Chapter 11 #2
CeCe got an earful as she trimmed my hair.
She’d been so excited when I got the gig, making me promise to book her on all the beauty shoots, so her face was crestfallen in the mirror as I told her the real real.
I shared the entire story except the part about the company being in financial trouble.
Though Barbara didn’t tell me that it was confidential, NuVoices’ imminent downfall was clearly privileged information.
“This is the worst story I’ve ever heard, Nikki. Like, what the fuck?”
“I know, right? It started unpleasant and kind of confusing, then descended into hell real fast.” I forgot I was getting a trim and let my head fall back, barely missing CeCe’s scissors.
She bonked me on the head with her knuckle. “How’s about we not make it even worse by sending you to work on Monday with a random chunk of hair missing.”
“I can’t even believe I’ve got to go back there on Monday.” I groaned.
I dropped my head into my hands as A Tribe Called Quest’s “Can I Kick It?” played, and I longed for the simple times at Howard when Denyse and I did the Cabbage Patch to this song at frat parties.
“Jesus be a snow day, girl, because you clearly need a sec to get your mind right.” CeCe tugged a corner of my hood under the salon robe.
She’d known something was up right away when I showed up in a ratty green tracksuit with saggy bottoms and a broken zipper that I normally only wore around the house.
“First of all, it’s April. Only Prince thinks we might get snow.” I allowed myself a small smile. “Second, I have to take it like a … woman, so I have forty-eight hours to figure out how I’m going to handle Monday.”
“Well, bite that bullet, girl.”
“Grinning and bearing it,” I returned.
“Suck it up, buttercup!”
We were both smiling now, and my relief at feeling my face muscles relax was palpable. CeCe bent over to whisper in my ear. “You want some tea on Luna? I heard from another client that she slept with every member of Jagged Edge within the last year.”
“I don’t know about all that,” I replied.
I had zero motivation to defend that malicious beautiful woman, but given the bogus back-fence talk floating around about me, I resisted the urge to pile on.
“Although that witch does seem completely out of control. They literally call her Lunatic. And now I have to deal with a staff conditioned to crazy.”
“Maybe they’ll be grateful to work with a sane person for a change,” CeCe said, smoothing serum into my hair.
“They didn’t seem particularly grateful when I met them.”
CeCe squinted at me in the mirror, then put both hands on my shoulders and gave them a little shake.
“You need to pull yourself together, Nik. Yes, Luna is a hot mess, but you gotta remember that also means that those poor people at Sugar haven’t had a real leader in a while.
Give them a reason to follow you, and I bet they will. ”
She went back to fluffing my hair while I digested her wisdom.
I pulled out my Sugar notebook and began to make notes …
and ended up writing all weekend. I kept a rotation of hip hop CDs blasting from my boom box, initially ricocheting between A Tribe Called Quest and Public Enemy, Biggie and Nas, KRS-One and Tupac.
But after a while, I found myself playing female artists on repeat: MC Lyte, Foxy Brown, Queen Latifah, Lil’ Kim, Da Brat, the Lady of Rage.
I took a couple breaks to walk around Brooklyn, absorbing what made it the cultural hub of Black New York City.
With all the hipsters moving in, Bed-Stuy was feeling less Do or Die every single day.
But the old-school community was still the soul of the neighborhood.
On Saturday, I made my way from my apartment through adjacent Clinton Hill all the way to Fort Greene, where I got most of my local inspo from the artsy people hanging on the sycamore-lined streets.
The true center of Black bohemian life, that neighborhood was as vibrant as the cultural mecca of Harlem must have been during the Renaissance years.
I swung by Spike Lee’s 40 Acres and a Mule Filmworks production company and his shop, Spike’s Joint, then wandered around the local clothing boutiques, Caribbean restaurants, record stores, and bars.
My utter mortification at wearing a pantsuit on my first day at NuVoices only increased as I checked out the sea of luxury tracksuits, baggy overalls, headwraps, cropped jerseys, slip dresses, bucket hats, and oversized bombers.
I had no idea why I thought the office of an urban publishing company would look more like a corporate law firm than my own hood.
On Sunday, perched on a bench in Fort Greene Park with a bagel and a coffee, I took in a breakdancing crew windmilling for dollars on a nearby corner.
Somehow, there was always music in Fort Greene: teens rapping on stoops, drums coming from a basement, a boom box blasting across the park.
It reminded me of watching hip hop’s decisive takeover from the stoop of my family’s brownstone.
My own obsession with music started in this more innocent time, when Kurtis Blow, Run-D.M.C.
, LL Cool J, Queen Latifah, and Will Smith were releasing joyful party songs that still got people to the dance floor, when the vibe was funky-fresh fun.
But hip hop had now morphed into something more violent, more woman-hating, more complicated to love.
As much as Brooklyn—and New York City—seemed like the center of the world that weekend, I knew that Sugar had to appeal to women outside the borough, outside New York City, hell, beyond the coasts.
NYC and LA could be aspirational, but I didn’t want to alienate women in Atlanta or Chicago or Houston.
Sugar had to be cool and cutting-edge but also approachable and fun.
And I had to figure out how to integrate hip hop culture in a way that felt empowering instead of demoralizing,
Back in my studio, I organized my notes into a document very different from what I’d sent Barbara.
More manifesto than marketing plan, it was a rallying cry for me and my new team.
It was about values and tone and style and mission.
I even filled a folder with inspiration for a visual redesign.
I’d realized over the weekend that the Sugar team needed to be invested enough in my vision so they could be optimistic about the future.
Otherwise, I would be written off as another out-of-touch suit—and I would fail.
On the walk home, I’d stopped by a huge outdoor newsstand to look at the newest issues of my faves.
After forcing myself not to pick up the issue of Black Enterprise featuring none other than Alonzo’s unsmiling face on the cover, I’d lost an hour, perusing Trace, i-D, Essence, Architectural Digest, W, Vibe, Rolling Stone, Paper, The Source, Teen People, The New Yorker, Travel + Leisure, XXL, Elle, Untold, and Vogue.
Scanning the tables of contents and flipping through cover stories and style features, I read the first few paragraphs of interesting articles and studied the mastheads to see if there had been any major changes in leadership.
I’d wanted to be an editor in chief for as long as I could remember, and I knew the names of every EIC at all the major magazines on the newsstand. Failure was not an option.
By the time I cracked open a bottle of pinot noir on Sunday night and popped Massive Attack’s Mezzanine into my stereo, I’d produced a declaration of editorial independence into which I’d infused every ounce of passion I had for Sugar’s audience, for my career as an editor, and for the opportunity to create a space where I belonged.
I was so focused that I didn’t register until I was getting ready for bed that I’d heard crickets from Joseph.
We hadn’t spent an entire weekend apart in months, yet I felt ambivalent—except for missing our reliably good sex.
When the batteries ran out in my vibrator, I almost broke down and took the subway into Manhattan to beg for that fine man’s forgiveness.
But it would have inevitably turned into an argument about his business dinner.
He’d been insulting, but I knew I’d acted like a child.
Though I realized my silence was adding a sprinkling of coarse salt into Friday night’s open wound, I decided to go to the bodega for batteries instead of dialing Joseph’s number.