Saving for an apartment was a Sisyphean feat, and she refused her mother’s persistent requests to help. Brinton’s confidence couldn’t survive another hit.
“Or you could sell pictures of your ears?” Shay mused. “Make an app and call it something sexy like…‘Only Lobes’?”
Athena and Brinton exchanged perplexed looks.
“I’ve seen your feet. Nobody deserves that.” Shay cackled, drunk off her own wit.
Brinton launched a throw pillow at Shay’s head. “Ha-ha. You should take this routine on the road, like back to your apartment.”
She turned to her mother and softened. “If I quit now, the last four years were a waste. I’ll figure it out.”
“Girl, wake up!” Shay waved her withering croissant in the air. “Don’t you get the sense that they’re using you? They’ve had four years to promote you but haven’t. Why? Becauseas long as they have one Black person on the masthead, they can pretend to be this forward-thinking company that”—she made air quotes with her index fingers—“values diversity. You’re a melanated bargaining chip.”
Deep down, though excruciating to admit, Brinton knew this. Even with her recent post-Grammys slump, her work was solid, and while she wasn’t particularly close with hercolleagues, she’d never received a single disciplinary action that would warrant being benched as an entry-level staff writer for so long.
“Remember your first day?” Shay tutted. “Rich talked all that mess about being your ‘authentic self’? But we know what he really meant was, be ‘authentic’ to his expectations. Approachable, but not ditzy. Savvy, but not a know-it-all. Malleable enough to notch into both obvious and covert perceptions about you: where you were from, where you went to school, if that was your real hair.”
“Whether or not I grew up with a father,” Brinton put in, shaking her head. “I thoughtLandmarkwas going to be my big break. I wanted to leave my mark.”
When she first started atLandmark, Brinton spoke up in meetings, questioning problematic story pitches that leaned heavily on racial stereotypes. There were only so many “hip-hop’s unlikely white savior” discussions Brinton could stomach. She was always met with a chorus of groans and calls that she was being “too literal” or “too sensitive” or “too much.”
She offered to help with brainstorming for future issues. This, of course, only led to her own burnout. Eventually she was doing the work of three different people for the same title and meager pay.
The last straw came on her one-year anniversary, when Brinton finally had the courage to demand Rich change the office-wide playlists to only feature versions of songs that edited out the N-word, which none of her colleagues bothered to omit when singing along off-key.
“It makes me uncomfortable to hear it, for hours on end, being the only person in the office who identifies as African-American,” Brinton had told him. “I’m just asking to make an effort, because I’m on this team too. Shouldn’t we make it a safe space for everyone?”
Rich, however, felt that it was their job—as a team—to be “dialed into” the cultural zeitgeist. “That means appreciating music in its original form. It shouldn’t feel political or like a personal attack,” he reasoned.
Later, at the team editorial meeting, the entire staff found her guilty of “killing the vibe.”
“See, everyone elselovesthe playlists,” Rich had said. Then, brightly, “Have you considered wearing headphones?”
It was clear then that Brinton was never going to get the support she needed from Rich, or anyone else atLandmark, and that being a “team player” meant accepting the poison with a smile.
But she couldn’t quit, not until she’d gotten a cover story she could be proud of. So she stopped asking so many questions and stopped advocating to deaf ears, because bemoaning it all felt like a self-inflicted wound. Because Brinton was living the new American Dream: blessed with an Ivy League education and aBlack Jobcountless others would never experience. So, she did what she had to.
“That’s why I’ll write an amazing cover story. I’ll leverage it to get my reputation back,” Brinton told Shay, peeling back her croissant’s tender center. “I’m not going to let a thirty-second Grammys interview screw me over forever. I’ll figure something out.”
“That’s a lot to manage, baby,” Athena started. “Have you given more thought to?—”
“Therapy?” Brinton edged in. She slumped down, dragging the quilt over her head. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
Brinton had tried seeing a psychologist a few times over the years, always at her mother’s behest, but it never stuck. Eventually, every doctor had expected her to have made some progress with the various coping techniques for intrusive thoughts. But Brinton’s fears were too overwhelming to outrun. They engulfed her before she could catch her breath.
“I’m worried that you’re letting life happen to you,” Athena reasoned. “And you deserve so much more.”
Shay stood and crossed to Brinton’s open closet door. She swiped through a few hangers before landing on a slinky black midi dress. It still had the tags. “Mom’s right. It’s been three months. You’re in a rut.”
“You can’t borrow that,” Brinton droned. She poked one eye out from beneath the quilt.
“Why not? It’s not like you ever go out anymore.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Athena interjected, waving a shea butter–anointed hand.
“Sorry,” Shay said, extending her vowels like a petulant teenager. She marveled at the dress, as if it hid the Holy Grail in its halter neckline. “This dress is a masterpiece. It deserves to be peeled off slowly by a stupid-hot man. Preferably when pressed against his bedroom wall…”
Athena hid her smile behind her coffee mug.
