I’d never felt more like an outsider than I did now.
The hostess led us along the restaurant’s plush carpet, whose decor dripped in luxury in a way that I’ve never experienced up close. Carpet. An impractical choice for a restaurant, but as I walked through the dining area, practicality wasn’t their vibe, clearly. Heavy eggplant velvet curtains dripped along the wall. Chandeliers flickered with low light, casting the expensively dressed patrons in shadowy conversations. Wine glasses rested on white linen tables. Despite living in Philadelphia my whole life, I’d never ventured into the moneyed part of town.
“We made a reservation for three, not two.” Kate corrected the hostess when we arrived at the two-top table.
The restaurant was quiet, laced with a hushed murmur, as if secrets were being whispered. Thanks to the unexpected drizzle, my hair was puffing into a Chia pet commercial. We circled the two-top table. Its thick claw legs rooted in place.
The hostesses’ eyes bulged ever so slightly. “I’m so sorry,” before ducking away from us.
I wondered if Kate was lying about the reservation.
Kate had asked me to prepare the documents for this meeting. Despite being a program associate, Kate seemed to believe I was also a paralegal/accountant/executive assistant/therapist. I’d worked with her long enough to know when to nod along to her irrational rants, draft investor briefs, or organize our annual financial budget for board approval.
We both knew I worked above my title. I’d put my head down and worked hard, without complaints, for years. My promotion felt inevitable. Obvious. Or at least that’s what I’d thought. But my performance review came and went yesterday without a mention of it. The omission festered in my stomach like a picked scab.
Kate stood, legs hip-width apart, not tucked like mine. I adjusted my stance to match hers. I unfurled my back, feeling the crack along my vertebrae. The space between my ribs opened.
Her signature red cat-eye glasses perched high on her head. It was the only pop of color in her otherwise all black attire, a loose black dress and heels. Mascara smudged in the corners of her eyes.
Gottcha. I knew it was petty, but I couldn’t help but delight in the minor blemish. When my social anxiety got the best of me, my mother insisted no one was perfect, no matter how perfect they presented. She’d point out the myriad of flaws in herself, ones I’d never seen. While it wasn’t what my mother meant, looking for flaws in people who intimidated me helped calm my nerves.
The hostess searched for unoccupied seats but returned carrying a heavy upholstered footstool. “This is the only one available,” she said, presenting it to us like an unwanted cat offering of a dead bird.
Kate’s foot jiggled, and her irritation rose from her feet. I took a step back, hoping to avoid the tornado that would inevitably erupt if the situation weren’t rectified. I scanned the room for vacant chairs, nearly bumping into an older man.
He addressed only Kate. “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?” his voice was low, managerial.
“I hope so. We are a party of three. We made a reservation, and as you can see, there are only two chairs.”
He nodded, understanding. “Let’s see what we can do. Please have a seat. We will get this all sorted, ma’am.” He motioned for Kate to sit down and pulled the hostess aside, whispering in her ear.
Kate turned back to me, her eyes scanning my fizzing afro. Rain droplets hovered on my head. Using the water to slick it to my head, I patted down the frizz, knowing full well that water would only make the frizz worse when it dried.
“This could mean a promotion for all of us,” Kate reminded me. Promotion. The leash that tethered me to this woman for the better part of a decade.
How did a person bring up asking for a promotion? A fancy restaurant seemed like a great place to do it, especially if Kate had a few drinks in her.
My hands were still attempting to coax smooth submission into my hair when a woman wearing chunky bejeweled rings approached our table. A blond bob framed her face. Her skin was ageless, the wrinkles pressed out of her face.
“Kate! It’s so good to see you again. Thank you for adjusting your schedule to meet me today. I fly back to Seattle this evening.” Both women bared their bleached, perfect smiles. Kate rose with a practiced ease and air kissed both sides of the woman’s face. Marissa was a corporate lawyer who lived in Seattle but had a country house near Kate’s. The women slipped into an easy conversation about country homes and skiing. I stood a half step behind Kate, inconsequential.
As if just remembering, “This is Hannah,” Kate waved toward me.
Marissa blinked, noticing me for the first time. Her thin, pale fingers, encrusted in heavy bejeweled rings, fluttered in the air as she tried to work something out in her head. I melted under the scrutiny of her expectant look.
“Your tan is so lovely.” The bejeweled woman asked without offering her name back.
My tongue laid swollen, limp in my mouth.
“Hannah is our secret weapon. She’s Ethiopian-American, so she has the pulse on the ground in Africa,” as if my melanin needed an explanation.
I blushed and laughed nervously, but said nothing to disagree.
With Kate’s promises of travel to the continent, I’d eagerly accepted the job. My first red flag should have been when Kate spoke of Nigeria and Ethiopia interchangeably during the interview. Being on opposite sides of the continent was a detail she didn't believe mattered. But I’d ignored it. It was the closest opportunity I had to fill in the empty spaces of my lineage, a void left by my mother.
