Page 17 of Seven Days in June

The summer of Eva’s divorce, when Khalil was aVibecolumnist, 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 awho 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 wearehuman,” 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 offGirl on the TrainorFifty Shades?”

“Fifty Shadeswas 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 getGirl on the Trainpublished,” 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 evenbenonwhite? Despite there being a rich Black vampire tradition—I mean, hello,Blade,Blacula, Louisianafifolletfolklore. And don’t get me started on Black witches like Bonnie inVampire Diariesor Naomie Harris inPirates 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. ACursedfan. Aside from wine moms, queer male Gen Xers were her most vocal readers—and were loyally devoted toCursed’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. “EvenBlank 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 wasslaying.

“My only point is, if Blackpeoplearen’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.

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