Barbara paused to motion for the check.
“If I make any changes, I’ll be doing so within the next couple months.
” She finished her drink and put a gold American Express down on the bar.
The meeting was clearly over and we’d both revealed enough cards.
A white Lincoln Navigator was waiting for Barbara in front of Club Macanudo.
The uniformed driver hopped out to help her inside as DMX’s “What’s My Name” blared through the open door.
The image of Lucinda’s tutu disappearing into her black town car after she’d proclaimed that “Black girls don’t sell” contrasted with what was in front of me like a split screen.
After she climbed into the back seat, Barbara turned to me and said, “Email me your vision for Sugar, Second Coming. Maybe I’ll be in touch. ”
As the SUV pulled away into the freezing night, I could hear Barbara rapping along with DMX: “Here we go again. How many times do I have to tell you rap niggas I have no friends. I’m not a nice person…”
I spent the next couple weeks consolidating my notes on Sugar into a fifteen-page document outlining my vision.
But I knew that I was really selling myself.
Would the readers respect and like me as the face of the brand?
Would the urban world trust me, especially since Barbara had already alluded to my tarnished reputation in the streets? Could I fit in and pull it off?
Fitting in had always been a challenge for me, ever since high school.
My folks had rolled the dice on our Harlem brownstone decades ago when it was one of the few on the block not filled with squatters behind boarded-up windows.
Since then, most of the neighboring brownstones had been refurbished, a coffee shop had opened around the corner, and the folks on the street hollering, “Wassup, Dr. Rose,” to my English professor mom and/or math professor dad had gone from being all Black to mirroring my parents’ interracial relationship: 50 percent white.
Every morning from freshman through senior year, I’d sprint to the subway at the corner of 145th and St. Nicholas, where my commute to the Upper East Side began.
I would race by groups of teens walking to the local high school who’d call me “high yellow ho” only to be bullied by the kids at my private school for living in Harlem, for my frizzy hair and beige coke-bottle glasses, for my scrawny, late-blooming frame, for my good grades.
Turning down an ivy-covered college to go to Howard University was one of the best decisions I’d ever made because it was the first time I felt like I had a real community.
But even there, my freshman roommate had tried to make me feel like I wasn’t Black enough.
She’d grown up in the DMV so claimed the campus as part of her hometown and, therefore, her territory—which was inconvenient since she judged me before I opened my mouth.
It didn’t matter that I had brought a big boom box and a case of hip hop and house music cassettes for our room.
It didn’t matter that my collection of kicks was better than hers.
It didn’t matter that I was from Harlem while she lived with her parents, both doctors, in a huge house in Bethesda with a golf course–sized backyard and pool.
Her skeptical expression never shifted as she watched me unpack my suitcases, taking in my Doc Martens, baggy jeans, collection of multicolored scrunchies, and books.
My cheeks burned under her baffled gaze as I stacked my manga collection on top of Toni Morrison’s Beloved trilogy, understanding that my roommate couldn’t believe that I had brought books to college.
I only made it worse by trying to prove myself to her.
I’d blast Public Enemy whenever she was around.
I got box braids. I declared myself an Alice Walker womanist, tracing her famous quote, “Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender,” on poster board for our wall.
My roommate’s rolling eyes confirmed that my overcompensation only made me look like a poser—which I hated as much as being treated like a tourist in Harlem.
Working on my Sugar proposal brought it all back.
I was the Black whisperer at StyleList, but I might not have enough street cred for Sugar.
Was I cool enough? Was I Black enough? How could I prove myself without trying too hard to prove myself?
Or would I find my work crew the same way I’d found Denyse at Howard?
We met in the housing office at the start of our sophomore year while complaining about our respective obnoxious roommates and decided right then to switch for a suite together.
Unlikely friends, as distinct as Freddie and Jaleesa, we learned to appreciate our differences so that by the end of the year, Gilbert Hall had nothing on us.
Only Teresa knew what I was working on. Joseph was so involved in a new mergers and acquisitions deal, he’d barely been home.
I justified not letting him in on my conversation with Barbara by telling myself that it was a bad time to bring it up.
