[...] help i forgot how to write
Chapter 1
I’ve rewritten the same sentence five different times. No matter how I rearrange the words, they don’t sound good enough to be published.
Clearly, Black films only receive critical acclaim when they heavily feature Black suffering. Where are our happy movies? They exist, but you don’t see them winning Oscars.
I smack my keyboard. Nothing changes. I’m still on the living room couch, an episode of Real Housewives playing on the TV. My Word document stares back at me, cursor blinking as if daring me to rewrite the sentence for a sixth time. How am I supposed to end an ­op-­ed like this? In conclusion, I’m sure most of the people reading this are white and don’t want to hear about race, but please don’t cancel your subscription.
I minimize the Word document, flipping to my email. My inbox is still empty. Still the same emails: one from Target, one from Spelman College confirming that I sent my application, a few from Instagram. Nothing from the contest. Nothing telling me whether I won or lost.
Ugh. I rub my forehead, staring up at the Deep Focus magazine covers hanging above our TV. The Obamas, Serena Williams, and Jimi Hendrix. They’ve been hanging there forever, some of the best covers of my favorite magazine ever. Normally, they inspire me.
They’re a little too in my face right now—­while I’m waiting to hear back from the talent competition. If I win, I’ll get the chance to write an actual cover story for the magazine. Me writing a cover story for Deep Focus.
I take a shaky breath. It’s almost too much to think about.
I should be focusing on this ­op-­ed I owe Monique. She enjoyed my last piece, and the one before it. That should make me feel better. But my anxiety doesn’t pay attention to how I should feel. According to my sisters, I worry about everything, even the pointless, but especially the very important.
I glance at the inbox again. Still no change. The winners are supposed to hear back by the end of today. But why are they taking so long? What if they didn’t like the samples I sent, or they thought my writing was too immature, or they got turned off by how much I write about race—­
“Well, look here. Josie’s right where we left her.”
My head snaps up. Dad lumbers through the door, rolling a purple suitcase with one hand and holding his backpack strap with the other. I don’t know why Alice is bringing so much stuff when she’s just an hour away. She could come home every weekend, if she wanted.
Dad’s still in his accountant uniform—­white shirt, black tie— ­the air of math and numbers swirling around him. He glances at the muted TV. Blond women in sparkly dresses lunge for each other across a gigantic table. I shrug.
“I leave it on for background noise,” I say.
Alice appears with an eye roll. She looks the same as she did when we dropped her off in August: ripped jeans, edges of her box braids tinged purple, her signature bored face. Looks like her first few months of college didn’t change a thing.
“What are you writing now?” she asks, swinging her backpack to the floor. “Another review of Real Housewives?”
“Shut up.” I only wrote those recaps to get my foot in the door and she knows it. “It’s a serious piece.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
I scowl, opening my email and sending the piece beforeclosing my laptop. This piece is fine. If Monique doesn’t like it, she’ll send me edits, same as usual. At least it’s better than a Real Housewives recap.
“Come on, girls,” Dad says. “Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s at work,” I say, closing my laptop. “And the library is having a pre-­Thanksgiving playtime or something, so Mom took Cash with her. She’ll probably have to stay to clean every­thing up.”
“They work her too hard.” Dad shakes his head, but there’s no bite in his voice. “Always have.”
I stand up to hug him, but he pulls me in first. He always gives the best hugs. Eventually, I pull back to hug Alice, but she just scoffs and steps away. I don’t know why I even try.
By the time she and Dad have put away their stuff, Mom is back from work, and so is my oldest sister, Maggie. She’s still dressed in her apron and khakis. I hold up my phone.
“It’s the rare employee Maggie,” I say, opening my camera app. “Take a picture for good luck.”
Maggie’s eyes widen as she lunges for me. “Josie, I swear—­”
“Mama,” Cash says, worming between the two of us. “No swearing.”
“You’re right, baby,” Maggie says, glancing down at him. “No swearing.”
When he heads into the kitchen, she sticks her tongue out at me. I snort.
We haven’t had a family dinner since the day before Alice left for school. It’s not that we don’t like each other. Our schedules just never line up. Dad works late, Maggie is always doing overtime, and Alice is usually at school. That leaves Mom, Cash, and me eating in front of the TV most nights. Cash looks a little startled to be sitting at the dinner table right now.
