Her Own Happiness, page 7
Why have the quote when I can have the whole thing?
Maya closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The acoustic guitar kicked in—and then Hayley’s voice. All at once, Maya could feel herself lifted from her overheated plastic chair. The same song had lifted her out of ten-hour days and her truly god-awful shared studio apartment in Seattle. The song made her believe, even more than prayer, that there was something beyond her present circumstances. She needed to have hope to pray. The song gave her enough to keep going.
Or it would have—if the second chorus (the really good part) hadn’t been interrupted by an actual phone call. Maya sucked her teeth, looked at her phone’s screen, and groaned. It was her work, the bookstore. Nothing good ever came of your job calling on your day off. Reluctantly, she answered the call, trying to sound unhappy without being rude.
“Hello—”
“Oh, Maya, thank God!” It was Sarah, one half of the married couple who owned Velma’s Books. And she sounded panicked. “Can you come in—like now? Alayah’s son is having a mental health crisis and we need someone at the store.”
Maya didn’t know what was more confusing: hearing that the store was going to be open on Monday (it usually wasn’t) or hearing her typically unflappable boss so very . . . flapped.
Sarah rushed through her explanation: “Emme Vivant is coming to sign a bunch of her books and put us all over her social.”
Maya frowned at the phone. “Wait, the girlboss?”
“You can’t call her that.” Sarah sighed. “But can you come? If things go well, she might do an event with us—which would be huge. Huge! I’ll give you the day off tomorrow—can you come?!”
To be honest, Maya had known she was going to say yes when Sarah said the words mental health crisis. It was the kind of emergency she couldn’t treat lightly.
“I’m at the pool. I gotta shower and change, but I can be there within the hour. I’ll be coming in one of my Hawai‘i sundresses. I hope that’s okay with the apparent empress of DC.” She would have to save her floating for another day.
Sarah was audibly relieved. “You could wear pasties and a smile as long as Emme Vivant does not arrive to a locked door.”
Maya had about an hour before she needed to open the store for Emme’s visit. Since she had the place to herself, she hooked her phone up to the store’s speakers and set a playlist on shuffle. The music filled the store, instantly improving her mood—which had darkened considerably since she forced herself from the pool and onto the metro and endured the sweaty, ninety-five-degree walk from Union Station to her store. The first song was from a singer-songwriter Ant loved—her bestie was the only reason she’d listened to any new music since 2019. The song had a bossa nova tinge that was a great soundtrack for moving furniture.
She gathered the store’s stock of (Ad)venture Capital and arranged them on the table near the door. Emme Vivant had requested to sign books near the open front door for COVID safety’s sake. Maya was quietly grateful to be dealing with a powerful person who believed in the disease rather than one who didn’t.
Between Rev. Gina, her mom’s praise, and the pretty decent TED Talk, Maya was slowly coming around to the idea of “the girlboss” as a useful rich person. After all, she didn’t have to be doing any of this: starting businesses or signing books. Vivant was an heiress. She could be buying a third yacht or flying private jets around the world. Instead she’d stuck around DC and was choosing to put her money back into local businesses. There were probably better ways to make money. Emme Vivant’s way felt . . . sweet.
Once the table was in place, Maya positioned the books in the best sort of attractive tableau she could manage so she could take some decent photos for the store’s Instagram. She needed to check and see if the girlboss was allowing photos of the signing.
When everything was done, Maya was surprised to find that she was a little nervous. It wasn’t just that Emme Vivant was rich and influential; she represented new DC in a way Maya didn’t recognize. She suddenly felt compelled to study. There were twenty minutes left until Emme’s arrival, which was just enough time for Maya to slide into her retail personality and gulp down a couple of interviews. Emme Vivant seemed like the kind of person who would expect to be known.
Leaning against the cash register’s counter, Maya did a quick browse through the first page of search results. Washingtonian called Emme Vivant “handsome (WTF?), clever, and rich,” before praising her investment in the Spark app. The City Paper took a different approach, interviewing people who’d met on the app. That was how Maya saw that the Spark fulfilled its promise: it really was for every kind of relationship. There were gay couples, straight couples, a pub quiz team, and a ladies’ barbershop quartet that all connected on the Spark. Despite talking to Ant about it months ago, Maya hadn’t gotten around to checking it out. Now she planned on downloading it after work. She needed more friends.
