I

 

I'm sitting in a bedroom with the kind of vaulted ceiling I wanted in my own, in a house much larger and more extravagant than the one I can't go back to, and the fact that I can't enjoy it upsets me.

 

I feel fickle. Angsty. Defensive. Like an ordinary teenage girl, when all I'm ever doing is pretending to be one.

 

The house where I used to live is only a few blocks away, and being told it's no longer mine is destroying me on the inside. It's making it hard to eat, to maintain a train of thought about anything else. To decide what needs to happen next.

 

And something has to be done.

 

I cannot become accustomed to someone else being in control. Not just of what happens on the outside, but worse, of what's happening on the inside of me.

 

I won't allow it.

 

I would burn it all first.

 

II

 

When Cherish Whitman was ten years old, her parents orchestrated twelve days of Christmas for her. It doesn't matter how spoiled you think you are; a reindeer playdate tops everything. Making angels in the snow when it's unseasonably warm and the powder's been brought in special is an experience that sets a standard, and Brianne and Jerry Whitman did not shy away from it. They didn't worry about what expectations or extravagance would have to come next. They taught Cherish that she deserved it.

 

They taught us both, and I am a quick study.

 

Last year, I was part of the planning committee for Cherish's sweet sixteen. My own had involved a dance hall, and a theme, and all the white kids we've gone to the academy with all these years. It wasn't sensational and it wasn't embarrassingly modest; it was perfectly forgettable, even if my parents' budgetary reminders weren't. When it came time for Cherish's, my mother joked with the Whitmans that maybe I could do them a favor and suggest something equally modest for their daughter's celebration, having been so reasonable about mine. I smiled along with them and then suggested a "quick" plane ride to the city for dinner and party-dress shopping-and Brianne Whitman was elated. The "recovery" mud baths and Swedish massages were entirely her idea.

 

Cherish is easy to love, but I'm almost equally enamored of the Whitmans. It's the way they love her. It's the unapologetic extravagance they dole out to their daughter, the way they never temper their coddling of her, that makes them remarkable. It shouldn't, and I'm sure it doesn't sound out of the ordinary until you know what makes their family unique. It becomes clear very quickly. It's difficult to miss, even if you've known them as long as I have.

 

Color blindness requires the kind of delusional na*vetZ that I have only ever believed in Cherish. For one thing, you can't be the intended beneficiary of color's power and refuse to see it; that's just refusing accountability. Only someone susceptible to its harm, who honestly and impressively never develops an awareness of that fact, could claim it. Cherish is just such a masterpiece, and the Whitmans are why.

 

"The guests are arriving, ladies," Mr. Whitman informs us from the doorway of Cherish's bedroom. Our bedroom, for the past couple of weeks. He's got his hand over his eyes like one of us is a blushing bride and it's bad luck to see us before the ceremony.

 

"Dad." Cherish laughs, and it covers the groan I don't mean to make out loud. "You can look!"

 

"Jerry!" Mrs. Whitman stops cornrowing Cherish's hair and sends one of her trademark twinkling laughs toward the high ceiling. They're always like the final stage of an exorcism, as though her joy will come billowing from her open mouth like a swarm of locusts. I almost see it, a cloud of gold above her head.

 

Both Cherish and her mother look at me with smiles or gaping amusement, asking with their expressions whether or not I can believe this wholesome, adorable scene, but I can't muster a grin. I raise one corner of my mouth, and Cherish is satisfied, going back to her reflection in the vanity too quickly to notice anything's off. Mrs. Whitman's brow creases a little, but when I drop her gaze, she doesn't let on.

 

She's a consummate professional, Mrs. Brianne LePage Whitman. Her day job involves an ornate showroom, a pencil skirt and modest button-down, a classic chignon, and any of a thousand silk scarves tossed across one or both of her shoulders like she meant to do something with it but just casually ran out of time. She somehow conversationally explains one antiquity or another in the most intriguing detail, but as though it's just something she knows, and then someone bids their entire net worth to take it home. When I was younger, I literally did not know she was paid for this; I thought it was just something wealthy white women do.

