Seven Days in June by Tia Williams
Chapter 5
Fun Black Shit
THE STATE OF THE BLACK AUTHOR EVENT WAS A SCENE. THE PANEL WAS BEINGheld at the Brooklyn Museum’s spacious Cantor Auditorium, and it was staged perfectly. To find the space, you had to wind your way through a warren of rooms showcasing the hottest exhibit in town, Nobody Promised You Tomorrow: Art 50 Years After Stonewall. Every clued-in hipster was pretending to have seen it. By the time the crowd had taken in all the gorgeously curated protest art, everyone had entered the auditorium, hyped for a fiery conversation.
The space was stark, industrial modern, with two hundred or so seats and a massive window looking out onto the Caribbean-flavored Eastern Parkway. The crowd was ablaze with color. It was the first hot week of the year, and the sundresses, statement lipstick, and natural dos were in full bloom. Milling about were a mixed bag of high and low literati: Old Guard writers (whose heyday was circa the ’70s and ’80s); millennial essayists, novelists, and culture journalists; a handful of deeply feared, bespectacled book bloggers; and coeds from Columbia and NYU—whose slogan tees and fashion Birkenstocks screamed “feminist-studies major.” Weaving throughout were digital reporters and their photographers, scanning HELLO MY NAME IS tags to see who was interview-worthy.
Eva was nursing a seltzer with a sprig of basil. She was also concentrating on looking like a person who wasn’t staving off a panic attack. Though she’d killed some time chitchatting with the few publishing vets she knew, she’d quickly realized that to the majority of the crowd, Eva Mercy was unknown—or, at best, recognized as a “name” in a genre that inspires a very silly fan base. And in a few minutes, she’d have to talk knowledgeably about serious things in front of them.
Chill, woman, she told herself, twirling her vintage cameo ring around her finger. It was her lucky talisman, and she was counting on it to pull her through tonight. The ring always calmed her. It was stained, nicked, and possibly a century old. Eva had no idea what Victorian-era woman it had originally belonged to, but decades before, she’d discovered it in her mom’s jewelry box. No doubt it had been gifted to her by some guy. But Lizette hated vintage jewelry—she demanded brand-new diamonds, honey—so she never wore it. Eva cherished old things, though. One day, when she was lonely and pimply and thirteen, Eva stole it from her bedroom. Lizette never noticed. Her mom never noticed anything.
“Sis!”
Hearing the familiar voice, Eva spun around with a relieved smile. It was Belinda Love, the Pulitzer Prize–winning poetess who was one of Eva’s co-panelists. In Belinda’s poetry collections, she hopped into the brains of Black historical figures and wrote lyrical poetry about modern life from their specific points of view. Her Langston Hughes piece, “Everything Ain’t a Hashtag,” was iconic.
She’d fallen in instant love with Belinda years ago, when they were seated together at one of Cece’s exclusive parties. Raised by humble hairdresser parents in Silver Spring, Maryland, Belinda had attended Sidwell Friends School on scholarship during the Chelsea Clinton years and had been a dialect consultant for ten years’ worth of films featuring enslaved or Jim Crow–era Black people (suffice it to say, she was rarely out of work). As prestigious as her résumé was, her vibe was a charming, accessible blend of earth mama and around-the-way girl. She enjoyed Reiki healing and shamanic readings—but also raunchy memes and seducing young men who worked in the service industry. She’d just broken up with a Chilean stunner she’d met while he was passing out flyers in front of a MetroPCS store.
“Heyyy, Belinda.” Eva hugged her gently so as not to disturb her cluster of street-fair necklaces. Belinda’s signature box braids spilled out of her tribal-print headwrap, falling to her peach-shaped ass. She looked like a sexy doula.
“Come on, dress! Come on, body!”
“Honestly, I can’t move,” Eva whispered. She was wearing a black sleeveless Gucci sheath dress with major plunge and scarlet stiletto booties. Her boobs were hiked up to her chin, and her hair was blown out poker-straight.
“You. Did. Not. Come. To. Play. This. Monday. Evening.” Belinda executed a body roll between each word.
Eva fidgeted with her hem. “I feel like the office vixen on a network drama about sultry lawyers.”
