“Black-O-Meter”

by Jessica Sullivan

You roll over in bed and check your Black-O-Meter. The small metal device is cool in your hand. 94% Black. You lie back and stare at the speckled ceiling, smiling as you listen to the birds chirp outside your window. 

Downstairs, the living room is empty, the navy blue couch sitting by itself. Dad is in the kitchen, putting dairy-free creamer in his coffee. He is facing the sink, his back toward you. His maroon button-down contrasts nicely with the melanin in his skin. He looks lighter than he did yesterday. You scan the fridge’s contents. Empty, save for a carton of milk and the creamer your father has yet to return to it. Above the fridge is a box of Cheerios. You feel your father’s eyes on you as you pour the cereal and meet his gaze. His crows feet are more pronounced this morning. He takes in your appearance, the jeans you chose, the yellow t-shirt. He can’t see the outline of your Black-O-Meter in your back pocket. Even though it is daylight, you know he is worried for you. He looks away first, resumes stirring his coffee. You move closer to him, so you are both looking out the small window, looking into your next-door neighbor’s empty kitchen. You stand there next to your father, eating your cereal, as he holds his coffee mug in his hands. 

“What does today hold for you?” he asks. Your friends think your father has an accent, but you don’t notice it. When you told your friends that your father came here from Nigeria when he was ten, they asked how you would feel about being sent back. You didn’t tell them that you’ve never been to Nigeria. You made some self-deprecating joke that you don’t remember now. You tell him that you’re just going to work and meeting up with a friend for dinner. Say you’ll be home before nine. He turns to you and smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You rinse out the bowl in the sink and kiss your father on the cheek before heading out the door. 

As you walk along the sidewalk, you lift your face towards the sky to feel the sun on your skin. You push open the door to Broken Spines Bookshop. You’ve been a bookseller here for almost six months. Inside, there’s the typical Saturday crowd, a mix of people in a hurry and people there just to be somewhere. As you walk towards the stairs to put your things in the break room, you’re stopped by a man. You look up at his face and realize it’s George, one of your neighbors. He used to be a family friend before he made The Choice. George used to be called Ekene before, but it was too black a name for a white person to have, so he was renamed George. Two years ago, right after he made The Choice, he came over to your house. He said he still remembered, still wanted to remain friends. But it’s been two years, and you haven’t seen him since. You wonder how much he still remembers now. He asks how you are, how your father is. You tell him you’re both fine, give him run-of-the-mill answers. He doesn’t ask you “what’s good” like he used to. You miss this the most, the exchanging of joys, like a currency you both get to keep. George asks if you heard about Carson. You nod and look at your shoes. Vans today. Absentmindedly, you wish you wore your Converse. You hope maybe he remembers what it was like to be feared, that he’ll have compassion and outrage sitting underneath the surface. 

“It’s such a shame, you know? But at least a thug is off the streets now, right?” He looks at you expectantly, like if you agree with him then it’ll justify the death of a ten-year-old boy who wanted to buy a Twix bar. You tell George you have to go. Before he can say anything, you’re halfway down the stairs. 

When you come back a few minutes later, George is gone. You go to clock in for your shift. When you reach a computer, you hear someone scoff. “Aren’t you going to help me?” You look up to see a woman looking at you with disdain. 

You say in your best White voice, “Of course, how can I help?” She tells you that an author you’ve never heard of has published another work. You type the author’s name into the store’s computer system. Nothing comes up. You type it into Google and find an article about the book. It was published in Ireland a few days ago. There’s no US publication date set. You tell her this. She looks at you quizzically. “But, the book is out.” Yes, you say. In Ireland. 

“Then why can’t you get it?” You try to tell her that a book takes time to be published elsewhere, that maybe it could be purchased through the publisher directly. She doesn’t understand. You try not to sigh and tell her the same information using different language, all in your White voice, of course. 

“Is there someone else I can talk to?” she asks. You smile and look around, catching the eye of your white coworker. He comes over and you step aside. She explains the situation to him, and he looks at the information pulled up on the screen before telling her, “We can’t get this book for you. It’s not released in the States yet.” 

She sighs. “Okay. Thank you for taking the time to find that out for me.” She turns and walks away, ignoring you completely. Your coworker gives you a small smile before returning to his task. 

