Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

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I am seventeen and my father’s daughter is out wandering in the rain. I am seventeen and I should have taken responsibility for watching her, should have stood up for her, made her feel like she belonged so she wouldn’t think she had to prove anything by taking a silly dare.

The path is slick and muddy because of the rain, and I can only see right in front of me because this flashlight isn’t as bright as I thought it would be. I shine the light in all the cabins we use for classrooms, the dining hall, the game room. I can’t find her. I jog down to the bottom of the hill. I flash the light all around, thinking maybe I will see her under a tree, waiting for the storm to pass. I shine the light up, moving it around and around at the sky, and then I see it.

The tree house.

The tree house is more like a tree mansion. Not only did Brooke find it, but when I knock and the door opens, she is inside sitting at a small kitchen table drinking hot apple cider with a gray-haired woman. The tree house is a cozy country cottage on the inside and is decorated with photos of smiling children and adults. The woman sees me eyeing them and tells me they are her children and grandchildren. “And you are?” she asks.

“I’m—I’m her sister,” I say.

Brooke’s eyes meet mine and she sets her mug on the table and stands up.

I apologize for the interruption of the woman’s night and explain the myth about who she is and tell her all about the dare. She finishes my sentence, chuckling. “I know, I know. I enjoy playing along,” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, I’m actually the owner of this land. I manage the grounds. But I know what the rumors are and it makes for a good story, so sometimes I give a little wave there, a little howl here. You know, scare a few of the campers who come searching. But tonight, I saw something different in your sister’s eyes. And when I saw her standing outside, I just had to open the door and let her in.” The woman rinses the mugs in the sink and wipes her hands on her apron. She looks at Brooke and says, “You are very brave, facing your fears. I hope you are brave enough to conquer any monsters—literal or figurative—that come into your life.”

Brooke smiles.

“And what a thoughtful big sister you have,” the woman continues, “to come looking for you.”

Brooke blurts out, “She’s my half sister.”

I am not sure if she meant to hurt me or if she is just telling the truth. Maybe both.

The old woman says, “There’s no such thing as a half sister.” She walks over to the door, opens it. “Just like the moon,” she says. “There’s no such thing as a half moon either.”

Brooke looks at me for confirmation and I shrug.

The woman motions us to the door. “Look at the sky. Sure, there’s a half moon tonight that we can see, but the full moon is always there,” she tells us. “We see the moon because as it revolves around the Earth, only the part facing the sun is visible to us.” The woman stops talking and takes a long look at us. “Most times we only see part of a thing, but there’s always more to see, more to know.” She winks at me, says, “You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer. “We better get going. If I don’t return soon, the others will worry.” I take my phone out and see that I have ten missed calls from Natasha. I text her back, She’s safe. She’s with me.

Just before we walk out the door, Brooke says, “Wait—I need a picture. Mercy said I had to get proof.”

“Well, of course. It didn’t happen if there’s no proof,” the woman tells us. She runs her fingers through her hair as if to fix it, but it falls in the same exact place.

For the first picture, the woman tries her best to look like a monster. She doesn’t smile and her eyes look lifeless, but then she breaks out into a laugh. I delete it and we pose again, taking a selfie with Brooke in the middle. After we take the photo, we say our goodbyes.

I walk with Brooke back to our cabin. Our feet break up puddles and stamp the mud with the soles of our shoes. The wind is blowing, and no matter how tight I tie my hood, it flies off. Brooke doesn’t have a hood, hat, or umbrella, so her hair is a wildfire spreading and spreading. The black cottonwood trees with their healing balm release more of their white fluff, making it feel like we’re walking in a snowstorm. Our faces and coats are covered.

I am walking fast so we can hurry out of the rain, but Brooke can’t keep up, so I slow down, take Brooke’s hand.

“Are we going to get in trouble?” Brooke asks.

“Mrs. Thompson will never know.”

“Are we going to tell that there is no monster?”

“They don’t have to know that. We can tell them you found the tree house, that you went in.” A gust of wind blows so hard it almost pushes me forward. “I’ll tell them how brave you are.”

DAY SEVEN: SATURDAY

I have spent seven whole days with my sister.

Today is the last day of camp. Most times I am happy to see the campers go. Most times I am ready to get back to my regular life. But not this time.

Word has spread that Brooke broke the curse. She met the Oak Creek Monster and lived to tell the story. No one else has done that. It is all everyone is talking about until Mrs. Thompson comes into the cafeteria. Then, all the voices fade to whispers and everyone keeps pointing and oohing and aahing at the girl who looked a monster in the eyes and survived.

After breakfast the Blue and Green Campers head back to our cabin to pack. It is tradition that the last day is a free day, which usually ends up being me and Natasha doing the girls’ hair. After a week of being in and out of the rain, most of us need a touch-up, some a complete do-over. I spend the afternoon braiding and twisting. I have done Robin’s and Cat’s hair, and then I ask Brooke, “Do you want me to do yours?”

She sits in the chair in front of me and I start parting and flat-twisting the front. The girls orbit around her. “So tell us again what happened,” Robin says.

Brooke retells the story of meeting the Oak Creek Monster.

The girls respond with “Really?” and “But weren’t you scared?” and “I can’t believe you did that.” I fan the flame, telling them “You should have seen her” and “I’m so proud.”

Mercy sighs. “All this talk about Brooke conquering the Oak Creek Monster, but there’s no proof. We said you had to prove it.”

I take my phone out of my pocket just as Brooke’s voice rises, “You think I had time to get proof while I was escaping a monster? Besides, my sister was there—she saw everything. She’s my proof.”

I put my phone back in my pocket, keep our secret. Watch everyone looking at me, at Brooke, as we rotate around our sun.

“You two are sisters?” Mercy asks.

Brooke says, “Yeah,” so matter-of-fact that no one says anything else about it. Natasha looks at me and, with my eyes I tell her I’ll explain it all later.

Standing here with a handful of Brooke’s hair in my palm makes me wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a little sister. Natasha has two younger brothers who she helped teach how to read and tie shoes and throw punches on the playground if someone was messing with them. I think about how even though I have Mom and plenty of cousins and friends, I don’t know what it’s like to have a sibling.

Maybe it would be like this. Me doing her hair and chaperoning sleepovers, me making sure she knows which way to walk, how to get where she’s trying to go. Me knowing that I would do anything to make sure she is safe.

Just before the campers board the bus to leave, Brooke turns to me and whispers, “Don’t forget to send me the picture,” with a smile stretched across her face. She takes my phone and puts her number in it. When she gets on the bus, she sits with Robin, and as they leave they wave big elaborate goodbyes. I wave back until I can’t see them anymore.

I take out my phone to text Brooke the picture, but when I look at the photo, I realize it is blurry and Brooke is not even looking at the camera and half of the woman’s face is cut out of the frame so you can’t really tell who we’re standing next to. I text the photo to Brooke anyway because I promised I would. It’s not the proof we thought we’d have, but we’ll always have this memory; we’ll always be able to tell the story.

I head back to my cabin. The wind has settled and the branches of the black cottonwood trees are still. There are no snow-seeds blowing furiously in the sky, but remnants from last night’s storm cover the damp ground. The sweet fragrance from the fallen fluff fills the air.

I breathe it in, sing Grandma’s song.