I hate summer.
Not only is it unbearably hot and humid, it’s also a complete and utter waste of time. Every single summer I have to figure out something to do so admissions officers won’t look at my résumé and think I did absolutely nothing while I was out of school. As if the summer is actually some kind of vacation.
Nope! Especially not this summer.
Everyone knows what you do during the summer before your senior year is just as important, if not more so, than what you did during your junior year.
“Rochelle, what on earth are you doing?”
Everyone except my mother, apparently.
I peek one eye open and find my mother staring down at me, the ends of her silk press swaying above my face as I lie on the floor. As per usual, she is perfectly put together. Her light brown skin shines with whatever new body butter she’s trying, and she’s wearing a matching tank top and yoga pants set that I’m sure she got out of some bargain bin. It’s Wednesday so Ma should be in her Manhattan office taking calls and working on a bunch of corporate law things I don’t yet understand but someday will. Instead, she’s been cutting back on the number of cases she takes on lately and has decided to give herself the day off.
“Not to be dramatic, but I want to die,” I say.
She pauses. “Are you speaking in song lyrics again?”
“Wake me up when August ends,” I reply.
I close my eyes again, hoping the earth will swallow me whole and wrap me in a cocoon for the rest of the summer. It’ll be like the opposite of hibernation, and I could write an extensive research paper on it that would win me the Nobel Prize. And then I’d get into a good college.
My mother lets out an exasperated sigh. I don’t have to look up to know she’s rolling her eyes.
Ma and I don’t look that much alike. She’s light; I’m dark. She’s tall and slim; I’m short and have needed a D-cup bra since I was thirteen. She changes her hairstyle on a regular basis and owns every Fenty product ever made, while I’m committed to my straight black box braids and natural-faced look.
However, I have adopted many of her mannerisms, which include, but are not limited to, rolling my eyes, deep sighing, and snapping my fingers when I remember something. Thus, I can practically feel when she’s rolling her eyes at me. But I can’t help it that I’m depressed.
It is almost July and I have absolutely nothing productive on my calendar.
What I need is something to stand out to college admissions, specifically to the Wharton School at UPenn. You would think Ma would understand since she is an alum, but it’s as if she’s completely forgotten the work ethic and level of determination it takes to get into her alma mater.
Ma nudges my shoulder with her foot until I open my eyes.
“What happened?” she asks.
I let out my own sigh before I confess my latest defeat at the hands of corporate America. “I got another rejection.”
Ma moves around me to sit on my bed. “From where?”
I push up from the floor a bit to face her. “The little bakery down the street,” I say. “They said I wasn’t experienced enough. How hard is it to frost some cupcakes?”
Ma laughs at that, and I glare up at her. She holds up her hands in mock surrender.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says. “But I imagine the job probably isn’t as simple as you think it is. Besides, Mrs. Gregory runs the bakery mostly by herself. I’m sure she wants someone who can stick around and be there full-time, not someone still in high school who, last I checked, preferred her cupcakes plain, with no frosting.”
“I like frosting, they just always put too much, which is exactly why she needs my help.”
Ma has the audacity to laugh again, and I groan, throwing myself back on the floor.
“This is no laughing matter, Mother,” I say. “I need a job. It’s the one thing I’m
missing for these college apps. I’ve done the enrichment programs, volunteering, and even summer classes. But I’m seventeen and I’ve never had a real job. Not unless you count my tutoring gig, which I do not since, like volunteering, everyone does that.
“And you know how Wharton is. They don’t just want some typical straight-A student. Academics is just one part. They want leaders, not lazy soon-to-be seniors who can’t even get a job at the bakery. How will it look for me to apply to business school when I don’t even have anything on my résumé—or LinkedIn!”
“Okay, first of all take a deep breath.” Ma breathes in through her nose, and then huffs out a long and slow breath through her mouth. She’s taken up yoga this past year, and her solution for most things in life these days is to breathe. I think I’m breathing just fine, but I follow her lead, breathing in and out with her.
“Better?” she asks.
I shrug. It still feels like my world is about to end.
“Now, you are way too young to be worried about LinkedIn,” Ma says. “Why not focus on that clock app your friends love so much?”
“I’m not trying to be an influencer; I need a real job.”