Her phone alarm went off, a five-minute warning before the big arrival. Just enough time to swipe on some last-minute eyeliner and head for the door. (She could do her trademark razor-sharp cat eye without a mirror. It was her party trick.)
Maya unlocked the door and opened it to let fresh air in. She peered down the sidewalk to her left and saw no sign of the VIP—only to have the woman on the back cover of her book materialize to her right.
“Oh!” Maya moved to let her in. The tall woman stepped inside, her smile evident despite her KN95. “Hello, and welcome to Velma’s on H.”
The heiress didn’t return the greeting. Instead she looked at Maya with a surprising intensity. “Has anyone ever told you, you have astounding eyes?”
Maya blinked, the unfamiliar feeling of a blush flooding her cheeks. She hadn’t thought there was anything special about her eyes since her grandma used to call her “sparkly-eyed Maya.”
Emme continued. “You use navy liner, don’t you? Not black. It’s dramatic, but still warm.”
All she could do was nod. No one had ever picked up on that particular detail before. She did use a particular dark-blue liquid with a metallic tint. It was cheap and sold exclusively at beauty supply stores. She suddenly felt shy. All this being noticed was unusual for someone working in retail. People often noticed how you treated them: if you were friendly, or brusque, or too slow for their taste. But people rarely noticed you, the human being behind the register. Emme, who could have easily gotten away with treating her like a helpful robot, really noticed her.
“Thank you,” Maya said at last, leading Emme into the store. Between the taller woman’s warmth and her attention, Maya was totally disarmed. If this was a tactic, it was brilliant.
As Maya got Emme settled, she complimented everything in the same specific way: the feminist slant store’s book selection, the inclusivity of the slogan on the store’s shirts (“We only make passes at those who wear glasses”), the quality of the store’s audio as Maya’s playlist continued on. Suddenly they were listening to “Ain’t It Fun” by Paramore.
Emme Vivant was five books into her signing when she started to shimmy her shoulders. “You have excellent taste in music, too! I love Paramore. It’s the only thing that keeps me from being a wholly disappointing Black girl.”
Maya chuckled. “Looks like we’re in the same fan club. I’m an unapologetic Paramore-stan. My favorite tattoo was inspired by ‘Last Hope.’” She offered her arm to Emme for inspection—right before a wave of self-consciousness hit her. She must look like the biggest overgrown middle schooler, talking about the tattoo she got for her favorite band. She started to pull her arm back, not wanting to look at Emme and see that new admiration leave her eyes. Instead, Emme caught her wrist.
“Whoa.” Emme’s fingers seemed to unconsciously seek the ink on Maya’s forearm. Then her hand paused in midair and pulled her blazer to the side, revealing a smaller tattooed spark at the edge of her collarbone. One that looked like the head of a sparkler or an illustrated North Star. “Most people think this tattoo is for my company, but the spark in ‘Last Hope’ is what our company is named after.” She smiled at Maya again, brightly this time. “You don’t have to explain. I get it completely. However, we’re officially required to be friends now.”
“Sounds good to me.” Maya tried to quell the rush of feeling inside her. She couldn’t nod, couldn’t even laugh. This moment felt too significant. Not only was she finally making a new queer lady friend, but her potential pal also happened to be the unofficial queen of DC! She’d asked for a sign, and she had gotten one. Whatever happened next was going to happen with / for / because of Emme. And Maya wasn’t the kind of person to let a message from the universe go to waste.
Emme Vivant slides into Maya’s DMs, July 17, 2021
—EmmeVP: Eureka! It took two whole days of scouring Instagram but I found you. Hi Maya!
—Signs&1nders: Holy shit!
Hi Emme, you’ve been looking for me?
—EmmeVP: I’ve dropped by the store a couple of times, but I didn’t see you. So I had to stop relying on fate and seek you out. Or your DMs, rather.
