March 14

My parents and I have a deal, and it’s a very simple one. I call them every saturday, and they promise not to call the cops on me. This deal started my freshman year of college. I left my phone at Nathan’s place (his parents bought him a brownstone when he got into NYU on scholarship. Crazy.) and I called to tell my parents that I would get it back later that week. Thing is, my parents do not check their messages. Just see a missed call and immediately call back. They called my number, numerous times, before calling Ariel, who was sleeping in. Over the next few hours, my mother had convinced herself and the members of my immediate family that I had died and that my body was buried in the woods of Central Park. She also managed to convince campus and local police, who found out what class I had and tracked me down, just so my parents would stop calling them. Since then, the rule has been in place; no matter what, I am to call Solace Conteh-Kyari and David Kyari on saturdays, no later than twelve P.M. central time. And, aside from a few missteps, I have stuck to that schedule. So this saturday, the day that a meeting was just kind of thrown into my day, I had to make a call to my parents at work. Which I don’t do. Because these white folks will latch onto any semblance of a difference and drive you crazy with it. So I stand outside of the Concord building to make a quick call to my father.”Papa, it's Isio. I was just calling to say that I am alive.”

“Eh heh! My child how are you?” I can tell that Papa has been up for a while. His voice is clear and he's not  yelling about decorum and social etiquette being a lost art. I hear him try to wake my mother to talk to me. “How is work?” I faintly hear my mom waking up in the background, threatening to crown father if he continues. “Your Mama is going to wash her face. You say about work?”  I start to notice some familiar faces from the office, glancing in my direction.

“I'm at work right now, actually. I just wanted you guys to know that I'm  alright. I'll talk to you next week.” I don't take a breath, hoping to  end the conversation without too many more people noticing me.

“What for your mama. She wants to say hello.” The thing I will say about African parents is that when you try to get them off the phone, they stay ten times longer. “Papa, I have to go.”  I am definitely being noticed by a lot of these people. Some are even pointing before ducking behind their hands, like we're in junior high.

“She's almost finished-”

“Papa, I'm running late for a meeting,” I practically beg through the phone.

“She's flossing now, hang on.”

“Papa, I must go, please.” not only do I have ten minutes to make a fifteen minute journey, the director of diversity walks past me, a not at all inviting smile on her face.

“She's brushing her hair now.” Fuck. This. Shit. I hang up on them. I am positive I will be getting an earful about respect from one of them somewhere in the near future, but for right now, I had to get in this elevator and deal with these white folks. Once the elevator started going up, Kayley Sawyer (diversity director) squeezes past everyone to get to me.

“So, I heard you talking out there,” she purrs. “Is that you first language or something?”

“English? Sure is Kayley.” I guess she isn't the biggest fan of sarcasm because she huff and bumps into my shoulder.

“That wasn't English,” she insists, her elbow jabbing me in the back as she crosses her arms. “I know English, that wasn't it.” These conversations are always so tedious. If someone didn't learn about dialects in school, teaching them in their forties just isn't going to work.

“No offense, Mrs. Sawyer,” I adopt the sweetest voice I can, “but if you can't understand that there are more dialects than American English, I'll pray for you.” And through my benevolent offer of prayer, God opened the elevator door and most of us spill out into the office, heading towards the conference room. I didn't see Kayley again until she sat down in front of the EP’s crotch. The meeting starts and it turns out that a senator, some conservative or another that they have in their back pocket, is going to be in town for a few campaign rallies and they wanted us to do a few puff pieces to try to humanize what an actual jerk he’s been when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

“Hang on, guys. I think Isis has a message she wants to share with the class.” I look up from my phone to see everyone staring back at me, patiently waiting for what I have to say.

“Do you mean me?”

“I mean,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “You are the only one with your phone out right now.”

“Give her a break, Grae.” Kayley to the rescue! “She had to get off the phone with her parents before coming up here. If you need to call them you should. I would love to hear that cute little language again.” Take that back. Kimberly and Blackheart can die in a fire. I sigh, putting away my phone again.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I thought it was important.” Grae uncrosses his arms and goes back to the Powerpoint that outlines how we are going to make the senator seem like a better person than her is ever capable of being. After being given an assignment to make up a story about how much civil rights groups just love the senator, also a request to fudge his voting records for the article, I resolve to write a companion story about the time that Black Liberation Movement leaders dragged his as verbally all across town and if you listen closely, you can still hear his whiny screams in the wind, brushing through the kinks and coils of children’s hair that he wishes did not exist. That one, I might sell it to Braised Ribs, the satirical news site known for their ridiculous, yet somehow still spot on headlines. Heading out of the office, I pull out my phone again and stare at the message before -

“So,” Kayley slithers next to me, trying to see what is on my screen before I slip my phone back in my pocket. “I was wondering what you have planned for the Senator Peters.”

“Do you have something in mind?”

“Well,” she sways back and forth, like she’s a little kid with a secret. Even though she has to be around the same age as my mother. “I know that you’re from Texas, and your parents are still there…” Just spit it out, lady. She bites her lips and side eyes me. I give her my best passive look. “I’m sure some black people like Zach Peters. Maybe you could talk to them about his service to the community?”

“I’ll see what I can muster.” I’m also leaving this conversation and the building. I pull my phone out to respond to Luke.

“We’re counting on you, Isabel!” Yeah, that statement would be so much more believable if you guys could get my name right but whatever.

I got a date, y'all!