Donna Hill - A Private Affair

“Of course I heard her. I’m not deaf. She’s obviously joking,” he continued without inflection. “Because no one for whom I’ve paid more than seventy-five thousand to finance their education would walk in here, sit at my table and tell me they’re throwing all that in my face.” His voice suddenly exploded. “She’s obviously joking!” His fist slammed down on the table, causing everyone and everything within range to jump.

Nikita swallowed hard, and for a split second she contemplated telling them yes, it was a joke. But if she did do that, the joke would ultimately be on her.

Her tone was soft, but decisive. “It’s not a joke. I’ve left medical school. I’m not going back.” There, she’d said it, and the earth hadn’t quaked and lightning hadn’t struck.

“Oh yes, you are going back,” her father spat out, rising to his feet. “And you’re going to finish at the top of your class, as you always have.” His hazel eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “After all we’ve done for you—”

Those words rolled around in her head like a beach ball out of control, and something as sharp as the sound of dry wood inside of her snapped.

Nikita sprang from her seat, leaning forward, pressing her palms against the linen-covered, hand-carved table. “What about all I’ve done for you!” She pinned her father with a defiant stare, then turned on her mother. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve done everything you’ve directed me to do. Joined all the right clubs, had the right friends—and the right color, of course. Excelled in every subject, attended the schools you wanted me to attend. Majored in a subject I hate. I was valedictorian for you. Summa Cum Laude for you, Mother, Father. What about me?” Tears of frustration burned her eyes and spilled. Her body trembled. “I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. Not…any…more.” She sat down hard in her seat and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

“I should have seen this coming,” her father said. He pointed a finger of accusation. “Ever since you started growing those weeds in your head—”

“They’re not weeds, dammit. They’re dreadlocks, a symbol of our heritage.”

“Nikita! I will not have you use that language in this house,” said her mother.

“The only thing you just heard me say was damn? Maybe I should say it more often, so someone around here would pay me some attention.”

Her mother opened her mouth, then shut it when her husband continued his tirade.

“Weeds,” he spat, caught up in his own rhetoric, ignoring the sparring between mother and daughter. “The first step toward your demise. No upstanding young woman would be seen in public like that. I don’t know what heritage you’re speaking of,” he continued in his pompous tone. “It certainly isn’t mine, or anyone’s I know. All you need is a Jemima rag on your head to complete the look. We’ve come too far for this. We’ve worked too hard—”

“Why won’t you listen? For once. I’m twenty-five years old, and I don’t have a clue as to who I am, where I’m going, or even what I’ll do for myself when the two of you are…I need to have my own life. Make some decisions for myself. And that means not being a doctor.”

“So what do you intend to do?” her mother asked, perplexed.

Nikita took a long breath. “I want to be a writer.”

“A writer!” Condescending laughter filled the room. “Have you completely lost your mind?” he sputtered. “Writing isn’t a profession, it’s a hobby. How do you intend to support yourself? Or are you going to be another starving artist, for art’s sake?”

Nikita stood. “I knew I shouldn’t come here. But I thought it was the right thing to do.” With a pained expression she turned to her father. “I’ll find a way to repay you.” She snatched up her purse, turned and stalked away.

“Nikita.” Cynthia hurried after her. “Where are you going?”

She kept her back to her mother. Her voice shook. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stay with Parris and Nick in the city.”

“Of course you won’t.” Her tone softened as she turned her daughter to face her. “This is your home. You stay here as long as you want. It’s obvious that you’re terribly distraught. I won’t have you driving around town half hysterical. Maybe some time off from school is just what you need. Now come along. Take a long soak. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Nikita looked at her picture-perfect mother with sad eyes. Cynthia Harrell didn’t have a clue.

That was nearly three months ago, Nikita reflected. Her twenty-sixth birthday was dogging her heels, and she still had no job. Her savings were almost depleted and she refused to ask her parents for a dime. It was bad enough having to see her father’s “I told you so” look every time they passed each other. The reality was, she had no experience or educational background to break into journalism. All she had was determination and a dream—one that she’d pushed to the back of her mind in pursuit of her parents’ dream. God, she didn’t want her parents to be right.

Maybe this interview would pan out. The woman said she was willing to train her as long as she didn’t mind playing Girl Friday in the process.

She ascended the stairs from beneath the subterranean world of New York City, finally free from the press of damp flesh. She felt like taking a shower. Looking around to get her bearings, she fished in her pocketbook for the address: 803 Eighth Avenue, corner of Twenty-first Street. At least a ten-block walk.

She looked down at her low-heeled shoes, thankful. “All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes,” she muttered.

Turning off Fourteenth Street she walked along Sixth Avenue, peeking in the antique shop windows, outdoor cafés, absorbing the laid-back atmosphere. She inhaled deeply and smiled. She was growing accustomed to exhaust fumes and the intangible aroma of leftover garbage. She turned down Eighteenth Street, intrigued by the tree-lined block and stately brownstones. Sparkling plate-glass windows gave sneak previews of crystal chandeliers or high-tech track lighting, oversize living rooms, mahogany fixtures and hardwood floors. Couples in all shades and combinations sat on stoops, or strolled down the avenues. This is a neighborhood, she thought. Not the sterile, pristine, patrolled area in which she existed. She could like it here.

A moving truck was up ahead and she wondered if they were coming or going. She walked a bit faster, her thoughts outrunning her pace. If they were moving out, she’d ask about the vacancy. If she got the job, she’d be able to pay her rent. In the meantime, she could sell her Benz…. She slowed, nearing the truck.

The double-glass and wood door at the top of the stoop was propped wide open, like a woman awaiting her lover. She looked around and didn’t see anyone. Taking a breath, she turned into the yard and was about to go up the steps.

“Lookin’ for somebody?”

She looked up into dark, haunting eyes. Her heart pounded a bit too hard. “Uh, not really. I mean, I was just wondering if there’s an apartment available.” He’s gorgeous. She cleared her throat and backed up as the lean, thoroughly masculine figure gave her a long, slow look that made her feel like he’d just undressed her, then bounded down the stairs.

“Not that I know of.” Damn, she’s fine. He towered over her—catching a whiff of sea breeze and baby powder—on his way to the van. A pulse pounded low in his groin, unsettling him with its suddenness. He turned back in her direction, his long black locks swinging across his bronze shoulders. Dark eyes held her in place for a brief moment before dancing away. “Sorry.”

She shrugged, wanting to appear as cool and unaffected as he did. “No problem.”