Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“My wallet is always open.”
“It’s not your money I need this time. Though we’ll always take the kind that folds.” She laughs again, and it transports me back to the Finley dining hall when I could barely afford the cardboard they tried to pass off as pizza. “I want you to come for homecoming.”
“And do what? Nah, I’m under deadline.”
“Homecoming’s not for another month. I would’ve asked you sooner, but the idea just occurred to me.”
“And what made it occur?”
“Well, the fact that your daughter is homecoming queen, for one.”
I sit up straight in my chair and scowl. “What did you say?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
When did Celine and I last speak? She called last week, and I know she didn’t have my full attention because I was in the middle of a tough chapter, but I would remember her saying she was homecoming queen.
Wouldn’t I?
“It must have slipped her mind.”
We both know that would be the last thing to slip the mind of a young woman voted homecoming queen, but Janelle is kind enough not to say it. Or maybe in the years since we’ve seen each other, her kindness has evolved into professional discretion. Either way, I appreciate her not calling bullshit.
“Yeah, well, she is homecoming queen and I assumed you’d be here for her?”
The question dangles in the air posed with innocence, but to my guilty ears, tinged with accusation. How many times have I not been there for my daughter? Not because I didn’t love her, but because I loved the story. Loved the chase. Loved my job reporting “important” things to the rest of the world. Maybe Celine even thinks I loved those things more.
Who could blame her for wondering?
“I’ll call her as soon as we’re done. Of course, I want to be there, but that doesn’t mean I want to do whatever you’re proposing.”
“I know it’s the last thing on your mind, but it’s Finley’s centennial.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize.”
“Yup. A hundred years, so you know we ‘bout to turn up. It’s such a great year for Celine to be queen.”
“Yeah, it is. That’s amazing.”
“Well, we, of course already have a ton of stuff planned, but when Celine was voted queen, it started my wheels turning.”
“Oh, I remember those wheels. They always got us in trouble.”
“Hey, the dean dropped those charges, so don’t throw that shit in my face.”
I can’t help but laugh and shake my head. “Nelle, if you don’t get to the point. What do you want?”
“I want you to do an interview homecoming weekend.”
I stiffen in my seat. Over the course of my career, I’ve lost count of the number of interviews I’ve conducted, but being on the other side of the mic and pen—somebody digging through my trash? That I rarely do. My publisher insisted I do promo for my first book and I’m sure I’ll have to do some for this one, but answering questions about myself isn’t something I enjoy or do unless I absolutely have to.
“I’ll definitely show up for Celine, but not sure about the interview.” I glance at the calendar on my watch. “When is it?”
“Second week in October.”
And my daughter didn’t even mention it?
“Lemme talk to Celine and we’ll see.”
I feel pretty confident it’ll be a no on the interview, but Janelle and I got each other through three years of college before I left to spend my senior year abroad. We haven’t talked in a long time, but that counts for something. The least I can do is let her down gently.
“Please say yes, Touré. Can you imagine two of Finley’s most famous alums sitting down for an interview at our centennial homecoming? That would be fire.”
“Two alums? What do you mean?”
“You and Niomi. I thought it’d be cool if she’s the one interviewing you.”
Niomi.
The name lands on my chest and compresses the air in my lungs for a second.
She was part of our little clique in J School. There were a few of us, and it was clear from the beginning that Niomi Spencer and I were the most driven. It created an affinity between us that, by all rights, should have evolved into something else. Maybe it would have had I not spent that last year in Paris. Of course, I’ve heard her name over the years. If my career took me far and wide, indulged my wanderlust, Niomi’s planted her firmly here in the States as America’s sweetheart on the most popular morning show, served up like brown sugar in everyone’s coffee to start their day. We’ve even been in the same room a few times for state dinners, award shows, and the like, but we never offered each other more than a cursory greeting, each interaction cool, but with something boiling underneath. At least boiling for me. You don’t survive wars and hostile interviews with dictators without learning to dissemble a bit. Maybe what you see with Niomi is still what you get.