Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Failure was a distorting mirror through which everything looked uglier: the industry, the ballers, Barbara, NuVoices, and me.
Definitely me. People who loved me kept repeating how strong I was to not let myself be bullied into betraying my values and my sisters.
But when I examined the warped fun-house reflection of my six months stewarding Sugar, I looked drawn, defeated, and foolish.
The more time that passed since I was fired, the less powerful I felt.
Getting escorted out of the office wasn’t the hard part.
It was embarrassing, to be sure. But I’d kept my head held high and walked out like Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale.
I’d nodded goodbye to my team as I rode the wave of my convictions out the door and into a taxi, where everything sank in.
The cab driver had Bob Marley on blast, which normally would have cheered me up.
But during that fifteen-minute ride, I played out scenarios where I’d never get another job in publishing, I wouldn’t be able to afford my rent, my credit card debt would pile up even higher …
The hard part wasn’t telling my closest friends or my parents.
Even though they had some ambivalence about both NuVoices and the industry as a whole, they supported my decision not to apologize to Bishopp.
Their certainty that I’d done the right thing should have made it easier to deal with calls from acquaintances and colleagues who might not understand my sudden departure from what outwardly seemed like a victorious run at Sugar.
But that wasn’t an issue, because they didn’t call. And that was the hardest part: the isolation.
The scores of people I’d met as editor in chief of the buzziest new magazine in the urban world had only known me at a career peak—with the power to grant favors in the form of coverage and access.
Now there were no more favors to be had, only speculation about why I’d been dethroned.
I thought my two-way and email and voicemail would be blowing up with folks wanting to know the real deal.
But it was the exact opposite. Now that I was a nobody again, I had instantly become uninteresting to anyone who didn’t genuinely love me—or hate me.
So, I found out, the painful way, that failure was also a filter, permitting authentic emotion to pass through while retaining the solid particles of transactional bullshit.
One of the few messages I got was from Marie, who reached out with an email that was meant to be sympathetic, though I could hear I told you so in her tone. Still, I was grateful for any shreds of caring—which was why I made the mistake of picking up a call from an unknown number.
I was lying on my sofa with a throw over my head to block the midafternoon light and a plate with a half-eaten PB and J resting on my stomach.
The call had been the only sound in my apartment all day, so I answered on the first ring.
Hearing Alonzo’s smoky voice jolted me straight up, knocking the sandwich to the floor.
“Well, babygirl, I guess you really thought you could play with the big dogs,” he said gleefully.
A retort didn’t form fast enough in my mind, so Alonzo just chuckled.
“But I saw you trying hard. You really put your shoulder to the wheel for your November issue. Although, it probably wasn’t too hard to get Luna to give up that Bobbie pic you used on the cover. She’s such a dizzy bitch.”
“That wasn’t me…” Though tremulous, I found my voice. I was about to toe the party line that Luna and I had agreed upon, but Alonzo cut me off.
“Don’t bother telling me that Barbara miraculously made a deal with the photographer on the side.
You and I both know that’s ridiculous, and I don’t want to get mad all over again.
” I could picture Alonzo’s pinky pressed against his mouth, his tell when he couldn’t decide between amusement and fury.
“It was kind of adorable to see you two chickenheads striking up a little frenemy deal. That is, until I read your editor’s letter where you stopped just short of calling me a fucking rapist.”
“I know it was almost five years ago, but you know exactly what I was talking about.”
The phone line crackled with furious energy, the same intensity that used to infuse our illicit hotel room sex. But now we were panting from anger instead of lust.
“You know what I know? That it’s teases like you who are dangerous, Nikki. That’s why it was so important to me—well, to me and JJ—that Bishopp get to tell his real story in Groove,” Alonzo growled. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”
Morbid curiosity prevented me from hanging up. “That’s pretty gross, even for you, Alonzo.”
“You and Luna and the rest of you bitches who think you can just throw it in a real man’s face and then walk away are teases, Nicole. But as much as I’m enjoying doing a jig on your professional grave, I’m actually calling to see if you have any dirt you want to share on Barbara.”
“Why would I have dirt on Barbara?”
“Jesus, Nikki. Either you are stupidly loyal or just stupid. But that’s cool. I guess I’ll have to enjoy watching NuVoices and Barbara implode from afar.”
“Wait, what are you talking about? Barbara told me NuVoices was going to be all right.”
Alonzo snickered. “Man, you are still Annie’s na?ve little minx, aren’t you? Have a good afternoon, babygirl. Maybe you should think about showering and getting your shit together.” He hung up, leaving me to wonder how he knew soap hadn’t touched my body in days.
It was my love for Teresa that finally got me under a shower and out of my apartment.
Her thirty-first birthday was coming up in a month, and Derek had reached out to see if I wanted to help him plan a party for her.
I agreed to meet him in person before I processed that I’d have to wash my hair and figure out something cute to wear for the first time since I’d been escorted out of the NuVoices offices two weeks prior.
We’d exchanged a few emails, but the last time I actually saw Derek was when he dropped me at the office after the Matsumoro VMAs after party.
The contrast between the leopard-print number I had on that fateful night and the yogurt-crusted sweatpants that had become my uniform would have been a little too much.
We were meeting at Party City to pick up some supplies, so I surveyed my neglected closet for a big-box-retailer-chic outfit.
Since the weather had gone from chilly to wintry while I’d been holed up in my apartment licking my wounds, I threw on a black turtleneck, charcoal jeans, and a black Canada Goose coat.
I shook off the thought of Denyse, whose wardrobe had remained consistently conservative since freshman year, telling me I looked goth whenever I wore all black.