That was seven years ago, and this restaurant was the furthest I’d traveled.
I held out my hand to shake the woman’s hand, but was intercepted by the manager.
“Apologies, ladies. All our chairs are reserved. Our hostess informed me, she’s offered other accommodations.” He nudged the footstool towards me. “We apologize for the inconvenience.”
My cheeks burned from the wayward stares of nearby patrons, enjoying their wine and caviar. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole, become invisible. “I see an empty table right there,” I suggested, pointing to the back wall.
But his eyes remained on Kate. “Please accept our apologies for the inconvenience.”
Kate waved him away, not wanting to cause a scene while her friend was watching. “It’s fine,” her voice a full octave higher.
The women took their seats, placing the phones on the table like weapons. I squatted on the ottoman, trying to scout it closer, but it was just as heavy as it looked. How did the hostess carry this thing on her own? It was too late to get up and readjust this absurd piece of furniture, so I perched myself on the edge and leaned toward the women, as if they were the sun’s light and I, a plant seeking its warmth. But they had no interest in shining their light in my direction.
I didn’t understand what Marissa’s law firm did, but Kate insisted Marissa could represent us. I didn’t like the sound of the case since the idea was seeded at last week’s All Staff meeting. To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought. The lawsuit seemed ridiculous, and I was happy to keep my distance from it. But when Kate invited me to the meeting, there was only one acceptable answer.
Now, I can’t help but wonder the reason I’m here. Kate always had an agenda. Was my blackness being used to make this case more palatable? A token to be trotted out when it was time to show how progressive we were. That’s how capitalism worked: we sold off bits of ourselves for money. At least I’d get a nice meal out of it.
The women moved on from skiing to volleying their children’s accomplishments. Marissa gushed about her youngest's latest piano recital.
“Recruiters are already calling us. Can you believe it? She’s only a sophomore.”
Not to be outdone, Kate boasted about her daughter’s debate championship. “I’m so glad Alysa’s ability to debate everything has finally paid off. That girl will make a great lawyer one day. We’ve just hired a tutor for her SATs: Preston Gregson.”
“Preston is a doll! We love him. Expensive, but worth every penny. He got our eldest into the University of Pennsylvania last year,” Marissa cooed.
I nodded along as if I knew Preston, or was at all interested in their competitive parenting. My nerves already waned into boredom. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Grateful for something to do with my hands, I clicked open the text.
Dad: What time are you and Wachira coming over tomorrow?
Me: 1 pm
Dad: Great. Can you pick up some bacon?
Me: Sure. Can’t talk. At a work thing.
Despite having weekly lunches for nearly six months, they still felt new, awkward. A part of our weekly ritual was the Friday night text to confirm our attendance. Each time, he seemed surprised we were still coming.
Another text from Wachira popped up on my screen.
Wachira: We just arrived at the bar. It has an entire wall of pickle jars. Are you sure you don’t want to join? ;)
Me: Gross.
Wachira: Which part? Pickles or joining?
Me: Both.
Wachira knew I would decline, but I loved that he always asked me. As if being away from me pained him. But tonight, I was grateful he had a distraction from his endless job search. For months, he sent his resume to every software company in the tri-state area. The only interviews Wachira secured were with applications where he used his English name on his resume. But those interviews left him self-conscious about his accented English and foreign diploma. His confidence drained out of him like a bike tire leak. He picked up a few shifts driving for every available ride-sharing app, but the money was never enough.
When I looked up, the waiter returned to take our orders. I slipped my phone back in my pocket. The women ordered quickly, hardly glancing at the menu, as if they already knew everything on it. A jolt of anxiety rushed through me as I picked up the delicate piece of paper that passed for a menu. The engraved silver cursive was nothing like the oversized laminated menus I was used to. The names of the dishes read like poetry and were just as unintelligible. In a panic, I picked the first thing I recognized: pan-seared salmon.
I’d come a long way from the days when I lived off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When I was nine years old, I lived off them for nearly two weeks. My mother had left us, but we hadn’t realized it yet. It didn’t occur to me as something mothers could do. But as the dishes piled up in the sink and scabs of food dried on abandoned plates, it became undeniable.
Go do your homework, my father had yelled, shooing me out of the room when I asked about her. Any noise set him off, but I missed all of it. I missed how music filtered out of the kitchen, my mother making up lyrics while pots clanked in the background. After a month, I knew she wasn’t coming back, and the house settled into silence as we circumvented our heartbreak.
There is an indelible loss of innocence when your parents fall from the pedestal they’ve been perched.
I did my best not to get in the way. Be quiet. Don’t ask questions. Clean my room. I’d scraped the kitchen chair across the tiles, climbed up on the counter, and pulled down the peanut butter from the top shelf. I left him sandwiches on the kitchen counter, and in the morning, only crumbs remained. Maybe he would forget I was the reason she left, and I could earn his love back. It was time to grow up.