But I knew that Joseph loved telling people that his girlfriend was a senior editor at StyleList. I’d watched him puff up with pride at his finance colleagues’ and Harvard classmates’ invariably impressed reactions.
I couldn’t even envision Joe telling his buttoned-up buddies from the office that I ran a magazine called Sugar.
I poured my soul into the Sugar proposal—citing research, quoting fashion designers, interspersing music lyrics, integrating visual inspiration, listing directional writers, suggesting cover subject ideas and features concepts.
I’d even offered up stories about me and Teresa, how we searched for a place to belong, how we needed a voice.
When I finally pressed send on the email to Barbara, I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. It was officially out of my control.
To distract myself, I switched my focus to my thirtieth birthday, which was coming up in a few weeks.
I’d always assumed my shit would be together by thirty: My 401(k) would be worth more than six figures; I would have a daily yoga practice; I would not own any undergarments with holes; I’d have a pet and pet insurance; my bed would be made every day with color-coordinated decorative pillows; and I’d be happily married.
But I hadn’t yet experienced the magical transformation my third decade was supposed to usher in.
Since my birthday fell on a Friday, I had every intention of partying through the weekend like the unenlightened twenty-nine-year-old I still felt like.
Joseph was taking me out to dinner, and we had plans to hook up with some of my friends afterward to go dancing.
I left work early on my birthday to get my hair blown out and was sitting under the hair dryer when I got the call. Seeing the NuVoices number was so startling, I immediately sat forward, banging my head on the front of the dryer and dropping the phone on the floor.
“Hello, hellooo,” I heard as I finally brought the cell to my ear.
“Yes, hi, hello, Barbara,” I stammered, trying to get out from under the hair dryer. “Sorry about that.”
“What is all that noise?” she asked after a few seconds. “You sound like you’re inside a jet engine.”
“I’m at the salon. You know how that is,” I said, attempting a conspiratorial tone. Then I remembered she wore her hair in a short natural. Her vibe was more barbershop than salon.
Mercifully, Barbara ignored me. “I have some news for you,” she said.
I had gotten up and walked to the front of the salon so I could look out onto the hectic street below.
Conversations with Barbara felt like a chess game, with me trying to think ahead a few moves while she kept putting me in check.
Since I couldn’t come up with an intelligent play, I said nothing, which was probably the best move.
“I’ve decided to change the leadership at Sugar,” Barbara continued. “I liked your proposal and your vision, Second Coming. It was smart and insightful.”
The salon buzz disappeared behind me and the scene on Broadway felt magnified.
It was as if I’d been transported outside and was running through traffic, dodging cabs and bikes and buses, exhilarated and petrified at the same time.
Nerves made my voice quaver as I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans. “Thank you. I put a lot of work into—”
“Yes, yes,” Barbara interrupted. She did not suffer yammering fools. “I’d like for you to be editor in chief, but I’m still not convinced that you can handle everything this job will bring. I can offer you the job on a trial basis. You have six months to prove yourself.”
I had no playbook for how to respond to being sort of offered a job. “I appreciate the opportunity,” I began. “I just want to be sure I understand. You want me to leave StyleList for a six-month trial period at Sugar?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do.
Taking this offer will be the first step toward proving to me that you have the mettle to succeed.
” This time, she paused, and I could hear her gulping something I imagined was brown liquor in a snifter.
Then she said pointedly, “Look, you’re going to have a lot of obstacles, some that you know are partially of your own making”—Barbara lingered on that phrase long enough for me to know that she was referring to Alonzo—“and some that are simply part of the challenge of running a new magazine at a start-up media company. I’ll be able to share more if you join my team. ”
Clearly, Barbara still didn’t trust me. But it was also clear that she thought I might be able to figure out how to succeed. “Thank you, Barbara. I’d like some time to consider. By when do you need an answer?”
“Yesterday,” she snapped. “It makes no sense to keep publishing Sugar as it stands, which I’ve already shared with the current editor in chief.
She’s a bit of a live wire, so we’ll need to make this announcement quickly before word gets out.
You have until Monday. Monday morning.” And without waiting for me to say another word, she hung up.