“Worked for Meghan Markle. Come on, let’s mingle.”
Belinda linked arms with Eva, and they strolled through the crowd, chatting.
“Girl,” started Eva, “I have someone I wanna set you up with. He’s cute cute. Check his IG, @oralpro.”
Belinda’s mouth dropped open. “What kind of blessing…?”
“Relax, he’s an orthodontist. He did beautiful work on Audre.”
“Pass. I’m already checking for the hot produce guy at my Trader Joe’s. I was there earlier, shopping for my vegan-bakery course. It’s taught by the woman who pioneered vaginal-yeast brioche.”
“Vaginal-yeast brioche,” repeated Eva.
“She’s famous for it.”
“There’s more than zero people famous for making vaginal-yeast brioche?”
“Anyway, stop trying to set me up. You just want to mine my sex life for book inspo. Why don’t you date @oralpro? Get out there! Stop wasting your good legs and youthful complexion.”
“Know why I have nice skin?” Eva winked. “No man stressing me out.”
Just then Cece appeared out of nowhere, popping her head between them. “Ask her about Alone,” she announced. Then she grabbed Eva’s watered-down seltzer, replaced it with a fresh one, and disappeared back into the crowd.
Belinda gasped. “How does she just materialize like that? And what’s she talking about?”
Before Eva could answer, a young girl rocking a dyed-blond ’fro and a tube top launched herself into Belinda’s arms.
“Your poetry is the only thing getting me through my NYU finals! Sign my book?” She thrust a tattered copy at Belinda.
“Of course!” She signed the title page and gestured at Eva with her elbow. “This is Eva Mercy. You must’ve heard of Cursed?”
“My stepmom reads that series,” she said before quickly snapping a selfie with Belinda. “But I avoid texts depicting explicit cisheteropatriarchal sex. Sorry.”
The girl threw up a Black Power fist and bounced. In seconds, Cece materialized again, glaring at her.
“Who let that bleached peasant in here?” Cece was the queen of policing women who had her hairdo. Which was half of Brooklyn. “Is she wearing Walmart denim?”
“Have you ever been in a Walmart?” asked Eva.
“Physically, yes. Spiritually, no.” She spun on her heel. “To the stage! It’s showtime.”
Belinda grabbed Eva’s hand, and they trailed Cece through the crowd, like ducklings.
The stage was intimate: a row of four club chairs for Cece, Eva, Belinda, and Khalil. Khalil didn’t appear until after Cece’s introduction, due to a misunderstanding with his Uber driver. The misunderstanding was that he stole someone else’s Uber and the driver kicked him out.
He was a thirty-seven-year-old cultural studies PhD who favored pastel Ralph Lauren chinos and bow ties. He was famous for writing tomes on systemic racism—and he lived with a sixty-something Swedish heiress, who financed the Ralph Lauren pants and ties.
The summer of Eva’s divorce, when Khalil was a Vibe columnist, he unsuccessfully pursued her over the course of several Clinton Hill rooftop cookouts. The word “mansplainer” hadn’t been invented yet but would’ve been useful.
The packed house was fully engaged in the lively discussion of the panelists—nodding, giggling, and recording IG Lives on their phones. Eva was sitting up pin straight, stilettoed feet crossed at a ladylike angle.
And she was killing it.
Yes, the first couple of times she spoke, a few people eyed her with a who is this again? expression, but slowly she won them over. So much so that she was wondering what she’d been worried about.
As she, Belinda, and Khalil answered Cece’s leading discussion questions, their roles became clear: Belinda was the Tell-It-Like-It-Is Sistafriend, Khalil was the Smug Blowhard, and Eva was Hopelessly Drunk on Unexpected Success.
“And here’s what’s really good,” continued Belinda. “The publishing industry has a hard time processing Black characters unless we’re suffering.”
Nods and murmurs from the audience.
“We’re expected to write about trauma, oppression, or slavery, because those are easily marketable Black tropes. Publishers struggle to see us as having the same banal, funny, whimsical experiences that every human has—”
“Because it’d imply that we are human,” interrupted Khalil. “AMERICAN SOCIETY DEPENDS ON THE NEED TO DEHUMANIZE, DEGRADE, AND DENY THE BLACK MAN.”