“Hey, don’t knock influencers—they make a lot of money, and some of them even turn their brands into full-fledged businesses. I would know, I’ve worked with some of them! I’d love to be paid to post but, alas, not even my own daughter will follow me.”
Now I roll my eyes. “I was following you, but you post five times a day. All I saw were your posts.”
She looks affronted. “And why is that a bad thing?”
“Because I already see you in real life—why do I need to see everything you’re doing on Insta too?”
Ma pouts, actually pouts, and I can already feel myself giving in. When push comes to shove, I’ll do anything for her.
“Fine, pass me my phone, please,” I say.
She grins triumphantly as she hands it to me. I quickly follow her and then show her my screen.
“Okay, now that that’s done, can we get back to my dilemma, please? What am I going to do?”
“Oh, I have a wonderful idea!”
I’m suspicious but turn to look up at her. “I’m listening.”
“Take this summer off to relax and enjoy yourself,” Ma says.
“I knew that was a trap.”
“It’s not a trap, Rochelle,” Ma says, serious voice activated. “I’m just worried that my one and only child has forgotten what it even means to be a child.”
“I know what it means to be a child, Ma,” I say with a groan of frustration. “But Wharton doesn’t want average kids. You, of all people, know how hard it is to get in.”
“I do,” she says. “Which is exactly why I don’t want you twisting yourself all up in knots to get into that school. Life is more than just hard work. You know Amira—”
“Ma, please don't
start.”
Any sense of calm and ease is immediately gone at the mention of Amira Rodriguez.
Way back when my mom moved us from the city to Long Island, she met Luisa, Amira’s mom. The two have been the best of friends ever since, and Ma credits Luisa for putting her back together after losing Dad. While I don’t doubt this, I barely have any memory of my dad or the start of this glorious friendship. All I know is when Ma met Luisa, I met her daughter, Amira. At five years old, I thought we were going to be friends forever. I was mistaken.
At the end of kindergarten, Luisa, Amira, and the rest of the Rodriguez family moved two towns over into a bigger house. Ma and Luisa tried to keep my and Amira’s friendship going, but once Amira and I stopped seeing each other every day in school, our friendship was quickly forgotten. I thought we could maybe become friends again when we were both filtered into North High School in the ninth grade, but I was wrong about that too.
Amira and I are two very different people. I am committed to my studies and making sure I do everything necessary to get into Wharton, just like my parents did. Amira, on the other hand, is a social butterfly. Everyone at our school knows and loves her. She’s the president of our class, captain of the dance team, and she runs track and cross-country.
All of that would be fine if she took her studies half as seriously as I do, but she lacks discipline. I realized we could never be friends when we were made to be lab partners in our advanced biology class in ninth grade, and all she wanted to do was make the frog that we were supposed to be dissecting dance. I ended up doing the whole assignment myself.
Over the years, Ma and Luisa have made more than a few attempts to push us together, but eventually I had to make it clear that I need to be friends with people who are just as studious and dedicated to their work as I am. Amira did not take that well. Since then, she’s basically made it her mission to do better than me in all our classes, simply out of spite.
I don’t mind the competition, but it is slightly infuriating that at the end of our junior year she very happily revealed to me she’s now crossed into the top ten of our class. I know there’s no way she’ll actually beat me for valedictorian; I take way more AP courses than she does, so my average will be comfortably weighted.
Still, I don’t appreciate that she is somehow having the time of her life and is still acing her classes. It simply doesn’t make sense.
Even though Amira and I have barely spoken over the past few years, Ma has it in her head that Amira is the yin to my yang, and one day we will “get over our differences” and be BFFs like when we were five. No matter how many times I try to tell her there is absolutely no way Amira and I will ever get along, Ma refuses to listen.
“I’m just saying,”
Ma continues, “she’s just as dedicated to school as you, but she still finds time to have fun. You could learn from her.”
I’m thankfully saved from this conversation when my phone rings.
It’s a random 516 phone number, but I’m willing to answer anyone’s call right now.
“Hello?”
“HI, THIS IS GLORY FROM HORIZON CINEMA!”
From the bed, Ma raises her eyebrows. I pull my phone away, placing it on the bed and putting it on speaker, not that it’s necessary with the volume at which Glory is already speaking.
“IS THIS ROCHELLE?”