—EmmeVP: BTW, you are so unbelievably talented! What is an artist/graphic designer/children’s book author doing in retail?
—Signs&1nders: I’m not an artist anymore, but all creatives have day jobs. As for “what am I doing in retail?” I ask myself that, every day.
EmmeVP has invited you to the Disappointing Black Girls group chat July 18, 2021
—Signs&1nders: I object to “disappointing”
—Signs&1nders: I make no secret about being a big weirdo. Other people’s expectations are none of my business.
—EmmeVP: Good point, I can change it.
—Signs&1nders: Now, am I disappointing to my parents especially when compared to my genius sister?
—EmmeVP: Your parents are proud, I’m pretty sure your dad comments some version of “that’s my Maya” under everything you’ve ever posted
—Signs&1nders: Thanks for that.
I’ll return the favor with some wisdom
From my mom.
—Signs&1nders: She said: At some point people told Jimi Hendrix he wasn’t Black enough, Whitney Houston got told her music wasn’t Black enough. And “River Deep, Mountain High” allegedly “flopped” because it wasn’t “Black enough.”
—Signs&1nders If you’ve gotta a choose between being “Black enough” and being yourself, baby be yourself.
—EmmeVP: Oh my God, that’s so wise. Your mom is great.
—Signs&1nders: She is.
—EmmeVP: It’s funny, I won’t let anyone tell me how to wear my hair, how to dress, that I’m not queer enough, that I’m not “a real business woman”—I’ve even accepted that I will never be smaller than a size 12
—EmmeVP: But if someone called me an Oreo, today at 35, I would still cry in the bathroom like I’m back in middle school again
—Signs&1nders: Full disclosure,
it took living thousands of miles away from home for over a decade for me to truly not care what other people think
—Signs&1nders: Since I moved back home I’m trying not to feel overwhelmed by the things that I think I should be
—Signs&1nders: God, sorry for vomiting my feelings all over you, like 48 hours after meeting
—EmmeVP: No please, vomit away
I feel like COVID has made us all cut the BS and get real
—EmmeVP I’d like to get real with you, Maya
—Signs&1nders: I’d like that, too
Black Girls Love Paramore Chat, July 20, 2021
—EmmeVP: How disappointing is it that I can’t give up John Mayer
—Signs&1nders: I mean, I think it’s disappointing for anyone to support John Mayer because he seems intensely wack
—Signs&1nders: Daughters alone is a war crime
—EmmeVP: And the “David Duke dick” comment
—Signs&1nders: What does that even mean
—EmmeVP: Back when you were probably in middle school he talked about having a racist penis
—Signs&1nders:I call that a win
for Black women
—EmmeVP:
Does it help that it’s only that one song? (3x5)
—EmmeVP: It sounds like late nights in college and I love it so much
—Signs&1nders: Only the one? You’re fine
That’s your broken clock
—Signs&1nders: Like a broken clock is right twice a day, you’re allowed to like UP TO 2 john mayer songs
—Signs&1nders: But that’s the limit
Black Girls Love Paramore Chat, July 24, 2021
—EmmeVP: I remembered you talking about how much you like the National Gallery of Art. It’s reopening next week.
Would you like to go with me?
—Signs&1nders I’d love to, but why me?
I’m sure you have 1000 friends who’d love to go with you
—EmmeVP: I actually have a pretty small circle
And my bestie found out
She’s pregnant, so she’s waiting until she has the all clear to get the vaccine
—EmmeVP: So what do you say to me sending you an uber, some quiet morning next week
—Signs&1nders: I’d say the store is closed
Mondays and I’m off Tuesdays
—EmmeVP: Let’s say Tuesday! I’m excited
—Signs&1nders: Me too, see you then
Black Girls Love Paramore Chat, August 2, 2021
—EmmeVP: Hiya, I’m coming to your store day to sign some more stock. Want to get some coffee after
—Signs&1nders: I’d love to, if you’re
not sick of me yet.
—EmmeVP: You’re really great to be around.