At the end of your shift, you walk out the door and pull out your Black-O-Meter. 25% Black. It’s usually not that bad by the end of the day. You groan softly to yourself. You walk to your friend’s house, entering without knocking. Harry has been your friend since you were children. In the kitchen, Harry is leaning against the stove while his dad stirs something in a pot. He nods in greeting, tells you that his parents have friends coming over for dinner, that they want you both to join them. Phil and Delia, Harry’s parents, entertain their guests, Kevin and Rose. When dinner is ready, you help Phil bring out the plates piled high with spaghetti. After a while, when everyone is almost done eating, Kevin turns to you. “So, how do you like it here?” he asks. “What do you mean?” You reply. “Well, surely it must be a lot different here than where you’re from. Where is that again?” You tell him that you’re from here. He looks at you, then at his wife, then back you at. “Oh, you don’t say. There I go putting my foot in my mouth. It’s just, you speak so well, I figured it was a second language.” You open your mouth to say something but don’t. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek, a nervous habit you have. Your Black-O-Meter dings. You pull it out of your back pocket. 0% black. You look down at your arm. All your melanin is gone. 

Harry sees what happened. “Maybe for the best though, right? Now you can be like the rest of us.” You push back your chair and run the six blocks home. 

You run up the steps, screeching to a halt in front of the egg-white mailbox, yanking down the lid and look inside. It’s empty. You heard The Bureau sends a letter when a person loses their Blackness, but you’ve never seen one. You walk away from the mailbox and unlock the front door. 

Dad stands at the base of the stairs, waiting. A postcard dangles in his hand. Without a word, he holds it out to you. You reach out and take it. On one side, there’s a stock photo. Above the photo of the smiling man are the words, “You Lost Your Blackness!”  You flip it over to read the details. “Your Black-O-Meter has reached zero percent! It is time for you to make The Choice. You can choose to remain white or attempt to regain your Blackness. If you choose to regain your Blackness, you have twenty-four hours to raise your Blackness to a minimum of 40%. This postcard needs to be postmarked within one day to notify The Bureau of your decision.” Next to the description are two checkboxes: one that says, “I choose to remain white,” and the other that says, “I choose to remain black.” You look up at your father. He doesn’t look at you before entering the living room. He walks to the furthest window that overlooks the street. You move to the archway and watch him as he paces back and forth. 

“I’m going to earn it back.” You say in a small voice. You are ashamed that you lost it in the first place.  

He says nothing. The grandfather clock chimes on the half hour. It’s 8:30. Normally, Dad would be sitting on the couch, either reading or working on a puzzle, a cup of tea on the coffee table. Slowly, he stops pacing. He stands in your direction but looks at his house shoes.  

“Maybe you shouldn’t. Earn it back, I mean.”  

“What? Of course, I’m going to earn it back,” you say. 

“Life would be easier if you didn’t,” he says. 

“Life wouldn’t be easier if you won’t look at me,” you snap. 

“I wouldn’t have to worry about you going out at night. You wouldn’t have to carry around a Black-O-Meter. You could wear a hoodie and not be a threat. You wouldn’t have to think about all the small things that shouldn’t be a problem but are! Don’t you get that?”

You nod. “I get it,” you pause before continuing. “I’m still earning it back.” It feels right. Even though he’s right, so are you.

He meets your gaze. “I don’t want you earning it back.” He turns on his heel and walks into the dining room. You go upstairs to your room and shut the door. You flop down on your bed and look at the stock photo. You think about what your father said. You set down the postcard, sit up, grab a pen, make two little lines in the second checkbox. You’ve made your choice.  

You get off your bed and open your closet, grabbing your black hoodie and throwing it on. You put the hood up and grab the postcard before rushing down the stairs and out the door. You place the postcard in the mailbox and push the little red flag up. You walk back through the suburb into the city. You go to 7/11, the one on the other side of town. The overhead lights above the gas pumps are flickering. You’re slightly out of breath. You walk towards the gas station, keeping your head down and your hands shoved in your pockets. You push open the front door, setting off the bell to notify the employees of a new arrival. You stop briefly in the doorway, quickly taking in the isles of candy, chips, and random essentials. You hear an employee say hello, but you don’t respond. You turn away from the cash registers and wander into the aisle full of cleaning supplies, weaving through the store until you’re standing in front of the candy display. Glancing up, you see your reflection in the mirror hanging by the doors. Twix, Kit-Kats, and Milkyway bars all glitter in front you. You reach out and wrap your fingers around a Twix bar, shoving it in your pocket. This is your first time stealing. You rush past the cash register on your way. Nobody stops you. 

You’re almost home when you check your Black-O-Meter. 0% Black. You sigh as you push open the front door. In the living room, Dad is sitting on the couch, reading. His feet are propped up on the coffee table. He looks up as you enter. 