In the background, we can hear a child crying, a phone ringing, and someone clearly trying to get Glory’s attention.
“Yes, this is—”
“GREAT, HANG ON A SECOND! DANNY, I’M ON THE PHONE.”
Then there’s complete silence. I exchange a look with Ma, whose eyebrows have traveled back up her forehead.
“When did you apply for a job at Horizon Cinema?” she whispers.
I rack my brain trying to remember but come up blank. I’ve been applying to every job in the neighborhood I could think of, but Horizon Cinema isn’t walking distance from our house. At least, not a short walk.
Horizon is the only Black-owned movie theater in all of Long Island, making it a favorite around here. A historical relic from when movie theaters were segregated. Located in South Valley Stream, it’s close to a number of towns, and right by the border of Queens, so people from the city can easily get there. Plus, it’s across the street from the Green Acres Mall, which is always crowded.
I’m not a big movie person. I’ve only been once or twice to Horizon, but my best friends Kerry and Taylor told me it recently got a makeover and is now one of the spots to hang out at. They keep trying to get me to go since they claim the “pickings” of queer girls are better there than the same people we’ve been going to school with for the past three years. It’s been a mission of theirs to get me a girlfriend since freshman year. But I have no interest in dating anyone, especially right before senior year, so I’ve found excuses not to go every time.
“I didn’t apply,” I whisper back to Ma. Which begs the question, why on earth is someone from Horizon calling me?
“Hi, Rochelle?”
“Hi, yes, I’m here,” I say. I shrug at Ma’s quizzical look.
Glory must’ve escaped from the theater because I realize there’s no more background noise.
“Great, sorry about all that,” Glory says. “I thought I’d be able to make one call while running concessions but, alas, craziness immediately ensued. However, I have now squared myself away in our back office so we can talk.”
“Oh great.”
“Anyway,” Glory says, dragging the word out an extra few syllables. “I’m desperately
in need of a new front-of-house staff person for the summer, and I was told you were desperately in need of a job. Is that still true?”
“Um . . .”
I don’t love being called “desperate” by someone I don’t even know, but she’s not exactly wrong. Ma nudges my shoulder with her foot until I look up at her.
“Say yes,” she hisses.
“Yes, yes, I am,” I finally say. I push myself up to stand and start pacing the room, taking my phone with me, as Glory continues.
“Perfect, you’ll need to come in first thing tomorrow morning for new hire training,” she says. “I can get you all set up with W-9 forms and direct deposit then. Tomorrow is just training so don’t worry about your clothes, but going forward you’ll need to wear khakis and closed-toe shoes whenever you come in, along with a Horizon T-shirt, which I’ll get you tomorrow.”
“Wait, you’re giving me the job? Just like that?”
Ma looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I know I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but this is wild. I didn’t even apply for this job, and now some woman I’ve never met before is offering it to me? Just because some mystery person told her I need it? I narrow my eyes at Ma as a thought crosses my mind.
“Did you do this?” I whisper-hiss at her.
Before Ma can respond, Glory’s speaking again.
“I was told you’re a quick learner and, honestly, if I don’t have someone in here to start working by Saturday, I’m screwed. The job’s yours if you want it.”
“I didn’t,” Ma whispers back. “But who cares if I, or someone else, got you in? This is what you wanted, right? Take it!”
I’m not sure I believe Ma didn’t have anything to do with this. It would be just like her to call in a favor with someone to get me a job she doesn’t even think I need this summer. She’ll do anything for me too.
It doesn’t matter though. Ma is right and so is Glory. A job has fallen into my lap, and I’m in no position to turn it down.
“I’ll take it,” I say to both my mother and Glory.
Ma beams as Glory says, “Perfect! I’ll see you tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp. Please do not be late. We have much to do!”
“I’m never late,” I say, but my phone is already beeping, signaling that Glory is gone.
Ma claps her hands
enthusiastically, and I sit down on the bed beside her.
“Did that just happen?”
“I can drop you off tomorrow on my way to work,” she says in answer. Then she wraps her arms around me in a side hug, giving me a squeeze. “While I still think you should spend your summer on the beach, I’m very proud of you. My baby’s first job!”
“There’s no reason to be proud of me,” I say, pulling away. “I didn’t even apply.”
