I was nervous to say it aloud but did so anyway. “I’m hoping to get accepted into West Egg Academy.”
That made both of Uncle Beet’s eyebrows raise, like he’d seen a night demon. “West Egg.Well, that’s impressive, nephew, but just how do you plan on paying for that? West Egg is one of the most expensive schools in the city.”
I was surprised at Uncle Beet’s reaction—it was so different from Daisy’s. “Well, they say they offer scholarships to people traveling up here from down South.”
“Even so, you’d have to set about thirty dollars aside for room and board,” he said. “You’d need bus fees to travel across Manhattan weekly. Then there’s books and supplies.” Uncle started pulling clothes out of a hamper and throwing them in the washer. “East Egg’s got us dried out for Daisy’s education already—to be amaid, at that. Working for a white man—Can you believe it? I don’t know what it is about these elite schools that excites your auntie so.”
I stayed quiet, thinking of how to shift the focus from money. I didn’t want to spend the few dollars I had stashed away. That money would be my safety net if my world fell apart again. Betterto keep it close. Quiet. To myself.
“If I don’t go to school, I’ll sleep all day, Uncle,” I said. “I don’t think anybody wants that.”
Uncle looked at a pillowcase with some dried drool on it. “Definitely go to school if that’s the alternative,” he said. “Pretty soon your slobber is gonna fuse with the fabrics.”
He stopped what he was doing, looked at me, and assessed my interest. Then he chose to support it. “Matter of fact?” he said, coming to put his arm around my shoulder. “I know just what you need, nephew.” He led me out of the Wash ’N’ Fold and walked me to the end of the driveway, where he pointed to the shops at the end of our street. “You see what I’m pointing to?”
I squinted out, but there was a lot to see on the corner of Amsterdam and 130th. Some men passing by in tailored suits, cigars in hand. The store for haircare, and a man outside the store waving this tub of cream around.
“We have strayed so far from ourrootsthat we now try to change the veryrootof our scalps!” the man shouted, as people moved around him. “Textureplanted by a one-handedjesteron aquestto run us from our home! Forshame! Who’s to blame? Boycott the relaxer, my brothers and sisters.Refuseto play the white man’s game!”
“Um... a demonstrator?” I said.
“No, boy,” Uncle responded. “BehindMegaphone Melvin.”
I squinted at the haircare shop behind him, where aHelp Wantedsign sat in the window. “Oh. That.”
“There you go!” Uncle Beet let out a hearty laugh. “I got threefriends I want you to meet—J, O, and B. They’ll get you everywhere you need to go and further, without running my bank account into Hell!” He gave me a big slap on the back. “Good luck, nephew,” he said, and turned down the driveway.
Okay, so my uncle may have had a point. To have a real shot at finishing my West Egg diploma, I’d need a job—scholarship or not.
I decided to take the train downtown and start there. It would help me practice my commute from West 131st to 124th for my travel to West Egg, in the event I got in.
I started at a corner jewelry store with aHelp Wantedsign in the window. I straightened my cap and pushed through the door, but before I could even ask, the manager—a Negro man—was already shaking his head, eyes glancing over me with disinterest.
“We need someone who’s done this work before, son,” he said, his tone final.
What was he, some sort of psychic? How did he know what I’d done before? Or that I was even here to apply?
I swallowed my pride and tried the hardware store next door. The owner listened, politely enough, as I stumbled through my experience, hands fidgeting, trying to sell myself on my willingness to work.
“Sorry, young man,” he said, finally, with a shrug. “I got boys out in trade school for this. You understand that, don’t you?”
I nodded humbly and left the store, the rejections from my own people weighing heavy on my soul. Where would I stand a chance, if not at the Negro-owned places in Harlem?
My third try was for a restaurant, tucked into a narrow storefront, half hidden by a red awning, a cardboardStaff Neededsign out front. It was small inside, with a handful of tables crammed together. Lanterns created a soft glow, and tapestries of mountains and calligraphy hung on the walls. It smelled of ginger and smoke.
Through a window to the kitchen, I saw a man who looked Chinese stacking plates. At the far end of the restaurant was a young person around my age—a boy with neatly combed dark hair, dressed in an apron that was too big for his slim frame—wiping down tables.
The man looked up at me and immediately shook his head. “No,” he said as if he knew what I was here for. He came through a door to the main area. “Our customers... they want a certaintypeof person,” he explained to me. “It’s not personal. You understand?”
I nodded humbly and left without a word, shoulders sagging, my confidence chipped away.
I’d only gotten a few steps down the street when I heard footsteps rushing up behind me. I looked back to see the busboy, running toward me.
“Hey!” he called, holding out a square of paper.
I hesitated, glancing from the application in his hand to his earnest face. He was doe-eyed, with long eyelashes, a natural gentleness, and a lightness to his movements.
“Don’t listen to my stepfather. We could always use more help,” he said quietly, with a smile, his eyes holding an apologyfor the man who rejected me. “Just fill it out, and I’ll try to talk to my grandparents.”
