Page 44 of The Game Is Afoot

“Are you sure?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Because you just glued Claudette Colvin’s picture on the Constance Baker Motley poster.”

“Shit.” My cheeks warm, and I carefully pick at the edges of the picture, trying to remove it without destroying the whole display. When did Elmer’s get so strong? And god, I hope I haven’t made any other mistakes.

We’ve been prepping the pictures and information for theseBlack History Month bulletin boards all morning, and this is a project I’m so excited about. We’re highlighting lesser-known figures so kids can learn about them as they walk through the hallways to class. It’s one of the many things me and Dyvia’s DEI team has planned for this month, and because of my new open schedule I actually get to work on the projects in the daylight instead of late at night after Pearl goes to sleep. It’s just, I took on somethingelsewith my new open schedule, and it’s quickly occupying a significant amount of my brain space…

“Is it this last-minute birthday party?” Of course she gets it right in one, but I try to keep my face neutral, to not give it away. “We can go, by the way. Rohan is really excited for the airbrush tattoos.”

I booked that airbrush lady last night. Luckily she had a cancellation, though I’m pretty sure she charged me extra. And Pearl narrowed down a theme, after lots of back-and-forth with my dad over dinner: rainbow unicorns…and also Shrek? My Amazon cart looks real crazy right now.

“The party is going to be great. Everything is coming together.”

“Your sabbatical then?” A small smile tugs on her lips, letting me know what she thinks of that term, and I know it sounded pretty flimsy when it came out of my mouth. But I had to tell hersomethingsince I usually can’t meet during the workday.

“Come on, out with it already. I can tell something’s bugging you.” She gives me the no-bullshit look I’ve come to appreciate in our friendship (especially because I gave herso muchbullshit when we first met) and then follows it up with a playful smirk. “You’re very transparent.”

I don’t think anything’sbuggingme necessarily. I already feel better than I did when I was working at Project Window.Somuch better. And I finally have time to do all the things I’ve wanted to do. Show up for Pearl—through this bonkers rainbow-unicorn-Shrek-airbrush-tattoo party and volunteering with the PTA. Take care of myself. Investigate a murder.

But…“Okay, fine. I think I’m just struggling with…not feeling like I’m doing enough? My whole days are open now, and it…feels wrong. I’m not rushing. I’m not busy. And, I don’t know. I’m not used to it.”

Dyvia’s nose wrinkles. “You’ve been writing and cutting and gluing for hours. How is that not doing enough? And even if you weren’t, what’s wrong with taking a break? You can afford it?”

I nod. “Yes.”

I did the math in between submitting my résumé for jobs I’m not sure I even want, and we’ll be good for longer than I thought. Months, not weeks.

“Then you don’t need to throw the termsabbaticalon it to make it acceptable. You’re taking a break from work. I think that’s great. I think you’re gonnafeelgreat.”

I know what she’s saying is true…technically. People take breaks all the time. But there’s something else there, something more complicated that I’m still trying to figure out. Because I feel it so deeply in my bones that, yes, people take breaks—but not my people. Maybe if I try and explain that out loud, it’ll make more sense?

“I don’t know…I mean, I know rest is good. I know self-care is, like, athing. But it seems like it’s only okay for these white ladies to rest and self-care. And for me—for us? Don’t get me wrong. I did it—I’mdoingit! It just feels kinda…lazy?” Yeah, I’m not sure if this is making any sense, but Dyvia is biting the side of her lip, thinking it over instead of reporting me to the POC police, so I keep going. “Like, my ancestors.” I wave a hand over the famous, or should-be-famous, Black faces in front of us.“Yourancestors. They worked so hard to prove that we could do anything, and I’m going to waste my little time on this earth meditating? Napping?” I grab a cutout of Ketanji Brown Jackson off the table and hold it up like it’s exhibit A. “I should be breaking down barriers! I should be on the Supreme Court!”

Dyvia is nodding. “I totally understand what you’re saying, but my therapist…oh mygod, Mavis! Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

I freeze. “No.”

Her mouth falls open in shock mixed with silent laughter. “You rolled your eyes at me. I saw it!”

“Okay, I did. I did! But I mean—doeseveryonehave a therapist now? Did I miss the memo?” I feel like I did as a kid when everyone switched to MTV instead of the Disney Channel, seemingly overnight, and I was still trying to talk aboutThat’s So Ravenlike an oblivious, uncultured baby.

“Everyoneshouldhave a therapist,” Dyvia says, rolling her eyes right back at me. “But anyway, what I was going to say is: My therapist told me that ascribing our worth to our productivity is really toxic. Because we’re inherently worthy as we are. If you want to be on the Supreme Court because it makes you happy, fine! Good! But your value is the same if you’re doing that, or if you’re…I don’t know, lying in bed eating bonbons.”

“Or watchingThe Bachelor?”

“Personally, I preferLove Is Blind. But yes,” she confirms. “My therapist says it’s actually capitalism and white supremacy—”

I hold up my hand. “Your therapist gets down like that?”

Dyvia laughs. “Yes. She says it’s actually capitalism and white supremacy that drive us to prove our worth through our labor, and we can choose to remove ourselves from that system. Because freedom can also look likenothaving your worth tied to your work.”

I fall back in the tiny plastic chair I’ve been perched on all morning and nearly topple it over. “Damn.”

“Yes, I had a similar reaction.” Her brow furrows and she chews on her lip again, like she’s considering something, and then I see her face smooth with a decision. “I used to feel guilty about being a stay-at-home mom, that’s why I started seeing her. I felt like I—wasn’t as strong? Or as smart as the other moms, because I didn’t also work outside the home? But she’s helped me a lot with those feelings. And she helped me realize I’m doing plenty of labor, with the kids and here.” She gestures to our project in front of her, and it’s just one of many, I know, that she has going on as the current PTA president. “Knoll—and pretty much all successful schools—rely on full-time parent volunteering to make up for the lack of resources provided by the district.”

“I know that’s right.” I used to judge moms like Dyvia for being so present at the school. Hell, I’ll be honest, I used to judgeDyvia. I was kind of an asshole. But I’ve since realized how much they contribute and how it benefits all kids—well, when they use their powers for good instead of evil, like Trisha.

“Also, even if I was lying in bed eating bonbons, then I would still be a good person, too.”

“The best person.” I reach forward across the table and squeeze her hand. “Thank you, Dyvia. Now, do you accept HMO insurance, or…?”

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