Love Is a Revolution Read online

  As soon as we step inside, people start crowding around Imani, hugging her and wishing her a happy birthday. Sadie hugs her first, then comes over to me and before I can even say hello, she is apologizing and looking at me with guilt in her eyes. “Don’t be mad at me, okay?”

  “Traitor,” I say.

  “I know. I know. But my mom told me I had to do something this summer. So it was either this or work at our family’s candy store. And you know I’m not doing that.” Sadie moves her long braids from the right to left. “Come with me. I’m sitting over there.” Sadie points to the front row and starts walking.

  The front row? We never sit that close up.

  As soon as we sit down, Toya Perkins walks over. She struts in like a peacock. Head held high, showing off her undeniable beauty. Today, she is wearing a jean skirt with a black T-shirt that has the year 1619 in the center of her chest. A patterned wrap crowns her head. I’ve been to at least twenty Inspire Harlem events, but every time she sees me, she introduces herself like we’ve never met. She is carrying two clipboards in her hand, and when she gets in front of us, she hands one to Sadie and says, “You can’t sit down yet, we’re working the event. We need you to greet people and get them to sign up for the newsletter.”

  Sadie takes the clipboard and looks it over. “Oh, uh, sorry, I didn’t know I needed to do this. I thought I was on the cleanup committee.”

  “We’re all on the cleanup committee.” Toya reaches in her pocket and pulls out a pen. “Here, make sure you give it back.” Before walking away, she looks at me and says, “And hello, my name is LaToya. You look familiar.”

  “We’ve met. I’m Nala.”

  “Welcome, I hope you enjoy tonight’s show.” Toya shakes my hand and walks away.

  Once Sadie is sure Toya is far enough away, she rolls her eyes. Then, she puts a fake smile on and holds the clipboard out to me. “Would you like to sign up?”

  I play along. “For?”

  Sadie puts on a telemarketing voice. “Our e-blast list. We send out a newsletter once a month. It’s just a way for you to keep up with all our events and an occasional call to action.”

  “Oh, um, no—no thank you,” I say.

  Sadie says, “Suit yourself. But don’t be mad when you realize you’ve missed the announcement on tips for fighting climate change. It’s a must read.” I know she’s just messing with me when she says this, and it feels good to know that even though now she is one of them, she is still a part of my we.

  Just when Sadie is about to walk away, here comes Toya again, hovering and clearly eavesdropping. “Did you need something?” Sadie asks, because she is not the type of person to let people go unchecked.

  “Oh, no, I was just taking everything in. I mean, isn’t it such a powerful thing to be here in this sacred space?”

  I smile because what else am I supposed to do? I have no idea why Toya is calling this library sacred. Maybe she says this about all libraries. Maybe she loves books. Sadie doesn’t seem to get it either. We both just look at Toya, faces blank.

  Toya must realize that we don’t have a clue about what she’s referring to. She lowers her voice. “You do know where you are, don’t you? This is the Countee Cullen Library.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  But not dramatic or heartfelt enough, because she goes on. “You know, Countee Cullen . . . ​the Harlem Renaissance poet . . . the teacher?”

  I got nothing.

  Sadie nods, but I think she is just nodding to make Toya stop talking.

  “Before the library was built, A’Lelia Walker’s townhouse was here. You know, A’Lelia Walker—the daughter of Madam C. J. Walker? She opened her home as a gathering space for writers during the Harlem Renaissance, and now it’s this library.”

  Note to self: Look up Countee Cullen and Madam C. J. Walker.

  “Sadie, we should mingle. We need to get more sign-ups,” Toya says. “Nala, are you coming with us to Harlem Shake? We’re all going out later to celebrate Imani. Wait, you’re her cousin, right?”

  Of course I’m going, and you know that we are related. Imani is my cousin-sister-friend. Why wouldn’t I be there?

  I nod.

  “Perfect,” she says.

