Playing Hard To Get

Tasha dropped her towel and sat down on the bench in front of her locker.

“Fine,” she answered.

“Yeah, I was gonna come out there for my birthday, but—you know.” It was a lie. Tasha knew it, but hearing it, hearing just the promise of it from Porsche, was like a hug she needed. And she did. What Tasha was going through, the things she couldn’t control, was what she needed her mother and her words and her ears and her hugs for. She was supposed to be there. “I was thinking, why don’t we all go to Jamaica this summer—me, you, the girls, even Lionel?” Porsche asked excitedly. “Won’t that be great?”

“Yeah,” Tasha said, though she knew it would never happen.

“Wonderful!” Porsche said. “I’ll have my assistant call you to set it up. It’s going right on my calendar. I promise. No excuses.”

“Well, that’s good, because I really want you to—”

“Look, honey, I have to go,” Porsche interrupted Tasha. “I’m getting on a jet. My new boyfriend is flying me to Paris for the afternoon. We’re in Dubai. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, I was watching it on the news—”

“Gotta go, love,” Porsche said quickly. “Send my love to Toni and Tiana!”

There was a click and the line went dead.

“Tiara,” Tasha said to no one. “Her name is Tiara. Not Tiana.”

?

They were Fola, Bolade, and Nijala. In that order, Fatimah, Tamia, and Tanya were given their Yoruba-based names upon how their older sisters saw them interacting within the community. Fatimah, Fola—Baba explained after their lips had been rubbed with water, palm oil, a kola nut, honey, pepper, salt, and fish—was named for always respecting her elders. Tamia, Bolade, came to the Freedom Project with great honor. Tanya, Nijala, who was always smiling and cheering for her sisters, no matter the issue was named for bringing peace.

“Ase,” the big sister said, happily calling each of the women on the journey by their nicknames.

Though Malik had been keeping his distance from Tamia’s process, meeting her only to discuss his case during the afternoon before she met with her sisters or afterward as they rode the subway to see Badu and Ms. Lolly—who were still in a subway turf war—Tamia often saw him waiting outside of the work room where she met with Baba.

?

“You could’ve come in,” Tamia said, walking into the basement library where she found Malik studying after her naming ceremony. He was sitting at a workbench, surrounded by books. “Baba said the community was to be there.”

“I was there.” Malik smiled, but he didn’t look up at Tamia. As she was changing how she looked, how he looked at her was changing too. He didn’t notice it at first. He’d always thought she was a beautiful woman, and after she cut her hair he saw that she was even more than that. It was nice. But it was common. Most of the women who came into the project and began to accept their own beauty grew more beautiful in his eyes. He thought this was the same with Tamia. But one afternoon, as she sniffed an African musk Badu had rubbed on her wrist, Malik saw the side of her neck. As she laughed with Badu at something, she turned her head and it was there, defenseless, soft, brown. It made him feel hungry and then warm. He looked away fast. He asked Badu if he would sell him a vial of the musk. That night he would go home and smell it, thinking about Tamia again.

“But not inside,” Tamia said. “You didn’t come inside.”

“How do you know you weren’t the one outside and I was inside, my Nubian sister?” Malik joked, using the militant voice that always made Tamia laugh.

It worked.

“You’re so silly,” she said, giggling. “What are you reading?” She sat down beside him on the bench.

“Not reading, checking the stacks,” Malik started and Tamia could tell he was about to go on one of his passionate riffs. While she’d thought they were silly before, now she found them comforting. His dedication, how he lost his mind in something he cared for so much made her believe in dreams again. “You ever hear about what happened in Philadelphia in 1985 when eleven black people were killed?”

“No,” Tamia said.

“The government bombed the headquarters of Project MOVE, a militant organization,” Malik said. “They used helicopters to drop bombs on the roof of the building. And when the fire started spreading, the mayor, a damn brother, said, ‘Let it burn!’ Eleven people died that day. Five were children.”

“That’s awful,” Tamia said.

“You know, it is awful, but what’s more awful is that most people don’t know anything about it. People in Philly. Black people. Militant people,” Malik said. “We can fight for freedom all we want, but if we don’t record our own history, none of what we’ve done will matter.”

“I disagree. I understand what you mean, but I have to tell you, it doesn’t matter if not one book records change. If it happens, it happened.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” Malik said suddenly.

“What?”