The Only Black Girls in Town: Chapters 1–4

Nicolette sneers. “These aren’t even gold-plated,” she mutters. “They’re probably going to turn green in, like, a month.”

My father would probably count that last part as an ignorant comment, but it’s worth it just to see the way Nicolette’s eyes narrow into the thinnest slits. And to hear Oliver snicker.

Then I peel off my wet suit, hold it under the water spigot off the side of the house, and hang it to drip-dry in the shade.

Dad hoots with joy. “Of course she did! Of course you were. Good job, sweetheart. And not just because it means we’re getting our money’s worth out of that camp.” He winks at me. “Can we put this one on the mantel?”

Then construction workers started showing up every day, wearing fluorescent vests and hard hats as they did renovations.

Their mom works a bunch, and they eat a lot of fast-food burgers and mac and cheese from the box and her brother’s culinary concoctions, which are only edible about half the time.

Their mom works a bunch, and they eat a lot of fast-food burgers and mac and cheese from the box and her brother’s culinary concoctions, which are only edible about half the time.

Their mom works a bunch, and they eat a lot of fast-food burgers and mac and cheese from the box and her brother’s culinary concoctions, which are only edible about half the time.

He only uses it when he’s trying to prolong the suspense, and it always ends up being more annoying than intriguing.

He only uses it when he’s trying to prolong the suspense, and it always ends up being more annoying than intriguing.

“Dad.” I give him my most exasperated look. It’s not as good as Elliott’s, but I think it’s close.

“They’re black!” he says in a voice so boisterous he sounds like the announcer on The Price Is Right—Elliott’s guilty pleasure.

All the other black people in town are the same age as my grandparents and dads, or they’re little kids who toddle around on the beach with diapers under their swimsuits.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “Guess I’ll have to live vicariously through someone a bit more adventurous.”

I have to get off my bike after a while and walk it next to me because the sidewalk is too cluttered with tourists to ride. And the street is too cluttered with cars waiting for the tourists who spill out from the sidewalk to mosey along.

I guess because we don’t eat meat, and we only use all-natural cleaning products and soap from local companies, and Dad has a compost bin in the backyard.

Before I was born, Dad and Elliott lived on an artists commune.

The commune is where they met. It’s also where they met my surrogate mother, Denise.

“First of all, the crime rate in Ewing Beach doesn’t support that theory.” He leans over to kiss me hello. Eyes still closed. “Second, if you were breaking in, you’d quickly find we have nothing worth taking except all that gorgeous artwork. And third, our taste is too abstract for your typical burglar.”

“Kehinde Wiley.” Elliott’s mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “Let’s just say only one of us recognizes the man’s brilliance. How was the last day of surf camp?”

“Kehinde Wiley.” Elliott’s mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “Let’s just say only one of us recognizes the man’s brilliance. How was the last day of surf camp?”

I give Elliott a grudging smile, but it turns into a real one after a few seconds.

“Can we bake it tonight?” I prod him. Suddenly all I can think about is making banana bread. Or learning how to make it.

Dad comes up behind him and slides a hand onto his shoulder. “I think what your dear father is trying to say is that all our skinfolk ain’t kinfolk.”

“Nothing wrong with a little healthy discourse,” Elliott always says, and Dad always says that just means he likes to argue.

Dad and I wait until ten o’clock (“A respectable time for a visit,” he says) before we head over to the B&B.

“We just flew in yesterday and I’m so frazzled and”—she lowers her voice as if the whole town is listening—“well, to be honest, I wasn’t expecting to see any of us for a while. Especially not living on my own street.”

“I’m sure you’re busy, but I’d be forever grateful if you could help us pick out some art for the walls sometime?” She sighs. “Decorating is not my forte.”

Ms. Whitman pulls a butter knife from a drawer and examines it closely. “Full disclosure, I forgot to pick up dish soap and new silverware yesterday, so we’ve been eating with these. They...came with the house.”

“I miss Brooklyn already. I miss everything about it. Our brownstone, our bodega, our cat.”

“It’s, like...quintessential New York.” She pauses. “Like a convenience store, sort of. You can buy everything there. Chips, laundry stuff, Band-Aids, phone chargers, hot food...everything! And they almost always have a cat.”

“Horror and gothic aren’t the same things.”

Elliott smiles and pounds his fist on the table like a gavel.

“Well, she’s a journalist—freelance, so she can work from anywhere,” says Dad.

I told her all about Edie after Dad and I got back from the B&B. Laramie sounded interested when I said that Edie is obsessed with horror movies and came from Brooklyn, but in a way that I think means she’s only interested because I am.