Page 98 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
Lynetta
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Tammy says as we sit on our sofa, dazed from hosting our parents graduation weekend and finally unwinding from post-commencement activities.
“Between having to submit my capstone project and studying for final exams, I thought it’d never end,” I respond, and we snicker.
“You know…I bumped into Assad after the ceremony.”
“Did you?” I ask, grabbing a slice from the pizza box in front of us. “What’d he say?”
“He asked about you.” She smirks. “But I was with my family and he was with his, so I couldn’t really say what I wanted to. I just said you got into the publishing institute on campus to try and get a job. Iwantedto tell him you were inspired by his little intro junior year, but I decided to leave that to you.”
My domestic exchange’s intense journalism program confirmed what I knew, that book editing was the latest direction I wanted to go in. And so, I came back to D.C. senior year with a renewed sense of purpose. I would find my way to New York to pursue my new aspiration. So when I stumbled upon a flyer in the School of C for a new publishing institute starting at Howard, it felt like a sign.
In my off-campus apartment, I pored over the information, eager to learn about a trade that felt like a secret society. Ms. Morrison had been one of the few authors I read religiously, her books tucked under my pillowcase at home, concerned my parentswould think the language was too mature for me, or in my dorm room, using a flashlight so as not to disturb Tammy’s sleep.
“Tammy, so much has happened since I went away. He got a girlfriend…”
“Had.You know I got the 411. They didn’t last. He said he’s sticking around for the summer and then planning on figuring things out from there.”
I sigh. “The likelihood of us seeing each other…”
“Well, he knows where to find you if he’s looking.” She smiles, and I shake my head. Unlike Viv freshman year, Tammy has always been team Assad. I just want to forget it all.
The first.
Ms. Morrison’s words haunt me. The type of voice she must have to command an entire conference room, an entire company, to not only validate her ideas but sign off on and invest in them. The fact that she’s able to publish the works of Angela Davis and Muhammad Ali, Toni Cade Bambara and Huey P. Newton, opened my mind to entire new possibilities.
Walking into the classroom, I take in a group of professionals of all different ages and from different backgrounds, reminding me again of my time on the West Coast. There are a few older white women, a middle-aged white man, and two other Black women who are easily in their thirties and forties, and I feel so many weird things, seeing my sanctuary of a world being opened up to those outside of campus interested in publishing, thinking again of Ms. Morrison’s words—the first. Which means I’ve got to get used to being one of the only.
While trying to process this realization, I walk closer to the back of the room and pause when I see him.
Looking up at me, his gaze full of relief, is Assad.
“I’ve missed randomly bumping into you.”
I try my best not to blush. “Yeah, it was like a ghost town senior year, huh? I barely saw anyone. Including you,” I reply. “It’s kinda shocking seeing you here now though.”
“They said senior year would be like that,” he responds. “Tammy told me you’d be here so I wanted it to be a surprise. How’d you find out about this?”
“Ms. Morrison…told me I should consider being a book editor as a career,” I reply as I sit in front of him, then turn around and continue. “Then I saw a flyer on the continuing education program, and it just felt…”
“Kinda destined,” he responds.
“Yeah.” I exhale and smile back at him, relieved he gets it. “I told youyouwere good at editing. What about you? Why didn’t you mention it?”
“Well, I didn’t see it then.” He smirks. “And to answer your question, Charles Harris, who runs HU Press. I met him at the event at Blackburn last year. He told me about starting a publishing institute on campus and said I should consider it. Editing newspaper pieces ain’t my jam, but books? I could get with that. And I didn’t mention it because it all still felt so new, but the more I thought about it the more it made sense.” Assad doesn’t divert his eyes, and I remember the shape of them in the car, the headlights casting beams of light while he kissed every part of my open body, watching my face for approval at each turn.
“Hello, class!” I damn near jump as I turn around to our professor. “I’m Professor Thomas, a former editor at Doubleday, andwe are so thrilled to welcome you to the Howard Publishing Institute, a six-week course designed to help you learn the ins and outs of publishing, with the hopes of helping you secure a job in the future. You will also meet and learn from top executives that will speak to the different aspects of the industry, and their importance.” Professor Thomas stops to allow the class to introduce themselves, and we immediately dive into our curriculum. During class, I’m both completely attentive and giddy, the latter having more to do with who’s sitting behind me.
Assad
“Headed home?” I ask as we leave the Van Ness building.
“You gonna give me a lift on your bike?”
I stop near the rack and point my arm out to my bike like Vanna White calling letters. She cracks up laughing. “Why not?”
I unlatch my bike chain and place it in my backpack. “How are we going to do this with your backpack?” she asks, then giggles when I demonstrate strapping my backpack in front of me.