 

Today Brianne's hair is down, and she's wearing something she calls a garden dress, paired with her plain wedding band and an arrangement of light accessories Cherish would tell me are "tasteful" for the occasion. It's little details like having jewelry for every occasion and knowing precisely how many there will be that taught me the difference between my family's money and theirs. The Whitmans' property backs up to the twelfth hole of the golf course, and I used to live a very short drive away, but there's a difference between working to afford this community and choosing this community so you can still travel four times a year.

 

Cherish is their saving grace, or rather I'm close enough to their daughter to know that if the Whitmans stole the whole world, it would only end up at her feet. It makes it difficult to hold their privileged position against them, but I still feel so sick to my stomach right now that I could throw up all over what I'm sure is an irreplaceable antique rug. It's Turkish mohair from the beginning of last century-that I specifically recall from the first time I tiptoed across it and Brianne set a sea of golden laughter free above her head.

 

"RahRah, you want Mom to braid your hair like mine?" Cherish is asking, two tight cornrows framing her face as though to keep her voluminous twist out contained.

 

"I'm happy to." Brianne smiles at me, a trace of concern visible in her soft smile, her hands delicately clasped in front of her the way they sometimes are while exhibits are being positioned at the auction house.

 

This is what I'm talking about. Of course Brianne Whitman, blond, and svelte, and demure, knows how to cornrow. I mean, of course, because that's the kind of mother she is. She's not cunning like my mother and me, but she's conscientious-and since she's only Cherish's mom, that's enough. When Brianne found out she was going to have a Black daughter, of course she was mindful enough to take a class. Not just in Black American studies, either. On hair care, on skin and makeup, too. She wasn't going to bring home a baby who looked nothing like her and act like her love was enough. That's not who the Whitmans are.

 

Cherish is still occasionally checking me out in the mirror, and Mrs. Whitman hasn't stopped looking at me like she wants to open her arms and swallow me inside, even as she wipes the rest of the gel from the back of her hand and applies it to Cherish's edges.

 

"I've got a small headache," I lie, and lightly crease my brow like I'm resisting a full grimace.

 

"Okay, definitely pass on the braids, then," my friend says with a laugh. "You know my mom braids like she's trying to cinch your scalp."

 

Mrs. Whitman waves us off, jovially, because she knows how to graciously escape a compliment.

 

"Five minutes, okay, girls?" she chirps on her way out of the bedroom, but Cherish hops up from her mirror immediately after.

 

"I'm ready," she says, joining me on the huge bed we share. "You wanna go snatch wigs and whatnot?"

 

"Snatch wigs?" I repeat back to her with all the intended judgment. "Is that what the white kids at the academy say these days?"

 

"You know they do. But seriously, there'll definitely be a few toupees and hairpieces at this thing, and I will absolutely use my birthday pass on embarrassing blue bloods."

 

"There's no such thing as a birthday pass," I reply, falling back into the crook of her arm.

 

"There for sure is. Everyone knows that."

 

"Maybe for the actual wigs."

 

"WGS? Really? Has that come back around already?"

 

"It never left."

 

"You know you can be white girl spoiled even if your parents are Black, right?"

 

"Mmm," I hum, so she hears the skepticism. There's no use explaining what she couldn't possibly understand. I've learned to coddle Cherish over the years, too.

 

"Okay, my hair's gonna get flat," Cherish says, forcing me back up when she rises. "Let's get into it."

 

"Would you be upset if I didn't come down today?"

 

Her head falls to the side. "Would I be upset if you didn't come to my birthday party because you wanted to stay upstairs and sulk?"

 

"Che. You don't get to have three birthday functions in one weekend and then act salty when somebody gets tired. And-" Then my voice breaks.

 

I hate it because it's not something I planned.

 

The break isn't intentional. It's not the execution of a subtle strategy, timed to elicit a specific response.

 

When the tears almost come, they're because I'm not used to slipping.

 

"I'm not sulking. Thanks for being so supportive."