Ma waves a hand. “That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that someone out there thinks so highly of you that you didn’t even need to apply. This is what you wanted. Enjoy it!”
I nod, trying to absorb Ma’s excitement. This is good, better than good even.
Still, I can’t help feeling like it’s too good to be true.
Black Girl Magic Group Chat
Me: Sooooo I got a job at Horizon.
Taylor: ???
Kerry: Horizon Cinema???
Me: No, the line at which the Earth’s surface and the sky appear to meet.
Taylor: That’s a dollar in the sarcasm jar.
Me: I’ll pay my dues after I get my first paycheck.
Kerry: Wait wait wait back up. How did this even happen? When did you apply?
Kerry: And why didn’t you tell me to apply? That’d be the perfect job for me! I love it there!
Me: So, that’s the weird part. I didn’t. Someone recommended me.
Taylor: . . . and they just hired you based on that?
Me: Yep
Kerry: That’s . . . interesting.
Me: Yep.
Kerry: Do you know who recommended you? 👀
Me: Not a clue 🤷🏾♀️
Kerry: Interesting . . .
Taylor: Okay well the most important thing here is do you get free movie tickets?
Kerry: Oh yes! That would be clutch.
Me: I have no idea. That wasn’t mentioned on the call.
Kerry: YOU DIDN’T ASK?!
Me: Movie tickets were not my top priority.
Kerry: We really have to get your priorities in order.
Me: Says the girl who ate cashews for lunch every day all last year just to save up her lunch money to buy a signed Zendaya poster that turned out to be a fake.
Kerry: We don’t know that it’s fake.
Taylor: It’s definitely fake.
Kerry: IT IS NOT!
Taylor: ANYWAYS! Let’s go to Joe’s to celebrate this momentous occasion.
Me: Oh, SAT word.
Kerry: DO NOT IGNORE ME. MY POSTER ISN’T FAKE!
Taylor: Can you
meet us there in 20?
Me: Yep, see y’all soon!
Kerry: I AM NOT GOING ANYWHERE UNTIL WE ALL AGREE MY POSTER IS LEGIT!
Taylor: Fine fine your very fake poster is totally legit. Now get dressed and meet me outside.
Kerry: I hate you.
Taylor: 🖤
Me: 😂
Living on Long Island, a.k.a. suburbia, there are only so many things to do and most of those involve food. There are diners to grab a bite after parties and school functions; terrible chain restaurants with flavorless, probably once-frozen food for celebrations; and pizza restaurants for your regular, everyday hangouts.
From the day our parents started letting us all walk home from school in the sixth grade, Kerry, Taylor, and I declared Joe’s Pizzeria as our spot. A ten-minute walk from our junior high school and conveniently located right at the edge of Elmont (my town) and Valley Stream (Kerry and Taylor’s town), Joe’s became our home away from home.
Joe’s is owned by a Black man named, you guessed it, Joe. He’s as old as my grandpa, with the wrinkles and fully gray buzzed haircut to prove it. Even though he’s getting up there in age, he can still be found in the back every day cooking various different new kinds of pizza that no one asked for, but we occasionally enjoy. Most recently, he made a chili cheese pizza that left much to be desired, but he loves us and always lets us try his experiments for free.
Tucked in a little shopping center with a drugstore that’s now been closed for months, the local bank, a convenience store, and a Chinese restaurant, Joe’s doesn’t always get the most foot traffic, but somehow he’s kept the place afloat for over twenty years.
It’s small, with only four booths lined up against the windows, and you can smell the burnt cheese as soon as you walk in. The seat cushions are held together with duct tape, and the tables are covered with scratched-in notes from people who were there years before. Joe plays only a mix of old-school R & B, hip-hop, rap, and reggae music, most of which came out before I was born. I imagine the music selection is off-putting to many of the palm-colored people who make up much of the population in the nearby towns, but that’s okay. Joe doesn’t do it for them. He doesn’t even do it for us. He just plays what he wants, and we’re here for it.
When I arrive,
Joe’s at the register. His white apron is covered in splotches of tomato sauce.
“Hi, Joe!”
“Well, hello, Ms. Rochelle,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I laugh. He’s always so formal. It’s always Mr. Someone or Ms. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2025 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