Belinda ignored him. “My first novel was about an architect and a chef who witness a murder on a side street during the ’03 blackout—and have hot sex while solving the mystery. It was rejected everywhere. I kept hearing, ‘Cute story, but can we hear more about their struggles as Blacks in mostly white professions?’” Belinda sighed. “Like, damn, there’s no room for fun Black shit? Why can’t I make millions off Girl on the Train or Fifty Shades?”
“Fifty Shades was okay,” sniffed Cece. “I do wish Ana would’ve shaved her legs. But yes. White authors have the freedom to tell a good story for the sake of a good story.”
“Imagine if one of us tried to get Girl on the Train published,” said Eva. “For Colored Girls on the Train When Suicide Isn’t Enough.”
The crowd erupted in laughter, and Eva beamed like she’d just arrived at the gates of heaven. Sunshine burst from her ears, and her pupils turned into emoji hearts.
“Growing up, I was obsessed with horror and fantasy,” she said. “But Black characters were invisible in those stories. Why couldn’t I go to Narnia or Hogwarts? When I wrote about a Black witch and vampire, the industry was shocked. Like, can paranormal creatures even be nonwhite? Despite there being a rich Black vampire tradition—I mean, hello, Blade, Blacula, Louisiana fifollet folklore. And don’t get me started on Black witches like Bonnie in Vampire Diaries or Naomie Harris in Pirates of the Caribbean…” She paused, realizing she was geeking out and losing her audience.
“Anyway, only a handful of us succeed in this genre, because it can be a stretch to envision a world, even a fantasy one, where all the power players are brown. Comics are the same way. Anybody here been to Comic-Con?”
Only one person, way in the back, raised their hand. She squinted through her glasses to spot the person’s face and saw a forty-something man wearing twinkly eye shadow and Gia’s purple witch hat. A Cursed fan. Aside from wine moms, queer male Gen Xers were her most vocal readers—and were loyally devoted to Cursed’s social-media fan accounts. Which flattered Eva to death.
But the witch hat? Here? When she was trying to look like a Serious Author?
“I rebuke comic culture,” spat Khalil. “Even Blank Panther. The real hero is Erik Killmonger. But of course, Hollywood STRATEGICALLY EMASCULATES THE DIVINE ASIATIC BLACK MAN TO APPEASE EUROCENTRIC AUDIENCES.”
“Do you get your material from a hotep word generator?” Belinda asked him, off mic.
“Fuck immediately off, Belinda,” he hissed, and then continued. “Look, I feel like I’m misusing my gift if I don’t speak to Black-male marginalization. The DUALITY of the simultaneous CONSUMPTION and DESTRUCTION of Black men.”
Belinda let out an exasperated snort. “I just think it’s really tired and ashy, the way you highlight the plight of Black men only. Do Black women exist in your world?”
“Khalil, your misogynoir is showing,” said Eva, to more audience chuckles. She was slaying.
“My only point is, if Black people aren’t writing with the intent to DISMANTLE WHITE SUPREMACIST HOOLIGANERY, then we’re wasting our voices.” He straightened his bow tie. “That said, books like Eva’s are important, too. Fluff provides an escape.”
“Fluff?” Eva was offended.
“Maybe I should’ve said easy reading,” said Khalil.
“Maybe we should move on,” intercepted Cece, who suddenly paused. She peered into the audience and then drew a wheezy gasp, clutching her Pilates-tightened tummy. Since it was impossible to shock this woman, Eva knew something cataclysmic had happened. Had a masked gunman snuck in? Had Zadie Smith shown up after all?
The panelists looked in Cece’s line of vision. There was a tall male-shaped figure leaning in a doorway in the shadowy back corner of the auditorium.
With a recognizable face.
“Shane…,” started Cece.
“Hall,” finished Belinda.
The audience began peering over their shoulders, eyes darting around the room. A flurry of exclamations floated from the seats. “What? WHERE? Stop!”
Eva said nothing.