 

However I look when I can't choose between anger and sadness, the snarky expression slips from Cherish's face, and it'd be satisfying if I'd done it on purpose. When she grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me in, I have to fight the urge to pinch her the way I used to pinch myself under the dining table, or beneath my desk the first few months at the academy, when I needed to bring the pain to the surface for release. I perfected the kind of pinch that breaks capillaries and really burns, and then leaves a bruise that's like a tiny drop of purple ink that slowly spreads.

 

Most people grab a hunk of arm, but I've always had self-control. Because the key-after choosing just the right spot, like the place just above the elbow, on the inside-is to trap what almost seems like too small an amount of skin between finger and thumb, so that at first you don't expect the pain. Then, as you tighten, you twist.

 

It'd be easy enough to reach that spot on Cherish when we draw back from the embrace, if I let my hands slide down her arms, but I won't. I'm just sick of feeling unlike myself, of feeling physically ill, and Cherish is just being Cherish. Sometimes obtuse, often insufferably spoiled . . . but always mine.

 

Even now, even without pinching her, I feel slightly better when I'm wrapped up in her arms.

 

"BB! I'm so sorry, RahRah, don't cry," she says into my hair, and like I'm any other teenage girl, her reaction ensures that I must. I want to be sick right this minute, just to purge the unfamiliar ache and frailty. I am exhausted at feeling like I could break.

 

"I'm sorry, Che." I can't wipe my eyes because she's trapped my arms between us and she's hugging me too tight. For a moment, I consider that this was her strategy. That she meant to bring me to tears. I wonder what it's like to be this fragile all the time, and whether she's decided I have to find out.

 

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, I was trying to make light of it, but I shouldn't have." She moans into me the way Mrs. Whitman does when she's heartsore for someone.

 

I believe her-until she speaks again.

 

"I'll never act white girl spoiled again. Promise."

 

She only says it to make me laugh. Which I do, my shoulders relaxing when my suspicion fades.

 

"Yeah, right. You are not capable of that kind of self-

control."

 

"Okay, you're probably right. Also, it's just really fun." This time we both laugh. "Being a spoiled white girl when you're Black is literally my favorite thing ever. It confuses very literally everyone."

 

"That's the only reason I put up with it."

 

"Whatever. You love me."

 

"Ugh. Don't remind me." We both try to check our reflections in the vanity at the same time and end up shoving each other, playfully. "Fiiine," I say through a sigh. "Let's get the finale over with."

 

Cherish hoots, grabbing my hand and pulling me down the long staircase, through the house, and out into the backyard.

 

The Whitmans' sprawling, triple-tiered backyard is nothing short of a private park. The front has no yard at all, instead boasting an ocean of stone pavers in varying shades of gray and the perfect sprinkling of cloudy blue all the way up to the door. The back more than makes up for it, and today the park is decked out with garden lighting, waitstaff circulating hors d'oeuvres so small you'd have to sneak a tiny army of them off the platter to make them count, and half the city's rich and/or local famous. There are way more adults than teenagers, which makes sense because we've finally arrived at the event geared toward applauding Cherish's parents for raising an amazing daughter. There's always one.

 

As soon as we make our appearance, Cherish and I are wrangled back up toward the house, up the rolling lawn to the patio and pool, and Mr. Whitman holds the mic up to his wife's glass, which she clinks with a knife to get the crowd's attention.

 

"Oh, you can stay in the pool, gang. This'll only take a moment," she says, leaning closer to the microphone than necessary, like she doesn't know exactly how the contraption works. It isn't age; Mrs. Whitman is barely older than my mom, and her twinkling laugh and bouncy blond hair almost make up for the fact that she doesn't have her daughter's built-in font of youth, melanin. She's just used to a discreet headset during auctions.

 

"Che, can you come here, honey?" Mr. Whitman beckons her from my side, and a few of their guests clap like she's receiving an award.

 

"As you all know, this is our baby girl, our universe, our shared heartbeat, Cherish." Mrs. Whitman is already dabbing at her eyes, but she'll keep it together. Brianne LePage Whitman has never flubbed a speech or an auction yet.

 

"You surprise me, every year," Brianne's saying directly to Cherish now, and when I see them standing together, they just look like a family.

---

Excerpted from Cherish Farrah: A Novel by Bethany C. Morrow
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.