Chapter 12 Passing
Her mentor had a car, but she was always at her internship with her parents, or just out and Lydia didn’t want to be a burden.
“Riley and I look out for each other. I promise, I’m being as safe as I can be.”
She’d taken several self-defense classes since high school, courtesy of Aegis’s push to avoid the bad press most private schools were getting about how assault was handled on campus. From what she’d heard, they did a lot of work to educate the athletes about consent, too, but Lydia was always skeptical about how far those efforts went, given some of the things she’d heard.
She rarely had time to consider going to parties, and she used the night escort whenever possible, so she didn’t worry much about it.
“How was work?” Lydia asked, stepping onto the bus, she needed to get to her apartment. “More of the same?”
Her mom sighed, disappeared, and reappeared with a stack of books: kinesiology, sports medicine. Was her mom changing tracks?
She’d have to ask about that, but maybe she was just studying for the nursing test. Once, Lydia had thought she might go into medicine, but having a terror of blood ended that thought. Besides, her passion and talent had always lain in the arts.
The bus stopped at the end of the side street where her apartment was. It was a nice enough building, not fancy like the dorms, but affordable in the summer, cheaper during the school year, and central enough that she could get to work and classes without problem.
Her summer housing was subsidized by the fact that Megumi’s family owned the building, and they lived together. Because Megumi had given her the smallest room in the nicest apartment in the building, she paid severely under market rent.
No one complained of anything shady going on with her, her family or the building, so being Megumi’s mentee had always felt like a lucky break and an apology from the universe—for not having her older brother around. She climbed the steps to the second floor and went to her unit’s mail locker.
Inside were a few envelopes, but there was also a notice that there was a package for their unit in the package lockers. She took the slip and headed down the hallway, stopping at the right one to key in the code. The lock beeped and the door popped open.
The box was large with a festive, holographic stripe across the middle and the Chicago Blackhawks logo on the tape. Traitorous, considering the Fortuna Centurions, but there was no mistaking that the box was for Lydia.
She glanced at the screen. “What are you two sneaky people up to?”
“Nothing,” her mom said, suspiciously not in frame.
He grinned. “It’s there?”
“I thought it was nothing?” Lydia chuckled and bent down to grab the package. It was heavier than she expected. “Seriously. What’s in the box?”
“I think that’s why people open boxes?” Her grandpa drawled. “To figure out what’s in it.”
She scoffed, narrowing her eyes at it. There was another little logo on the box she didn’t recognize, but she shrugged and pulled out her knife to cut the tape. Her throat closed up. She was struck silent at the packages inside.
Several boxes of hair products, better than the ones she usually used, sat on top, unopened, brand new, without pricing stickers. The holographic strips of paper inside were the only other openly festive thing about it, but she knew without anything else why this box was here today.
A card sat on top, beautifully handwritten in pretty gold ink.
Another year, and your beauty has grown
Fed by your courage, strength, and resilience
Let this year’s beauty be nourished by your healing, growth, and compassion
Let this year be yours.
Her eyes burned. Guilt roiled in her stomach. The words were beautiful, but she couldn’t keep looking at them. She tucked it into the side.
They were far too close to the thing she couldn’t name, couldn’t allow herself to have despite that day being months away.
There were candles inside and a few bags of candy from the candy factory they went to in Indianapolis, a bag of Garrett’s popcorn, and a set of wet/dry styling brushes and combs, but beneath all of that was the largest box. She didn’t see the brand, but the image on the front told her enough.
They’d gotten her a new heat tool set for her hair.
“Mom…”
“It was your grandpa’s idea,” she said, coming back into frame. “I put two and two together when my flat iron went missing after the big chop…”
She swallowed. “Mom, I just…”
She didn’t have the words for the guilt or the shame that came with talking about her hair, why she’d started straightening it as soon as she left Chicago, and why she hadn’t done anything with it while there. She’d left the flat iron at home in the flurry of packing, and it had gnawed at her until she was able to press it all straight again.
She hadn’t eaten for three days after that, trying to hollow out the sense of disgust with her own actions. She loved her mom and grandpa. They and Quillan were the only family she’d ever known, and yet…
“Honey,” her mom said, her voice soft and compassionate. “It’s okay.”
“But… “ She sniffled. “Sometimes… Sometimes it doesn’t feel okay. It feels wrong. Like I’m trying to erase you, even when I’d rather—“
She broke off, because she couldn’t say those words.
“It’s not erasing us,” her grandfather said, bobbing his head. His eyes full of understanding. “You aren’t the first Black person to pass to get ahead. You’re just trying to survive, baby girl. There’s no shame in that.”
Her shoulders slumped as she looked at him. Grandpa was almost the same shade of tan that she was. She’d seen pictures of him in his youth with relaxed hair shaped into waves with pomade and resilience. He’d gotten into his position as a janitor at the best school in the city back much the way Lydia had gotten her job at the Resort: someone had mistaken his race, and he hadn’t corrected them.
“It’s… so unfair.” She sniffled. “I hate it.”
“Well, when you get to fill a few galleries with your work, you can talk about your flat iron days in your speeches,” her grandpa said and grinned. “Until then, don’t let a little thing like your curls keep you from your paper.”
Lydia laughed, nodding. “Okay.”
“Are you still working at the Bar?”
She sighed. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”
“Then it’s just as well. You said you got better tips when your hair was down.”
She shuddered at that, not wanting to ever explain why she never wore her hair down at work anymore. The chill of his hand on the back of her neck was bad enough as a memory. She didn’t want a repeat performance.
“Maybe jazz it up for a date?” Her mom flipped her nonexistent hair. “You’re still dating that boy, aren’t you?”