  The lights flicker, giving everyone a sign that the show is about to start. So much for them signing up more people. Sadie sits next to me, and the first two rows fill up with Inspire Harlem teens. I notice that just about everyone sitting in this section is wearing a graphic tee that has some kind of statement on it or the face of someone important. I recognize two of the faces. Malcolm X and Maya Angelou. The rest, I have no idea.

  Maybe one of them is Countee Cullen.

  Imani walks over to us and sits next to me, in the middle of her birthday crew. The lights dim even more, and once it is completely blacked out, there is cheering and clapping. The stage lights are too dark at first, so I can’t really see the person talking. “Good evening, everyone. We’re here tonight to remember Harlem, to honor Harlem, to critique Harlem, to love Harlem . . . ​we’re here tonight to Inspire Harlem.”

  There are shouts and whistles and so much clapping.

  Then, finally, the lights rise.

  And I see him.

  “My name is Tye Brown, and I will be your host for the evening.” While everyone is still clapping, he says, “Tonight’s going to be a special night,” and then I swear he looks at me and says, “Sit back and enjoy.” I almost yell out I will! Oh, I will! but I keep it together and settle into my seat.

  I whisper to Imani, “Who is he? I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Tye. He’s new,” she says.

  And I turn to Sadie and whisper, “I mean, if I had known guys like that were a part of this, maybe I would have joined too.”

  Sadie laughs.

  “Shh!” Imani scolds us.

  I sit back, give my full attention to Tye. He explains what Inspire Harlem is and talks us through how the night will go. Then, his voice gets serious and he says, “Singer and activist Nina Simone said, ‘It’s an artist’s duty to reflect the times in which we live.’ This isn’t your typical talent show. Each act has thought about the message in their art, the mission behind their performance.”

  A few people clap when he says this.

  “This is a supportive, brave space—please only show love for everyone who has the courage to come to the stage,” Tye says. And then, he smiles the most gorgeous smile I have ever seen and says, “Let’s begin.”

  I don’t believe in love at first sight. I don’t even know if I believe that there’s such a thing as a soul mate or one true love. But right now, in this moment, I am ready to profess my love for Tye Brown.

  Okay, fine, I don’t really love him. I don’t know him (yet), but there are some things I know about him in just the first thirty minutes of the talent show, and those things, I love.

  3 THINGS I ALREADY LOVE ABOUT TYE BROWN

  1.I love his dark skin. The way his white shirt contrasts against his deep brown complexion. I love his style. How his shirt has the letters B L A C K across his chest, making him a living poem.

  2.I love the way his deep voice bellows out, filling up the space, how his voice is electric shock waves when he needs to amp up the crowd, how it is a warm hug when he welcomes each person to the stage.

  3.I love that when the fourth person gets choked up with tears because he can’t remember the lyrics to his rap, Tye comes from backstage and stands next to him, putting his hand on his shoulder. I love how they just stand there for a whole minute and the audience is silent, how Tye asks, “Do you want to start over?” I love how Tye stands there while the boy performs, never leaving his side, bobbing his head and moving to the beat.

  Yeah, those are the things I love about Tye. It was definitely worth coming out in the rain tonight.

  The next person up is a girl named Gabby. Her hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and I can’t tell if the glasses she is wearing are for necessity or fashion. She sings a song
she wrote just for this event, and that alone should make her the winner. I feel sorry for the people coming after her.

  The next performance is a group of steppers. They have the crowed hyped. By the time they are done, I think maybe they might beat Gabby. But if they do, it’ll be close. I completely tune out during the next act. A girl is singing some type of Heal-the-World song, and I am bored and barely listening to her. It’s not that she can’t sing—the song is just corny. To me anyway. All I am thinking about is when will Tye be coming back to the stage. But once the girl stops singing, the lights come up for a short intermission.

  Most people rush to the bathrooms. I walk over to the snack table—I want to get something to drink and also, I see that Tye is standing over there. I am trying to think of something to say to him, but I can’t even get my mouth to open. Up close he is even more handsome and now I can smell his cologne. I just want to run away and look at him from across the room.

  “Enjoying the show?” Tye asks. He is talking to me. To me.