When a horror-movie character sees a ghost, she emits a bloodcurdling shriek. Claws at her cheeks. Runs for her life. Eva was trapped onstage in broad view of New York’s literary community, so she did none of those things. Instead, her hands went completely slack, and her microphone slipped to the floor with a heavy thunk.
No one noticed, because everyone was focused on him.
“Shane,” Cece bellowed, “is that you?”
He peered around the doorway, wearing a sheepish grimace.
“No,” he said.
“Yes!”someone yelled.
“Get up here,” ordered Cece.
He shook his head, with a please don’t make me do this desperation in his eyes.
“Excuse me? I discovered you cleaning rooms at the Beverly Wilshire, kid—you better get up here. And you owe it to everyone in the room who has contributed to your popularity despite the careless way you’ve treated us.”
Shane looked behind him, as if assessing whether he could make a run for it. Begrudgingly, he headed to the stage.
Eva rarely saw things in crisp focus. Even with her glasses. Her head always made the world a shade fuzzy. But as Shane walked down the aisle toward the panelists—toward her—every detail in the room became razor sharp. She was agonizingly aware of everything and every part of herself.
This couldn’t be real. She knew it was, though, because her physical reaction was operatic. Her breath went shallow. Her pulse was thundering. She began to tremble all over, caught in the cross fire of a zillion powerful, conflicting emotions. Eva wasn’t particularly religious, but she’d always felt there was…something…out there, watching over her. For many reasons, but mostly because she had never run into Shane Hall. Ever. After all this time, it was definitely astonishing, given that they were both Black authors of the same age, who’d become successful in the same era. If that wasn’t divine intervention, she didn’t know what was.
But now he was here, flesh and blood. It was the moment she’d always feared. But below that, in the tucked-away pockets of her subconscious—wasn’t it also the moment she’d always anticipated? Planned for? Even dreamed of?
Maybe. But not like this. Not in public. Not unprepared.
The deafening applause sent the gentle throb in her temples to daggers and reminded Eva where she was. The room was in an uproar. Shane was a literary star. He’d written only four novels—Eight, See Saw, Eat in the Kitchen, and Lock the Door on Your Way In. But they were canon. The setting was always the same nameless neighborhood crippled by devastating poverty.
His characters were whimsical, vivid, practically mythologized humans. And through ecstatic attention to detail, emotion, and nuance, he artfully manipulated readers into becoming so invested in his characters’ every thought that fifty pages would go by before they realized that there was no plot. None. Just a girl named Eight, who lost her keys. But they’d weep from the beauty of it. Eight could’ve seen a dude shot dead in the street while she was locked out, but readers would’ve cared only about her.
Shane tricked his readers into seeing humanity, not circumstance. You walked away from his books dazed, wondering how he’d managed to rip out your heart before you realized what was happening.
Every five years or so he’d drop a book; give a few choppy, unrevealing interviews; sulk through an MSNBC segment; sweep awards season (unless he was up against Junot Díaz); land a massive grant to go off somewhere and write more classic shit; and then disappear again.
Of course, he never fully disappeared. There were sightings. He’d visited the opening reception of a Kara Walker exhibit in Amsterdam three springs ago, but when it was time to read the foreword he’d written for the show, he’d vanished (so had Kara’s curvy publicist, Claudia). In 2008, he’d gone to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner but spent the whole time drying dishes with the busboys in the kitchen. He’d definitely attended J. Cole’s nuptials in North Carolina, because he’d told a guest that the only thing he liked about the South was Bojangles—which was instantly all over Twitter.
Years ago, an LA Times editor had started a rumor that Shane was a hoax. And someone else was writing his books. Because he didn’t behave like an A-list author and, frankly, he didn’t look like one. He was all jawline, pouty mouth, and unreal eyelashes—a face that had made him special before he had proved it.
Shane Hall was intimidatingly handsome. And yet on the rare occasion he smiled, it was so radiant, so warm. Like peering into a goddamn sunbeam. The effect was disorienting. You wanted to either pinch his cheeks or beg him for a hard fuck on a soft surface. You just needed whatever he had.
Eva knew this better than anyone.
At least, she used to know. She hadn’t seen him since twelfth grade.