Page 48 of A Song for You

“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, likable, 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 who don’t look 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 night for 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.

“I’m good, Soph, I promise.” I give her an encouraging smile. “Cynthia asked me to be in her office at ten. I’ll see you later?”

“Bye, babe.”

I hurry into the bathroom, smooth my skirt, and apply gloss to my lips. In the mirror, I study my reflection. My grandmother has always sworn I’m a carbon copy of my mother. I’ve seen pictures, and the resemblance really is striking. Cash and I look like her, whereas Carter is my father to a T, and Chase is…well, he’s a mixture of both of his parents. But we don’t talk about his mother. The affair happened after my mom died, and his has never been in the picture.

Growing up without a mother was hard on us all. But at least Carter had Mom until he was nine. I can recall snapshots of time with her. Her smell. Her laugh. But I don’t know what she was like. Who she was. I wonder what she would think of my job. From the pictures I’ve seen, her beauty appeared effortless, and she was the epitome of fashion. I can’t imagine she would condone the diets or the teas. From what little I do remember, she enjoyed lying in bed, snuggling with us kids. Dancing around the kitchen, laughs, smiles, comfort.

Before I can get misty-eyed, I halt that train of thought. I have a job to do and a boss to impress. After one last glance in the mirror, I pull my shoulders back and head to Cynthia’s office.

Rose is perched in one of the guest chairs when I step inside. I give her a friendly smile as I drop carefully into the chair beside her and am met with a blank stare in return. Miraculously, I manage to hold in my eye roll. She’s the stereotypical assistant to the editor at a fashion magazine. Straight down to the willowy frame and resting bitch face.

“Catherine, how has your week been?” Cynthia asks from across the desk.

Realizing I’ve been caught staring at Rose, I place my hands over my lap and fold my ankles like my grandmother taught me. “Great, good—I mean, everything has been fine.”

She smiles. “Excellent. Mr. Hanson mentioned that the kitchen couldn’t accommodate you last week, so he scheduled a tasting for today. They’re expecting you at twelve.”