Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

LEAH HENDERSON (#ulink_e52df983-227e-5144-a679-26314150a0c2)

“Almost there,” I whisper, straining as my fingers grasp for the brick ledge. Flecks of fuchsia and gamboge paint crust over bits of my brown skin. A smear of cobalt shines on the cuff of my sleeve. Evidence. The window eases up without a sound as wind screams through empty branches behind me. Heat from the radiator blasts my face as I lean in from the cold. I hoist my upper body inside. My heart thuds in my ears.

In twenty-four hours, all my secrets will come out. No more hiding. Parents’ Weekend and Mom and Dad can’t be avoided.

I close the window against the New England chill, pressing my forehead against the glass. I’ve made it. I’ve actually made it. And no one knows what I’ve done—at least not yet.

The night outside is settled, silent, even with my little commotion. No prying eyes or raised blinds meet me as I stare across the dark, sparsely lit quad. I let my bag slump to the floor and flick off my sneakers. At my desk, the never-mailed early-admission application peeks out from behind a stack of books. I should’ve tossed it weeks ago, but I can’t. Years of work went into those pages. Work I’m now willing to jeopardize.

Dad’s going to find out about it at some point soon, but not tonight.

My notebook lies open. Assignments unfinished. And despite nervous adrenaline rushing through me, focusing on medieval civilizations might calm the thumping in my chest, but a hot shower in an empty bathroom sounds even better.

Peeling off my hoodie and leggings stirs up a nose burn of turpentine, my favorite scent. The three-a.m. quiet in a freshman house is a perk of being an upper-class dorm proctor—mandatory lights-out for everyone else. I wrap my robe around me and grab my shower cap and caddy.

When I step into the hall, I overlook the beams of light streaming out from under a few closed doors—the telltale signs of all-nighters in progress. As long as no one makes a sound, this is another rule I’m willing to ignore.

The motion-sensor light brightens as the bathroom door swings open. A muffled sniffle interrupts the silence.

So much for a relaxing shower.

“Hello? It’s Nivia. Is everything okay?” I step into the stark white-tiled room that always smells of sweet pears and lilacs.

Finding someone sniffling in the bathroom in the early-morning hours at Caswell is never strange. It’s almost a rite of passage.

And it’s rarely about a crush or missing home. Pressure to meet expectations gets to all of us. Everyone cracks at some point. Mini meltdowns are the price paid for a Caswell Prep seal of approval.

I wonder if Dad or Grandpa ever bowed to the pressure when they were here. But somehow I doubt it. Mom either. Even with being some of the only Black students in a sea of white, I can’t imagine any of them being unsure of themselves or what they wanted when they went here or afterward. For them, the law has been their way up from the beginning.

“Want water?” I ask, pushing away the thoughts. I reach for a cup from the dispenser and fill it without waiting for a response.

I slide it under the stall and wait.

“Thanks.”

Without her saying another word, I know exactly who’s on the other side of the door. “You want to talk or should I go?” I say even though the shower is calling out to me.

“I’m okay, Niv. Really.”

“You know I know you’re lying, right?” A hint of a smile plays in my voice. I cross my arms and lean against a sink, waiting.

Anxiety is the nastiest beast for my old roommate. But it’s only ever this bad when she thinks she’s failed, and she never fails.

Then the toilet flushes and the stall lock slides back.

A second later, Ryan emerges, sandy blond hair matted, blue eyes rimmed red, blotches on her pale cheeks. “Should I even ask why you’re still up?” she asks, sniffling, and throws the crumpled cup in the trash.

She’s always been good at deflecting questions she wants to ignore.

“Why are you?” I throw back.

She reaches up and scratches at the side of my face, flicking away a tiny patch of dried glue.

Her gaze settles on the tiny cerulean splotches on the back of my hand. “You been finishing your project?”

I shove my arm deeper into a fold of robe. “Something like that. You good?”

She twists on a faucet and scoops water into her mouth to gargle. Then she turns to me. Her eyes always tell a different story than the rest of her. This time I can’t read it.

“Do you know your truth?”

I don’t have to ask what she means. Her brain is filled with the same thing as mine—the Tri-school Jabec Beard Art Prize, which besides carrying major bragging rights comes with a prestigious summer course at the illustrious Beaux-Arts de Paris and a monthlong shadowing of an eminent artist. The prompt of this year’s prize is imprinted on every senior art student’s brain. If tomorrow were your last, would you have told your authentic story? Every time you create art: Tell. Your. Truth.

“I mean, we’re only seventeen. How are we supposed to know our truth if we always do what’s expected of us?” Ryan asks.

“Then don’t do what’s expected.” This escapes my lips as if I’ve always believed it. As if I’ve always challenged expectations.

“Like it’s that easy.” She tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. “We only have two days left, and everything I show Ms. Teresi isn’t deep enough.” She throws up air quotes. “What does that even mean? You think kids from Eldridge or Alcott know how to get deep?”

“Let’s hope not,” I confess. Competition is steep enough between Caswell seniors. No way I want to think about what our sister schools are bringing to the table.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. My entry has to be the best, Niv.” She says this like there’s no other option in life.

“Don’t create what’s expected then. Do what you want.” I love how I can shell out advice but can hardly take it myself.

“It’s not that simple.” A slight whine creeps into her words. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I ignore the sting. Ryan has always carried her own spotlight. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, my truth is still working its way out of me too.”

“I feel sick every time I think about it.” Ryan traces a finger along the tiled wall. “They’re all going to be there. I have to win. If I don’t, they won’t understand.”

Her “they” is her family during Parents’ Weekend. For her, art has always been the way up. Though I’m not sure how much higher she actually needs to go. While policy and legislation are my family’s universe, art is her family’s world. They’re gallery owners, collectors, architects, and ginormous donors to everything art-related.

And she’s right; they won’t understand if she doesn’t get the prize. It’s all about the bragging rights for them. Her family’s connections pretty much guarantee her entry into any art school she’s interested in.

“I have to win,” she says again, as if I hadn’t heard her the first time. But I don’t want to hear her. She’s not the only one who wants to win.

White campus security jeeps create a barrier in front of Eckhart Gallery, blocking students’ entry to their classes downstairs. But Headmaster Ewing hustles through in his signature navy suit and Caswell hunter-green bow tie, disappearing inside the highly coveted addition to our campus.

“What’s happening?” someone asks as I reach the cluster of students decked out in their uniforms.

“Vandalism, I think,” an underclassman I don’t know offers. “I heard a Jabec piece got torn down.”

“No way!” My classmate Logan readjusts the faded baseball cap turned backward on his head. “The real police would be all over that. No way rent-a-cops can handle this.”

The idea of real police has me ready to turn the other way, but Caswell would rather handle problems in-house than cast the school in an unfavorable light. There won’t be police.

“Headmaster Ewing, is everything okay?” Ryan comes out of nowhere, stepping up beside me in her tailored navy school blazer and skirt, and hunter-green school tie and sweater. Her hair, flat-iron straight now, is held in place by a hunter-green scarf, the exact shade of our school colors, patterned with tiny foxes and tied like a headband. The same scarf she gave a couple of us as welcome-back presents after fall break. And of course it’s school-code approved. Her perfectly arched eyebrows meet in concern. Not a blotch or dark circle in sight. Like her midnight meltdown never happened.