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“Don’t do what?” I ask, my forehead creasing.
“Think you can change things. We work at a fashion magazine, Cat. Not the Washington Post.”
I huff out an annoyed laugh. “Just answer the damn question.”
Sophie lists exactly what she uses, from shampoo to styling.
“And how long did it take you to find those products?”
She huffs. “I don’t know. Are you writing a dissertation on this or what?”
I shrug. “Never mind. I’m not even working on this. It was just a thought.”
Sophie softens. “Okay. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“It’s just…In high school, I was always dying to get my hands on Jolie magazine. This edition in particular. And look,” I say, picking up the sample packet of Slim Quick tea. “This is what we’re selling to teenagers. We’re telling them that in order to be perfect, likeable, desirable, they have to use stuff like this. It’s just…” I look away, feeling foolish. I don’t know what it’s like to be like Sophie. To have almost no representation in the marketing world and very limited products tailored to her needs.
“We work at a fashion magazine, Cat,” Sophie says again, this time her shoulders slump and her tone contains less bite.
“Right, but more women whodon’tlook like her,” I say, pointing to the beautiful woman on our September cover, “read our magazine than do. Shouldn’t the list include items for every kind of woman?”
Sophie shrugs. “That’s not what sells magazines.”
I hum in agreement. “Maybe,” I say as an idea forms in my head. “But can you do me a favor?”
Sophie smiles. “Sure.”
“Can you make me a list of your favorite products, things you’ve tested yourself and use regularly? And also a list of things that have been a waste of money?”
“For Black girls, you mean?” Sophie asks.
I shrug. “Yeah. I can come up with a list of diets that don’t work. And workouts and fad teas,” I say, holding up the one in my hand. “But I don’t have any experience with your hair or skin. Soph, what I know about all of this is limited to what I’ve read in magazines.”
Her eyes soften. What’s left unsaid is what is always left unsaid. My understanding, when it comes to so many things in life, is derived from what I’ve gleaned from resources like Jolie. Because I don’t have a mother. Because I didn’t have anyone to teach me what makeup to use or how to insert a tampon. The staff at my grandparents’ home were kind and guided me when I needed help, but I’m sure they felt just as uncomfortable as Sophie does right now.
And if this were just about me, I’d drop it. But Sophie’s right; this magazine caters to one distinct group of people. Yet it’s consumed by so many. Wouldn’t it be nice if others were reflected in its pages too?
“This is foolish, isn’t it?”
Sophie smiles. “No, Cat, it’s really not,” she murmurs. Then, with renewed excitement, she says, “I’ll make you a list. And in the meantime, we can test out some of this stuff.”
* * *
Every nightfor the next week, we grab dinner, laugh, and talk for hours. Then her mother joins us for a glass of wine, and we fill her in on our days. Mia has stopped texting to ask when I’m coming home. I don’t even know why I’m not talking to her. Maybe it’s because I know she’ll force me to talk about Jay, and I’m just not ready for that.
When I’m not at school or Jolie, I work on the plans for the masquerade ball. I have to coordinate with charities, review linens selections, flowers arrangements, and theme possibilities. I refuse to dwell on the lack of menu.
Jay promised we’d choose it together, but I’m not holding my breath. I haven’t heard a word from him in five days, so I can’t imagine any of his promises stand.
It’s almost like the month of September was a dream. A crack in reality. A peek through a whirling vortex. The scene on the other side of what could have been, but never will be. I’m probably romanticizing our moments together because our connection was so forbidden. Were we not who we are, it probably would have been a two-week fling, if that. He would have tired of me quickly and moved on to his next hookup. It’s better this way.
Or so I tell myself.
“Daddy asked if we wanted to go out tonight,” Sophie says as she plops down beside me and hands me a coffee.
I roll my eyes. “You have to stop calling him that.” Though I feign annoyance at the way she refers to Dexter, I can’t help but break out in a fit of laughter.
Sophie joins in, and once we’ve calmed enough to speak coherently again, she says, “You can stay at my house tonight, but I’ll probably end up at his. Do you mind?” Sophie is wearing red today, and she looks gorgeous. Dexter is going to be hard all day if he sees her before we go out.
