Should Have Known Better

“She what? No! No, you didn’t—” I turned back to her.

“No, I didn’t ask. She asked. She said she wants to talk to you. Catch up.” My mother sounded like I was five years old and she was convincing me to make friends on my firs

t bus ride to school.

“I can’t believe you,” I said. “And I’m not doing it. I am not going to lunch with Kerry because she feels sorry for me.”

“I can’t cancel. I already set it up.”

“You set it up? For when?”

“Today.”

I walked out of the room.

Kerry Jackson was Spelman’s Black Barbie. She was the kind of girl who, when other girls were around her, they couldn’t help but look. She was beautiful. Dark and had long black hair. And she came from a good family. Had money. Got good grades. Had a great reputation. Her mother went to Spelman and pledged our chapter. But Kerry didn’t join. Some people said it was because she didn’t like that the chapter wasn’t “taking in” girls her color and it was clear that they’d only take her because she was a legacy since her mother was a member, too. That made a lot of people hate her. I remember the day after Sasha and I crossed into the sorority, we were with our sisters in the cafeteria, wearing our jackets and singing and Kerry walked in. She was alone, dressed in all black with a single strand of thick aqua pearls around her neck and right wrist. We kept singing and dancing, but when she came in, eyes left us and went to her. They couldn’t stop looking at her. And I was with them. What she did—that she wasn’t trying to be a part of the crowd—made her stand out to me. And add the fact that my mother worked for her mother. I watched her from behind for the next two years and prayed she’d never turn around. And when she did, I’d wave and smile. Never speak. That would acknowledge something we both knew and didn’t want to talk about.

When I reluctantly walked into the restaurant later that afternoon after talking to my mother, I was looking for the beautiful girl I saw in the black dress and aqua pearls. My mother drove me across town to Murphy’s where I was supposed to meet Kerry at 1:00 p.m.

I looked around the restaurant after telling the maître d’ I was meeting a friend. She mentioned a woman sitting toward the back at a table and I peeked, but I was sure the woman with the short Afro reading a book wasn’t her. I said I’d wait. I stood around for ten minutes watching a couple share pictures on their phones at the bar.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was getting late. Maybe she’d gotten stuck in traffic, I thought: we were in Atlanta. Maybe she’d canceled though, I thought, after realizing that she was about to meet a woman for lunch whom she hardly knew. I scanned the room and somehow I kept going back to the woman with the short Afro.

This time, she looked up from her book and toward the front of the room. She took off these black spectacles and there was Kerry.

I looked for a second to make sure it was her and then I made my way to the table.

“Kerry?” I said, ambling through the maze. “It’s me, Dawn. I was waiting up front.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Kerry got up and hugged me. She was wearing a loose pea green yoga set and when she moved, her top seemed to flow over her skin.

“You look so different,” I announced almost involuntarily.

“Oh, everyone says that.” Kerry laughed as the waiter pulled out my seat. “I can’t be that different. Really? Come on.”

“No, you’ve changed. Changed a lot,” I said. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said. “So what’s up with you, Ms. Lady? How have you been?”

“Alive. I’m sure my mother gave you an earful. She told me she spoke to you and your mother.”

“Oh, thank God you know.” Kerry exhaled. “I was thinking I’d have to sit through this lunch and get you to tell me what’s going on yourself. You know she swore me to secrecy.”

“Yeah, after she told all of my business,” I said.

“Well, join the club!” She picked up her glass of water and clinked mine. “Look, you don’t have to feel any pressure. If you don’t want to talk about what’s going on, we don’t have to. I was just hoping to get you out of the house. I remember when I was where you are at. I’d go days in the dark.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So what were you reading?” I pointed to the book she’d stashed in the chair beside her. “I’m just being nosy. I’m a librarian.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” She reached for the book and put it back on the table. “It’s just a textbook. I’m finishing my Master’s in Public Health.”

“That’s . . . wonderful,” I said, laughing at repeating her word.

“One more class and I’m done! This one is killing me.”

“What are you going to do with it—the degree?”

“I’m going to open a clinic for handicapped mothers,” Kerry explained. “A place where they can come and get special services and see doctors who are experienced with their needs. I’ve already got a location, start-up money, and interested physicians.”