“Let’s make Skuku Shuku,” he says as he pushes himself off the couch. You nod and follow him into the kitchen. Automatically, you go to get the coconut, sugar, and self-rising flour. Dad reaches for the mixing bowls on the shelves next to the sink before taking a carton of eggs from the fridge. He must have gone grocery shopping today. He preheats the oven as you pour the sugar and coconut into the bowl. He separates the egg whites from the yolk before dropping them in. He hands you a wooden spoon, and you mix the ingredients. He reaches in and takes a handful of the batter, rolls it into a ball, coats it in flour, and places it on the baking sheet. You follow suit. He taps you on the nose with his index finger, leaving a dusting of flour behind. You act appalled before placing a dollop of dough on his nose. He smiles and tries to touch his tongue to his nose to lick it off. You laugh as he flounders before using his hand to wipe it off and eat it. He turns to place the baking sheets in the oven before flicking a fistful of flour at you. You gasp as it clings to your skin. He tries to contain his laughter. You pick up a handful of flour and fling it back. It sticks to his shirt, coating his skin. The timer on the oven beeps, interrupting the fun. He grabs an oven mitt and removes the trays, setting them on the cooling racks. You let the flour fall through your fingers. 

He looks around, taking in the mess. "We'll clean this up in the morning," he says as he takes a baking sheet into the dining room. You sit down in the hard-wooden chair at the dining room set that used to be your grandmother's before she died. You take a coconut ball from the baking sheet, ignoring the heat radiating into your fingers. Your father does the same. You take a bite, savoring the woody taste.  

“Remember the first time we made these? Iya had you up on the counter, and you dumped the whole container of coconut on your head.” You smile at the memory. It’s been four years since your grandmother died. He gets up and walks quietly back into the kitchen, taking the baking sheet with him. 

The next morning, you check your Black-O-Meter out of habit. 22% Black. You blink in rapid succession to make sure you read that right. When you look again, it says the same. 22% Black. You go downstairs in the faded gray sweatpants you slept in. You enter the kitchen, where your dad is stirring his coffee with a pen cap. He’s fully dressed in black slacks and a lilac button down. 

“I thought I threw that shirt out,” you say. 

Dad looks down at his shirt. “I look good in this color.” 

“You think you look good in that color.” He sighs before running upstairs to change. You beat him downstairs after changing out of your sweatpants. When he comes back, he’s changed into a simple black polo. You nod in approval as he heads toward the old rusted green hatchback. In the car, the engine comes to life; the stereo blasts Marvin Gaye. Dad insists on buying CDs; a pile of them from various artists on the floor by your feet. You drive though the suburb to the outskirts of the city. The car glides into an empty parking space near an unassuming beige building. You’re not religious, but you and your father go to this church every Sunday. Dad slides into a pew in the back, and you sit next to him. The priest walks up to the pulpit and the music swells. “Lift Every Voice and Sing” fills every crevice of the hall. 

People stand as the church choir begins to sing their final song. As the music swells, you realize you know the song they’re singing. Iya used to sing it to you whenever you were upset. She’d turn on her stereo and insert her Thomas Dorsey CD and sing along. Your dad has this CD hidden under the front seat of his car. Others join in, their voices loud and sure. You look over at Dad. He’s singing quietly, eyes closed, swaying gently.

Oh, there will be peace in the valley for me some day

There will be peace in the valley for me, I pray

No more sadness, no more sadness, no more trouble there’ll be

There will be peace in the valley for me, for me

When the song ends, everyone hugs before gathering outside. Elena comes over to you as you’re placing a store-bought cheese platter on the table. She was one of the first people you met after moving here. She envelopes you in a hug, before holding you by the shoulders to take a good look. 

“You’re too skinny, as always,” she says with a smile before turning and filling up a plate for you. She hands it to you, a mountain of salami, mac and cheese, cookies. She’s become a second mother to you. You hope she knows that. 

You want to tell her that you eat all the time, but don’t. You know she’ll just take back the plate and add even more to it if you do. You take a bite of the mac and cheese and give a small smile. 

You ask about her kids. The youngest is two years older than you, and just started his first year of college. The oldest is about to graduate. She smiles proudly before going off to catch someone before they leave. You watch her go as she wraps someone else in a hug. You turn back to the table, setting down the plate. The crowd begins to thin and you’re recruited to help clean up. You kick in the legs of the folding table and help carry it down to the basement. When you come back outside, Dad is leaning against the trunk of the car. On the way home, you listen to the platinum edition of Beyonce’s self-titled album, Beyonce, which Dad thinks is her best. You blast the volume as you sing Ring Off at the top of your lungs. 

When you get home, you eat another Shuku Shuku. The coconut flakes fall onto the floor. In the living room, the grandfather clock chimes noon. You try not to think about the twelve hours remaining to earn back your melanin. You go upstairs to change before leaving. You toss the Black-O-Meter on the bed, watching it bounce before it settles. 41% Black.