—EmmeVP: BTW, I saw some of your old projects. The craftbombing house in Oakland. The murals in Seattle. I even found your old insta with your arty nails. You’re even more talented than I thought!
—Signs&1nders:
—EmmeVP: Oh stop you know you’re great
—Signs 1nders: Talent isn’t everything in the art world though, that’s why I switched gears. I knew I couldn’t handle that intense level of competition
—EmmeVP: To that youth center?
—Signs&1nders Yeah, I got my BA in social work to become the second in command there
But unfortunately, it burned down
—EmmeVP: OH MY GOD
I’m so sorry
—Signs&1nders : Thanks.
—Signs&1nders My problem is that I don’t KNOW what to do with my degree my resume just means less here
—Signs&1nders: I had very different plans for my life in Honolulu, but they literally went up in smoke.
Now I’m starting over, again.
—Signs&1nders: At this point I’m interested in almost anything as long as it is stable and has a decent salary.
—EmmeVP: My poor career orphan! You have to tell me the whole story when we see each other
. . .
—EmmeVP: I’ve been thinking and thinking since our last conversation and the more I think the more I believe that my next project could be your next project
—Signs&1nders: Like an internship or a job?
—EmmeVP: Not quite a job, but more than an internship. Much more! I’d like to make you my protege
—EmmeVP: I want your help to find a tremendous outlet for all your talent and ability, that pays what you deserve
[after a lengthy pause]
—EmmeVP: Would you perhaps be interested in letting me change your life?
[after a shorter pause]
—Signs&1nders: Do proteges get health insurance? I’m in my 30s so I can’t pretend that doesn’t matter anymore
—EmmeVP: It can. I’ll send the details and a formal contract and you can think it over.
(Unsent)
8/5/21
WTF, MA?!?!?!
-Ant
Ant
He’d never send it, but it felt good to write it. Ant tossed the postcard in the direction of his small desk and flopped back on the bed. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Ma had been talking about leaving the navy since the summer. Ant could hear how deeply tired she was of being a doctor during the pandemic. She’d gone from gallows humor to complete silence on the subject. The only time he needed to worry about Ma was when she was quiet, so he should have known something was up when he barely heard from her after those weird text messages in June. She was good at staying in touch. It hadn’t occurred to Ant until now that she might have been avoiding him.
Not until he spent the week flattened under a barrage of emails.
In the first, Ma let him know that she was retiring from the navy and would be leaving O‘ahu in the following year. It was leaving Hawai‘i that really threw him for a loop. They’d moved to Hawai‘i after his dad died. It was the place they’d healed together. Ant always thought of Hawai‘i as his real home. Okinawa was a beautiful, hazy dream. Guam was where his dad got sick, and Hawai‘i was where they healed. And when his grandmother came, his family had felt whole again. That’s when they moved off the base. When Ma bought the house, she said it was so that Ant would always have his home and no one would be able to take it from him.
Ant had assumed Ma leaving the navy would mean her easing into some cushy private practice in O‘ahu. Instead she was moving to San Juan. This made Ant’s jaw drop.
Yes, Ma was Puerto Rican—from Puerto Rico (not New York or Florida)—but from her stories, she had been a restless soul since she was a child. From those same stories Ant had learned that she hadn’t had it the easiest being chubby and dark, with a grandmother who wouldn’t let her play in the sun. That’s why she’d joined the US Navy despite its name being mud in PR for everything that happened with the cancer clusters and whatnot.
His mother didn’t seem to long for Puerto Rico the way, like, Lin-Manuel Miranda did. Ma was a zephyr, a swashbuckling adventurer. In all his years at home, he couldn’t recall one instant of homesickness. Ant was the one begging his grandmother for asopao de pollo on cool nights or plátanos maduros with ice cream for his birthday. But something about Hawai‘i had curdled for Ma. She was itching to leave, and she’d set her sights on Puerto Rico because it had the highest vaccination rate in the country. He could practically see her frustration on the screen when she wrote, “The vaccine is just the vaccine there—I can do my job without people trying to fight me for it. I don’t think I could be a doctor anywhere else, right now.”
