Page 8 of Glass Half Full
I can still see her sitting in the back of the van on the way to nationals, trying to fit an elastic around her hair as she pitched in on whatever pseudo-philosophical debate we were all bullshitting about to help the miles go by faster. It didn’t matter what she was talking about. It didn’t matter how stupid the subject was. What mattered were Renee Nyobé’s words, and everyone who heard her speak knew it.
“I didn’t call her,” I admit. All I want is to drop my eyes to the desk again, but I force myself to face Monroe. “I’m not gonna bother with excuses. I should have got it done, and I didn’t. I’ll do better next time.”
“Thank you for your honesty.” Monroe nods once and then moves behind the desk. I step out of the way and watch the blue glow of the computer screen reflect on her face as her fingers move over the keyboard. “I did mean to ask you something about her, and maybe it’s better I’m asking before you call.”
“Shoot,” I order as the printer in the corner of the room starts whirring.
“I know we’re all pretty close around here, but there’s a difference between being friends with your employees and being employees with your friends. I don’t know how close you and Renee were—”
“We weren’t,” I cut in, faster than I meant to. “Not really. I mean, I knew her fairly well, but it’s been years.”
Three years and one month. Not that I calculated.
Monroe nods. “She was one of the kids you used to do the poetry workshops for, right?”
“Yep.” I rock back and forth on my feet before I catch myself doing it and try to stand still.
“Well if you don’t think it will be a problem to work with her, then it’s not a problem to me.” Monroe gathers the papers from off the printer tray and tucks them under her arm. “I’ll leave you to call her, then.”
She pulls the door of the office closed behind her when she goes, and I’m left with the sound of her question echoing through my head.
Is she one of the kids you used to do the workshops for?
For almost the entire time I knew her, that’s all Renee was to me: a kid. A teenager who showed up at the Montreal Public Library every two weeks and poured her heart into the workshops me and my slam team used to run. She blew us all away from the start, spitting fire and sparks, rain and wind, power and purpose.
Still, she was just a kid. She was sixteen when I first met her. I was twenty-three.
Just a kid, until that moment right at the end—that one single, fleeting second when we both realized she could be so much more.
It was the moment I almost made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.
Three
Renee
EUPHONY: A collection of words or sounds that is pleasing to the ear
“You’re a loser.”My sister doesn’t even raise her eyes from her phone as I walk into the kitchen.
“At least I’m not a pain in the ass.”
She still doesn’t look up. I grab a couple kiwi slices out of the meticulously arranged fruit bowl sitting on her placemat before hopping up to take a seat on the counter. That’s enough to distract her from whatever Instagram has on offer today.
“What the hell, Renee? Do you know how long it took me to cut those? Get your own fucking kiwi!”
“Language, Michelle Francine Nyobé!”
Our dad walks in, jacket and tie still on from his day at work, and starts washing out the sandwich container he always takes his lunch in. He shoots Michelle a disapproving glare from his place at the sink.
“She ruined my a?ai bowl! I was going to take a picture of it. That’s the whole reason I made it.”
Dad starts shaking his head. “Shouldn’t the whole reason you make food be to eat it?”
Michelle drops her chin and raises her eyebrows in that unimpressed expression no one can pull off quite as well as an affronted seventeen-year-old girl who’s just had the importance of her Instagram account questioned. I hold back a laugh as the two of them face off; as ridiculous as my sister can be, I wouldn’t want to face that glare.
I risked my life for the kiwis, but I’ve been bored enough all day that provoking her felt worth the consequences. It’s past 5PM now, and I’ve spent most of the time since I woke up distracting myself with household tasks while waiting for a phone call from Taverne Toulouse that still hasn’t come.
“You know what?” Michelle finally breaks her own fuming silence and stands up. “I cannot take any more of this oppression after an already very long and tiring day at school. I’m eating in my room.”