  “Um, yes, I—I’m really, yes, I’m enjoying it.” Get it together, Nala Robertson. Come on.

  “Are you new to Inspire Harlem?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not a part of it. Hi, I’m Nala. Imani is my cousin. She invited me.”

  “Oh, Imani? That’s my girl. I’m Tye.” He shakes my hand, which I think is kind of formal, but holding his hand feels like holding silk and I want to hold on to him and never let him go. Tye lets go and fills his water bottle. He takes a long drink.

  Say something, Nala. Say something. “Inspire Harlem is a great program. Imani really likes being in it.”

  “Yeah. I love it so far. I’m excited about what we’ve planned for this summer. Did Imani tell you about it?”

  “No,” I say. But of course she did. I just want to keep talking to him.

  “All summer long we’ll be having awareness events—I’m the team leader for our community block party. You should come,” Tye says. I have never heard someone sound so excited about a community service project. Tye steps away from the table because we’re holding the line up. I realize I don’t even have anything in my hand, no water or plate of veggies and dip to play it off like I didn’t just come over here to talk with him. “What about you? What are you up to this summer?” he asks.

  “Oh, I’m, um, I’m . . . ​I volunteer for an organization that offers activities for elderly people in the neighborhood. We do, um, like arts and crafts stuff with them—nothing super important or at the magnitude of Inspire Harlem,” I say. He doesn’t need to know that really, I am just talking about the one time last month when I spent the day at Grandma’s helping her put a puzzle together.

  “That’s great that you’re doing that,” Tye says.

  “Yeah, some of them don’t have family that come visit and just need to get out of their apartments and do something. We do all kinds of activities with them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Um, well, like I mentioned, arts and crafts . . . ​um, knitting. We also have story time, not like kindergarten story time, but I read novels to them and sometimes we just play games and build puzzles.”

  All of this is a true-lie.

  I’ve done these things with Grandma and her friends. Just not with a formal group of people or with an organization. But I had to say something. I mean, I couldn’t tell him that I’m spending my summer watching Netflix and trying out the summer flavors of ice cream at Sugar Hill Creamery.

  Ms. Lori, the director of Inspire Harlem, walks over to us. “Tye, we’re just about ready to start the second half,” she says. “Five minutes.”

  “Okay.” Tye refills his water bottle one more time. “Nice to meet you, Nala,” he says. “Are you coming to hang with us afterward?”

  “At Harlem Shake? Yes. I wouldn’t miss celebrating Imani’s birthday, plus, they have the best burgers,” I say.

  “One of the best veggie burgers in the city.”

  Veggie? Is he vegetarian? I think of something to say. “Yeah. It’s so hard to find good vegetarian food.” And by that I mean, most vegetarian food is the absolute worst food ever.

  “Oh, you’re vegetarian?” Tye asks.

  I give a slow yes. A yes that’s a lie with no truth in it at all.

  “I’m a pescatarian,” he tells me.

  “A what?”

  “I eat fish,” he says.

  “Oh yeah, me too,” I say.

  “So, you’re not a vegetarian?”

  I clear my throat. “I’m a vegetarian who’s sometimes a pescatarian.” Stop the lies, Nala. Stop it.

  Ms. Lori comes back over and tells Tye it’s time to start.

  “It was nice to meet you, Nala. I gotta go. But we’ll talk more. Harlem Shake?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there,” I say. “And nice to meet you too. You’re a really good host. I’m glad I came tonight.”

  And this is not a lie.

  3

  By the time we leave the library, the rain has stopped. It’s still muggy, so I keep my hair in a ponytail because the last thing I need is to look like a Black Chia Pet. The sun has faded into the clouds, and the city lights twinkle like stars, lighting our way down Lenox Ave as we walk to Harlem Shake. Imani and Sadie are leading the way. Imani is carrying the flowers Toya gave her, so it probably looks like we are her entourage or that she is some kind of princess and we are her court. The sidewalks uptown are wide, but still, with this many out on a summer Friday night, I have to manuver my way to keep up with the group. I try to walk next to Tye, but Toya has her arm linked with his like she is his buddy for the night. “You were so good tonight, Tye,” she says. “I’m so glad you’ve joined Inspire Harlem.”