I tap my fingers against my side as everyone settles in, fighting the urge to go back on the computer and see if I’ve gotten a response from the contest yet. If Monique has replied to my email yet.
Maggie says all I ever do is search for things to keep myself anxious. I guess that’s what I’m doing now. My deadline isn’t until next week, and I’m pretty sure the piece is fine. It’s just that when I’m anxious about one thing, it tends to bleed over to everything else. I’m already worried about hearing back from the contest, and now I can’t stop myself from thinking about everything that might go wrong with the piece I wrote for Monique—­the article deleting itself, Monique hating it and deciding she never wants to work with me again my words sounding too similar to someone else’s and me being accused of plagiarism, Monique calling me a racist (even though she’s also Black)—and wondering what I’m going to write about next. . . .
It never ends, not unless I’m actually writing. I don’t know what it is. Something about writing shuts off my brain for a little while.
“How are things at Spelman, Alice?” Mom asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. She always dresses like a hip librarian—­Skechers, a ­T-­shirt that reads “All the Cool Kids Are Reading,” a pair of pink reading glasses clipped to her sweater.
“Great,” Alice says, grabbing another slice of pizza from the open box. No homemade food until tomorrow, when the entire family comes over for Thanksgiving. I cringe just thinking about it. “I love the psychology department. All of my classes are interesting. And I joined a sorority, actually, and it’s really helping me feel like I’m part of a community.”
“You? A sorority?” I raise a brow. “That sounds fake.”
“Oh, come on,” Maggie says, cutting up Cash’s pizza. “She can try new things.”
Alice flashes a smug smile. I like it better when I have Maggie to myself.
“You’ll probably try a bunch of things when you head there next fall,” Maggie continues. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll join a sorority, too.”
Alice snorts. I glare at her.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.”
“There’s a lot to do at Spelman,” Alice says, rolling her eyes. “You can find something that I didn’t try first.”
I grip my cup extra hard. If Mom and Dad weren’t here, I’d tear into Alice, and she’d probably tear right back. But now I have to force myself to be civil, even though none of this is my fault.
I’ve wanted to go to Spelman ever since I was in middle school. It’s where Mom went, where Grandma went, where Auntie Denise went. It was always my thing, but Alice applied last year, completely out of the blue, and got in. I still applied early decision, the way I always planned to. But now, when I get in, I’ll have to share the campus with my sister.
I definitely never dreamed about that.
“Auntie Josie?” Cash’s little hands reach for me. “What’s a sorority?”
“It’s a sort of club,” Dad says before I can. “But for people at college.”
“Make sure you’re eating your vegetables, Josephine,” Mom says, shoveling some salad onto my plate. “It’s better to eat some salad than to have more than one slice of pizza. You have to remember that we have diabetes in our family.”
Alice and Maggie share a look. I force myself to stare at my plate, but I doubt Mom notices. She makes comments like that all of the time, as if I don’t already second-­guess everything I put in my mouth.
“Grandpa?” Cash turns to Dad. “Will you tell me a story?”
“After dinner, buddy.”
I poke at my salad with my fork. Maggie always says I should tell Mom how I feel in the moment, before she forgets what she’s said, but I can’t now. Cash is right there. Plus, we’d get into an argument, since she’d say she’s only thinking about my health. How do I respond to that without sounding like a brat?
Instead of responding, I get up and start clearing the table before anyone can ask. I want to get this over with as fast as possible.
“Josie, don’t go,” Dad calls from his seat. “Your mother and I want to talk to you. Alone.”
Maggie scoops Cash up and disappears. Alice jogs up the stairs. Traitors.
Normally, Mom and Dad don’t announce this sort of thing. They just start talking. The only time they make my sisters leave is when we talk about my anxiety. I actually stare longingly at the empty hallway. I’d rather babysit Cash than have a private talk with Mom and Dad.
I rack my brain to figure out what we could be talking about. I’m not pregnant. I don’t do drugs or drink. I’m boring. All I do is go to school, write freelance articles for different magazines, and work at Cora’s Chicken Stand, a dingy restaurant a few minutes away. I don’t even really have a lot of friends. Everyone has school friends, kids you see in class and sit with at lunch and partner up with in gym. But it’s almost December, which means it’s almost Capstone Month, when none of us seniors have to physically show up for school. I haven’t seen the girls I hang out with at...