Chapter 35

When Sylvia arrived back home from her trip to see Owen, she was exhausted. She lay in bed and wasn't feeling well. Her stomach felt as if someone was twisting around her insides. She'd lost weight, and it hurt when she ate or drank. She could bear all of this if she wasn't alone. No one to lean on, no one to talk to, no one to cry with, no one.

She propped up the large, full pillows behind her back, took her cell phone off the nightstand, and scrolled through the numbers until she came to Claudia Roberts. She stared at her name, then decided to call her. Claudia answered in an upbeat and joyful tone.

"Hello," she said.

"Claudia, darling, it's Sylvia."

"Sylvia, how are you? I haven't heard from you since the anniversary party. Where have you been?"

She cleared her throat. "I've been busy. I...well...I'm sick."

"Sick? Well, are you in bed? Have you seen a doctor?" Claudia asked.

"Yes. I've seen a doctor," she replied.

"Oh, good. So, I've got so much gossip to fill you in on. I mean, you missed a wonderful party with the Beckers. You know how Francis Becker throws a party. She had the most fabulous food, but the decor was simply dreadful. Poor dear, she raved all night about her decorator. She has no taste and all the money. Such a shame."

She listened to Claudia go on about the music, food, who attended, what they wore, and who they were with. She laughed lightly at her anecdotes about the new maid or how she had to fire the gardener.

"So, are you coming to Spain next month? You know I just purchased a new villa, and Jackson is letting me throw a big party. The who's who will be there. You must come, Sylvia," Claudia said

"I don't think I'll be able to make it, Claudia," she said.

"Oh, no. Well, I'll be sure to tell you all about it. If you change your mind, let me know. I really must go now. It's been great hearing from you. Ciao."

In that moment, Sylvia realized she had no friends. Not one. She looked down at her phone and scrolled through the names until she came to Monica Dancy. She stared at the name. She remembered the last time she saw her. It was about 2 years ago at a dinner party.

During the party, she found herself alone with Monica. They were both in the restroom. Monica was fixing her hair in the mirror when she walked in. Monica looked at her in the mirror, then continued to fix her hair.

"I really don't know you why bother," Sylvia said. "It won't help." Monica shot her a look. "Really, Monica, why are you here? You don't belong here."

Monica froze, then turned, looked at her, and pierced her lips together. "No one wants me here? You've got that wrong; no one wants you here. Everyone knows what a bitch you are. When exactly did you get your invitation to this party? Or did you just hear about it and assume you were invited? Probably Claudia. She does feel sorry for you. We talk about it all the time. She's the only one who will have anything to do with you, and that's out of pity. Unlike you, Sylvia, I have friends – and unlike you, I don't have to pay people to be around me."

Monica tossed her hair and walked for the door. As she opened it, she said, "Oh, and Sylvia? Fuck you." She quickly walked out of the bathroom, letting the door slam behind her.

She was right, Sylvia thought to herself.

She threw the phone across the room and watched it shatter against the wall.

"Fuck!" she screamed.

For the first time, she understood what Monica had said. She was alone. She felt her eyes swell up with tears.

"I'm tired of fucking crying!" she screamed.

She slowly dragged herself out of bed and over to her desk. On the desk sat the black folder Sharon had given her. She slowly put her hand on top of the folder. She decided if Lily wouldn't meet her, she'd go meet Lily.

"You have to do this, T! We need you to do this," Chloe said into the phone. "Besides, it would be good exposure for your article."

"What the hell do I know about hosting?" she said.

"You're perfect," Chloe said.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Look T, we didn't even think about a host, and when we did, you were the first person we thought of. Come on, it's a few hours for one night," Zoe said.

Tallulah groaned into the phone. "Oh, okay. But this means I have to be there early, and I have Lily coming here for her makeup and stuff."

"Don't worry, I got you," said Chloe. "I'll meet Lily and make sure she gets to the open mic." "See, it all works out," said Zoe.

"Yeah, right," she said, not sounding happy.

"So, usually the host will kick off the show with something. You got poems and stuff. I know you do," Chloe said.

"Yeah, I got poems and stuff," she said. "I can do anything? Any poem?" "Of course," said Zoe. "It's an open mic."

Tallulah lay on her small sofa, with her legs dangling over one of arms. They'd asked her to host the open mic, and she just wasn't ready. She'd never read her poetry in front of an audience. She got up, walked into her bedroom, and began to rummage through the closet. After several moments, she found what she was looking for: An old large shoebox.

She took the box and placed it on the bed, then took off the lid to reveal all her old journals and notebooks. She'd kept a journal since she was eight but hadn't written anything for the past 5 years. She didn't know why; all she knew was, she didn't feel like writing anymore. "Did I lose my spark?" she said out loud.

It was in those quiet moments, brushing her teeth, doing laundry, drinking tea, that the doubts of her writing abilities would creep in. She'd always wanted to be a writer, and she was, but it wasn't like she'd written the great American novel. Moments of not being good enough or not being accepted had plagued her all her life. When those moments arose – and they did often – she would push them deep down inside. She forced herself to move forward.

She started going through each journal until she found one from her senior year in high school. She wrote a lot back then. She flipped through the journal and smiled when she came across an entry that read, "Beat Michael again today in chess. He's really obsessed with winning. You'd think he'd be proud because he taught me how to play the game. I don't see what all the fuss is about. Maybe I'll let him win tomorrow. He really is my best friend."

She continued to flip through the journal until she found an entry that read, "You Sound White".

It wasn't as much a journal entry as it was a poem. She continued to read:

My skin is black

And I offer no apologies

My lips are full

My hair is nappy

My ass is round

My thighs are big

And I offer no apologies

You've held me down

Pushing my head underwater

You laugh at me

Snicker and grin

Because I'm supposed to be less than

I'm educated and smart

I'm gonna leave my mark

On this world

So the words that I speak

And knowledge that I seek

All come to light

But again you try to hold me down

By telling me I sound white

My skin is black

And I offer no apologies

My lips are full

My hair is nappy

My ass is round

My thighs are big

But I know wrong from right

An educated sista

That you can't handle

So you tell me I sound white

You've got me trippin'

Like there's something wrong with me

But I can see, you just mad

'Cause I ain't what you'd thought I'd be

Brown skin white words

And I make no apologies

But people usually fear what they can't understand

Call me an anomaly

My skin is black

My lips are full

My hair is nappy

My ass is round

My thighs are big

And I make no apologies

But people usually fear what they can't understand

Call me an anomaly

Not black enough for blacks

And too black for the whites

All because you say I sound white.

As she read the last sentence, she decided she would open with this poem. It still resonated with her; even now as an adult, she encountered these same words from both Black and white people.

She remembered on the first day of AP English, a girl in class told her she was trying to sound white. When she interviewed for a position at a large newspaper, one of the interviewers had slipped and told her she sounded white. The guy she dated told her she sounded white. She'd always felt the need to defend her Blackness, but now, in this moment, she didn't care anymore. At the end of the day, she was still Black.

She continued to go through her journals until she found 3 more poems she'd written in college. She read each poem. "Not bad," she said to herself. She put the poems aside and put the box back in the closet.

The apartment was quiet. Michael had moved out, and Tallulah lived alone again. She had gotten used to having him around, but she knew he wouldn't stay long. She heard a knock at the door and walked out of the bedroom and to the front door. She opened it to find a smiling Mrs. Herrera, who held a basket in her hands.

"Hola, Tallulah, are you hungry?"

<gdiv></gdiv>