Kate’s phone lit up, and our eyes instinctively glanced at the phone flashing–Liar: Do Not Answer. Although she never spoke of it, I knew it was a messy divorce. It was my job to read people, especially Kate. To know her needs before she realized them. To know them so well, it felt like instinct. Marissa averted her eyes with a knowing intimacy. Kate silenced the call and flipped the phone face down on the table.
I understood that feeling, wanting to ignore the reality of a situation you never wanted in the first place.
Kate continued speaking without missing a beat, launching into her presentation. I hoisted my computer onto the table, waiting for her cue. Within a few seconds, the phone buzzed again. Unable to resist, she peeked at the caller ID: Alysa.
“I’m so sorry, ladies. My daughter is with her father this week. We’re still getting used to this... arrangement. I have to take this.” She stood to rise. “Hannah can walk you through the presentation.”
My mouth was slightly agape, knowing the promotion hung in the space between us. Before I could respond, she turned on her heel, phone pressed to her ear. Despite having made the presentation, I wasn’t prepared to give it.
Kate reveled in being the center of attention. I hated it. It’s why we worked well together. Marissa turned her attention towards me.
“Of course.” I inched to the edge of my ottoman. “As Kate was saying–”
“I can’t hear you from over there, dear. Come sit,” Marissa gestured to Kate’s empty seat.
I shuffled over to the empty seat, using the extra moment to still my harried breath. Over the years, I’d watched Kate enchant countless people. She could turn on and off her charm like a faucet. It was both mesmerizing and terrifying. I cleared my throat and channeled her tutelage.
“Let’s start again,” I smiled and pushed my computer towards her. “As you know, we’ve been working in Nigeria for twelve years. We’ve had a great working relationship until recent legislative changes, which have hindered us from operating as agreed in our contract.” I paused, hoping she wouldn’t make me elaborate–to say the silent part out loud.
“So now we’re operating at a loss, and this will put us out of business within a few months, ultimately eliminating hundreds of jobs.” People loved using the number of jobs as a talking point without considering the quality of the jobs. “We can move our production to another country, but that will take time and money.”
Marissa leaned in towards my laptop screen, decoding graphs as I spoke. Based on new, slightly inflated financials, we’d projected a loss of 32 million dollars. The number was absurd.
“As you can see here, the cost of finding a new factory in a new country will take time and money, exacerbating our loss.” With every graph I clicked through, I was terrified she would ask me to explain the ridiculous numbers Kate included.
But she didn’t. Instead, Marissa scribbled notes in her notebook even after the server brought our food, further crowding our small two-top table. My stomach growled. I tried not to stare at the juicy strips of filet mignon and buttery mashed potatoes on Kate’s plate.
"Very impressive, Hannah. With this level of detail and documentation, we won’t have a problem winning this case. Well done," Marissa said as Kate rejoined our table.
“I told you she was our secret weapon,” Kate said, standing behind me with her hand resting on the back of the chair. Somehow, the compliment felt like an insult.
I slid back on the ottoman, giving Kate her seat back. Relief drained out of me, and hunger flooded in. The pan-seared salmon sat on a bed of micro-greens and was layered on tiny slices of baby radish. I poked at the thin slices of breaded fish, revealing its pink fleshy insides.
“Apologies to cut this short, but I need to go pick up my kid.” Kate waved the server back to the table with a wrist flip.
I gulped down the food, sensing that this was not a restaurant that obliged takeout requests. The more I ate, the more my hunger unleashed.
Kate slipped the credit card into the black folder without checking the bill. “We’ll send over the financials showing the three-year projected loss on Monday morning.” Her eyes bore into me, making it clear I would be the one to do it. As if it had ever been in question.
“Yes, absolutely.” I nodded.
I gathered my computer as the two women hugged. Nausea rolled through me as we left the restaurant. Standing outside, the cold air felt good on my hot skin. The women ducked into taxis and were swallowed by the evening’s traffic – my hopes of bringing up the promotion escaped with them.
***
As soon as I opened the apartment door, the pungent smell of onions and garlic sizzling on the stove greeted me like a sucker punch. The sharp acidity of the onions and garlic tossed my stomach into violent flips. I ran to the bathroom, where I just barely reached the toilet in time to throw up my free dinner. Maybe the salmon wasn’t supposed to be quite so raw.
My bones felt laden, and my muscles jellied. I peeled myself off the floor and rinsed my mouth. My face looked every inch as raggedy as I felt. Had I looked like this during the presentation? I kicked off my shoes and threw my bag on the floor, its contents spilling on the floor. Too tired to care, I climbed into our unmade bed.
Wachira peeked his head into the room. The outline of his muscular body darkened the doorframe.
