Vivian turned to look at a red-haired woman strutting down the sidewalk. She wore a plush red mink coat, her movements fluid and theatrical as she waved at merchants, her tan skin glowing under the sun, her presence demanding attention.
“Who’s she?” I asked.
“Girl who got her certificate, moved uptown, and went through some changes,” Vivian explained, judgment in her voice. “Found a rich husband, and now she blends right in with the white elite.Comes down here to flaunt her wealth and support the little businesses.”
I watched Anna May touch an African necklace on a street salesman’s table and engage him in conversation.
“I wonder how long it takes to lift your natural tone three complexions?” Daisy said, staring at her with a mix of awe and contempt.
“Is that even possible?” I asked.
Vivian spun my chair around, tilted it back, and began to run water over my hair. “You’d be surprised the inventions Negroes are coming up with to blend nowadays.”
Her words didn’t surprise me. What other choice did we have in this world? Although, in New York, the pressure to move up may have been worse.
Vivian washed my hair and gelled it. She finished up the cut with the clippers, and when she put the mirror in front of my face, I hardly recognized myself. All the kinks in my hair ironed into round curls.
“I don’t know what’s been done to me,” I said.
Daisy and Vivian both laughed. I felt more alive, just hearing people laugh at something I’d said. I could create humor! I wasn’t a depressing black hole.
Daisy reached over to run her fingers through my hair. “It looks wonderful!” she chirped.
Looking different made me feel different. Like I could throw my hat in the ring with the natives of this big and strange city. I did not need to go invisible or spend my life in bed. I could go on, despite my every impulse telling me not to move.
I could see myself starting again in the big, strange city of Harlem, with all its soaring buildings that carried the promise of new possibilities. My days of lying around in my undershirt should end! The world had not ended—so why should I?
4.
Early that night, after my haircut, I lay in bed under a strip of dusky light shining in from the window. I flipped through a pamphlet for West Egg that Daisy had given to me when we returned.
Inside were interviews with the school founder, Jay Gatsby Sr., who spoke of the school.I decided to open West Egg after my son spent a semester in France, he’d said.Jay Jr. loved Paris’s diversity and wanted to create that in New York. He envisioned a school with a culture of acceptance where migrants from the South could escape prejudice and access the opportunities of an elite education.
I didn’t hate the idea of an “elite education.” I’d learn everything I needed to understand life.
Could I attend an integrated school? Study math and English at the same desks as whites?
Well, it would depend on what kind of whites I’d find there, and I’d never know if I didn’t apply. My story could pave the way for my acceptance; surely white integrationists would love tohear about a grief-stricken Negro boy who fought his way up to New York, against all odds?
The pamphlet also highlighted various scholarships that could help cover the expenses. To get one, my application would have to be as bold, surprising, and showstopping as real life.
I sat on the floor and opened my notebook, but my hand shook on the page as I tried to write. All I could think about was how two unwavering pillars in my life—Pa and Mr. Wallace—were not here to help me. I had to discover my own way to express my purpose and what I hoped to become.
Come on, Nick.The words were somewhere at the bottom of an empty well. Pa’s voice was here to guide me, but came through my brain in staticky waves, as if through a radio.
I wrote and rewrote my story until the night inched closer to midnight and the homeless had started to dig through garbage outside. While fishing for the beauty in my tragic plight, I decided that the best way to get into West Egg was to make it seem like they could give me a second chance I couldn’t get anywhere else.
By morning, I was ready to seal up my letter and mail it off. All that was left to do was wait.
And check the mail.
And wait.
Checking the mail became my favorite afternoon hobby. During the day, I occupied my time at the Wash ’N’ Fold out back, sorting through some abandoned clothing from clientele to find dress shirts that weren’t ill-fitting. I found a shirt of virgin wool that fit like a poncho and stared at my reflection from everyangle, trying to convince myself it could work for the first day of school.
Uncle Beet appeared in the mirror, and the sight of his large and portly frame behind me made me feel like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Uncle raised an eyebrow. “What’s got you all excited to put nice clothes on all the sudden?”
