Free Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White by Claudia Mair Burney

Zora. God bless. Feel better.”
    I try to run again. Fast. But she calls my name, and I can’t help myself, I turn back around, and I just fess up. “Sorry about the hair thing, Zora. I don’t know what—”
    “No problem.”
    An endless pause, and then a miracle of an olive branch. “Nicky, I was wondering … can you give me a ride home? I’ve got, uh, car trouble.”
    “Is your car outside? Maybe I can look at it for you. Do you have road service?”
    “Never mind.”
    “Wait. I’m sorry. I was just—”
    Pete appears out of nowhere and rescues me. “We’d love to give you a ride.” He still hasn’t uttered a single yo, which annoys me even more, since obviously this verbal hiccup is reserved for me alone.
    “Right this way,” I say.
    Gonna be an interesting ride.
    P ETE DRIVES. IT’S his truck. I hate that Pete drives. He controls the CD player and blasts his new Jay-Z CD with no regard as to whether Zora is a fan or not. He prattles on and on about how much he loves “Hova” until he starts in on Beyoncé.
    I know we’re treading dangerous waters. Pete watches BET. Loves BET. Pete thinks Jay-Z’s super sistah “B” is the pinnacle of womanhood—black, white, or otherwise. I’m praying as if my life depends on it that he won’t use the other “b” word, even though I know he’s easing up to it.
    “Do you like Beyoncé, Zora?”
    I try to distract him. “Do you like Wayne Newton, Pete ?”
    He disses me. “I’m talking to Zora, Nick.”
    “Maybe Zora doesn’t want you to interrogate her all the way through your who’s who in hip-hop list, Pete.”
    “I wanna know what kind of music she likes.”
    “Then why don’t you ask her that, and you can stop name dropping every black artist you can think of whether or not you actually listen to them?”
    Zora laughs. “Relax, Nicky. I think he’s kinda cute.”
    I don’t even want to think about how jealous this makes me feel. And I’m never jealous of Pete. Pete, who is always jealous of me, laps up her words like a cat at a milk dish.
    His voice goes about forty octaves lower in what must be an attempt at sexiness. “I think you’re cute, too, Z.”
    He’s really starting to irritate me. “Did she say you could call her Z?” He ignores me, and horror of horror, he says it. The “b” word.
    “I think you’re bootylicious , Zora.”
    I think my heart stops. I’m gonna have to be resuscitated.
    Zora’s voice turns into ice water and pours into both Pete and me, even though she only addresses him. “You don’t know me like that, Pete. Back up.”
    I groan audibly. Words fail me. I wrestle with homicidal urges. I watch a lot of crime shows. I know how to kill Pete a number of ways. I reach all the way across Zora—saying excuse me, of course—and bop Pete in the head like I’m Little Bunny Foo Foo.
    We reach Zora’s apartment, and Pete actually tries to get out of the truck with us.
    I give him a stare so completely cold I can rethink my career options and go into cryogenics. Fortunately, this time he takes the hint. Zora’s kind enough to take my hand as I help her out of the truck.
    I walk with her to the front door of the apartment building, a building much nicer than my own, surprised she has to use the buzzer.
    “You do live here, don’t you?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Don’t have your keys?”
    “Don’t have my purse with me.”
    “I see,” I say, not seeing. Don’t women have purses, no matter how small, surgically attached to them at all times?
    Her gaze goes downward.
    “Zora?”
    She lifts her head, and her eyes meet mine.
    “Are you okay?”
    She shakes her lovely head. “I’ve got daddy trouble.”
    “I know all about that.”
    “Thanks for the ride, Nicky.”
    “I’m so sorry about Pete. He’s … retarded.”
    “He’s like a lot of white people I meet.”
    My heart drops to my feet. I’m embarrassed. “I hope not all white people you meet strike you that way.”
    “No, not all. But too