When I rounded the corner of the decór aisle, Derek gave my ensemble a quick once-over and lifted an eyebrow. “You in mourning?”
“Nah, I’m just a native New Yorker,” I said stiffly, not sure if he was making fun of me.
“Touché,” he replied with a warm smile that defused my defensiveness. “Well, me too. Born in the North Bronx and raised in Co-op City. You’re from Harlem, right?” I must have looked startled because he said sheepishly, “Teresa mentioned that we’re both uptown kids.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I murmured, wondering what else Teresa had told him.
Still unused to interacting with anyone other than whoever answered the phone at my favorite Chinese restaurant, I didn’t have my social sea legs.
I tugged down the brim of the baseball hat I’d put on to avoid brushing my still-wet hair and fingered some paper dice in the casino theme section.
“You read my mind,” Derek continued kindly. “I was thinking a Vegas party could be cool. We could get some playing cards, scatter around fake gold coins…”
“Are you looking for an excuse to get some strippers?” I ventured a small smile in his direction. In his blue sweatpants and blue hoodie under a brown leather puffer jacket, Derek looked as handsome dressed casually as he did in a suit.
“Not sure that Teresa and I have the same taste in strippers, but I’m not going to object.”
“Well, you already know that Tee would not enjoy participating in the sexual objectification and commodification of women.” I lifted both hands up in a mock oh-well gesture.
“Male strippers it is,” Derek exclaimed, pumping the air with his fist.
This time, I laughed. “Nah, that’s not my speed. Too corny.”
After a pause, Derek asked a little too casually, “So what is your speed, Nikki? Jerome Jermaine?”
His back was to me as he carefully put heart and spade wall garlands into a basket, so I couldn’t read his facial expression. He’d never asked me about JJ or anyone else I might have been dating. I wondered again how much Teresa had shared.
“Not anymore—especially now that I’m not at Sugar or really in that world at all.” I tried to match the studied casualness in Derek’s tone, but I knew he could hear my voice catch when I said Sugar.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy. I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.” Derek looked back at me, remorse knitting his brows together.
“I’m … not that good, I guess. This is the first time where I really don’t know what to do with myself,” I told him, surprised by my honesty.
I pivoted so that I was facing stacks of plastic poker chips and dollar sign–imprinted paper plates that I started to pile into my own basket.
“It’s weird. It’s only been a couple weeks, but Sugar and even JJ seem so distant.
Like the whole thing was a surreal dream. ”
It was true: Kiara and Von were reaching out as much as Teresa and the girls. But the less I heard from everyone else at Sugar and the fewer invitations to industry parties I received, the more my memories of being a sought-after urban wunderkind blurred.
Derek scratched his beard. “For what it’s worth, Bishopp deserves everything that’s coming to him and I’m glad you didn’t fold.”
So, Teresa had been talking to him about me. “I know I did the right thing, but what good did it really do? Did I really serve the Sugar reader by giving up the platform?”
“Why not create a new platform?” Derek had filled a basket with enough playing card–themed decorations to re-create a small casino on the Vegas Strip and was now gazing at me thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin to launch a new magazine.” My own basket was now brimming with paper plates, cups, napkins, and a gold table cover. I pointed to the balloon display, and we walked over to preorder a few dozen.
“I don’t believe that, Nikki,” Derek countered as he waved away my offer to chip in for the balloons. “But I didn’t mean a whole magazine. What about a blog? There’s this platform called Open Diary where you can publish writing that readers can comment on. Or you could start your own website.”
I stopped in the middle of the aisle on the way to the checkout area. “My own blog.” I said the words slowly, testing how they felt in my mouth. “I do miss writing. And I could focus on issues that affect women of color.”
“See? And you can build an audience of true fans, and even sell ads.”
I felt a prickle of excitement for the first time in weeks. Bouncing on my toes, I considered the possibilities. “I could even call it Nikki’s Notes, like my editor’s letter.”
“Now you’re on to something!” Derek’s smile was inspiring.
“This is kind of a dope idea. I could do social commentary but also write articles on style. No fashion shoots, of course, but think pieces about the meaning of beauty for Black women, the politics of our hair.” I wryly lifted my damp ponytail and let it drop back to my shoulder.
“That’s a good one,” he exclaimed. “You could interview women with both long and short styles—and someone like Joan Morgan to get different perspectives.” I gazed at Derek’s enthusiastic face as another idea started to form.
But he continued before I had a chance to say anything.
“Listen, I’m here if you want to talk through all of this, and I can do a legal review on your thornier topics, like we did with the Bishopp profile. ”
Although my breath quickened as he amiably placed both hands on my shoulders, I stiffened and pulled away, not yet prepared for any man to touch me, even as a friend.
Plus, as far as I knew, Derek had a girlfriend—although I could still see his date’s angry face as he left the Matsumoro party with me.
I had no appetite to untangle a bunch of relational knots in yet another complicated romantic situation.
Either way, Derek had come to my rescue too many times now.
It was time for me to prove that I could rescue—and trust—myself.
Derek had jammed a hand back in the pocket of his jacket and picked up his basket with the other. As we walked together toward the cash registers at the front of the store, I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. His jaw was set but I could see a muscle twitching above his eyebrow.
“That would be amazing, Derek,” I said, hoping I hadn’t upset him. “Let me work on this idea a little bit, and I’ll let you know.”
He stopped in his tracks and looked into my eyes. “Like I said, I’m here for whatever you need. Although maybe the idea was enough for a rock star like you.”
I followed him to the checkout, standing up a little straighter. I would write a proposal for Nikki’s Notes with the same detail that had been in the one I’d put together for Sugar—but this time, it would only be for me.