  “Thanks,” Tye says. Then he turns around and sees me behind them. “You good, Nala?” He steps to the side, breaking arms with Toya to make room for me. I step in the middle of them, and Toya makes a face that is definitely not the warm, friendly smile she greeted me with earlier.

  When we get to the restuarant, there’s not enough space for us all, so we push two tables together. Tye and I sit next to each other, and Toya sits across from him. Imani is across from me next to Asher. Sadie and Jackson are at the counter ordering their food. A girl named Lynn is with them. Lynn has been to the house a few times, mostly for Inspire Harlem meetings. She wears her hair low to her scalp and always has the biggest hoop earrings on. Every time I see her, I think we should go shopping together. I like her style.

  Tye stands and says to me, “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it.”

  I want you.

  “Um, let me see,” I say. And I look the menu over. I already know what I want—the Hot Mess Burger. This deliciousness is two hamburger patties, onions, pickles, and special sauce, topped with pickled cherry pepper, bacon relish, American cheese, and smoky chipotle mayonnaise. But I have to keep up my vegetarian diet in front of Tye. There is nothing else on this menu that I want. I refuse to get a kale salad at a burger joint. And I’ve had a veggie burger once. Well, I should say I tasted a veggie burger. One bite and I threw the rest away. “I think I’ll just get a side of fries,” I tell Tye.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Um . . . ​and a chocolate milkshake,” I say, even though I really want to go ahead and add the burger. I have only known Tye for a few hours, and already I am giving up a lot for him.

  Toya says, “I’m getting the veggie burger, but I’ll go up with you. I have a few special requests, so I’ll just order it myself.” She stands from the table and walks with Tye to the counter. I watch them standing next to each other and see how when Toya laughs, she leans into Tye, holds on to his arm like she needs him to keep her standing. It takes them a while, but finally they come back to the table with our food. They both have veggie burgers, Toya’s with extra pickles, sourdough bread instead of the bun, and a side of special sauce. They both have sweet potato fries. I slowly eat mine, the whole time imagining I was eating a steak.

  It could be worse. Tye could be vegan.r />
  TOP 3 FOODS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT

  1.Meat: goat, beef, pork, chicken, lamb, duck. Prepared all ways: grilled, fried, baked, stewed, seared, braised. On a stick, on the bone, off the bone, shredded, chunk, sliced, ground. It’s not a meal if there’s no meat.

  2.Ice cream. Imagine it, no hot fudge sundaes or thick scoops of strawberry packed in a waffle cone. Only watery, cold globs pretending to be dessert worth eating. And let’s be clear—this goes for sorbet and gelato and frozen yogurt and smoothies too. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—as good as the real thing. If you want ice cream, nothing else will do.

  3.Cheese. Cheese makes everything better. Burgers, sandwiches, scrambled eggs, crackers, bread. My specialty to make is a grilled cheese sandwich. And cheese is good all by itself. Ever had string cheese for a snack? Ever had melted cheese ooze onto the wrapper of a burger? That’s the best part sometimes—savoring every single bit of it. And I know there are cheese substitutes. But does vegan cheese even melt the same way? Does is stretch like an accordian when you pull a slice of pizza from the box? No. I don’t think so.

  We are just about finished eating, and the restaurant isn’t as crowded now that it’s late into the night. We spread out and take up even more space. Then, Sadie says, “Okay, Birthday Girl, it’s time for your song.” We sing “Happy Birthday” to Imani the traditional way and then Stevie’s version. The whole restaurant joins in because this is Harlem and strangers have no problem joining in on a celebration. I try not to laugh at Imani, who is struggling to drink her thick milkshake without a straw. It keeps getting on her nose, but she refuses to get a straw, not even the paper ones that are there as an alternative. Toya has one of those, but she can’t drink through it because the shake is too thick, so she is letting it sit for a while to thin out.