Page 104 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
“But my girl Nia wasready.Everybody always knew you would get where you wanted, when the time was right.”
We stare at the photo a couple beats longer, then I catch Jeremiah glancing at his watch.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. My anxiety’s spiking. “Do we need to go now?”
“Actually…I was just thinking that the restaurant’s close, and we have an hour before our reservation. Up for a wander, for old times’ sake?”
I thank God I didn’t risk the heels.
We head out aimless into the dusk, same way we used to do those first two years we lived on campus. But both of us move more gingerly now. No more skateboarding for him, Jeremiah says when I ask; his knees tend to ache with every change in the weather. “But I made sure both my boys can shred,” he says, and I love to hear the pride in his voice. I tell him more about Jossy, too. Her trophies in debate, her travels to tournaments around the country.
“She’s just as smart as you were, huh?”
“Smarter,” I say. “And so self-possessed. That might matter more.”
“You think we have a shot?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been telling her she could be a real leader here. And you know how hard I ride for my school, for every way I think it prepared me. But she’s got some strong arguments, J. Valid concerns that alarm me too—first of all, this bum-ass state.”
“Don’t get me started.” Jeremiah lets loose a rueful chuckle. “But I hope you know I’d look out for her. We all would.”
“Of course I know that. But…Well. Her dad, he certainly has his own ideas about where she should go, and no problem putting them in her ear.”
“Ahhh, yes,” says Jeremiah, “the joys of co-parenting.”
“He’s got his own legacy tour lined up for next month.”
“Princeton, right?”
“Yeah. Damn Tiger stripes all up in my house…”
“That’s cool—just remember, Nia: Moms got mad sway! Didn’t yours get you over here in the first place? And you could’ve gone anywhere you wanted, just like Jocelyn.”
“I mean, I guess, but…”
“So then we make that a part of the pitch,” he says. “Think: What convinced the brilliant young you to say yes to FAM?”
“Sir,” I say, smiling, “you betta act like you know.”
“Know what?”
“That you had something to do with that.”
“Me?”Jeremiah plays shocked, but even in the dark I can see him grinning like crazy. “What I do?”
“Remember scholars’ weekend? The welcoming ceremony?”
He pops his collar, like the kind of old-school player he never was. “Ohhhh, you mean the day you first decided you was gon’ humor a nigga.”
My face burns with residual embarrassment. “Okay, okay, I deserve this roast. I had my little identity issues I had to get straight…”
“That’swhat that was? I just thought you ain’t like no Taco Bell brokeys.”
“You was rich in them Cinnamon Twists, though. Listen, if you wanted to go there instead tonight…”
“I thought you New York types only went forchurros.” He exaggerates the rolled r’s.
We toss jokes back and forth like this for the next few minutes, same way we have since we reconnected last year—on Instagram first, then graduating to text. As we stroll down Wahnish—traffic whizzing past, the 100 striking up the fight song somewhere—we reminisce. About our required freshman civics class, and the octogenarian professor who wore a cowboy hat while sonning any unprepared youngblood who walked in his door. About my pathetic attempts at talking trash, but Jeremiah picking me as his spades partner anyway. About prime-time Thursdays at myoff-campus apartment—the comedy of Jeremiah claimingNew York Undercoverwas his shit, but regularly rolling up to my door a half hour early.
