Page 3 of Coming Home
“Please say yes, Touré. Can you imagine two of Finley’s most famous alums sitting down for an interview at our centennial homecoming? That would be fire.”
“Two alums? What do you mean?”
“You and Niomi. I thought it’d be cool if she’s the one interviewing you.”
Niomi.
The name lands on my chest and compresses the air in my lungs for a second.
She was part of our little clique in J School. There were a few of us, and it was clear from the beginning that Niomi Spencer and I were the most driven. It created an affinity between us that, by all rights, should have evolved into something else. Maybe itwouldhave had I not spent that last year in Paris. Of course, I’ve heard her name over the years. If my career took me far and wide, indulged my wanderlust, Niomi’s planted herfirmly here in the States as America’s sweetheart on the most popular morning show, served up like brown sugar in everyone’s coffee to start their day. We’ve even been in the same room a few times for state dinners, award shows, and the like, but we never offered each other more than a cursory greeting, each interaction cool, but with something boiling underneath. At least boiling for me. You don’t survive wars and hostile interviews with dictators without learning to dissemble a bit. Maybe what you see with Niomi is still what you get.
It’s natural for friends to drift apart after college. With a career like mine—one that takes you all over the world and keeps you on the move—there are a lot of people I lost touch with. I just always wished Niomi hadn’t been one of them. It’s irrational, but Niomi felt like the one who got away. Can someone “get away” when you’ve never had them? I clear my throat, needing to keep my voice even so Janelle doesn’t detect any spike of interest now that there is the chance I’ll get to see Niomi.
“You, uh, talked to Niomi about this?”
“No, I thought I’d have more leverage if I already had your buy-in.”
“But youdon’thave my buy-in.”
“Yet.” She rushes on before I can interrupt again. “Picture this. That Thursday or Friday of homecoming weekend, we set up a huge screen on the yard so everyone can see and we could simulcast it on the campus radio station.”
“Nelle, I?—”
“Your daughter is Finley’s centennial homecoming queen. Don’t you think it would be special to her having you so involved in her big weekend?”
“You are mercilessly using my daughter to get me to do this. It’s manipulative and beneath you.”
“Yeah, but is it working?”
I laugh because even seeing through what she’s doing, there’s something guileless about Janelle. Always has been.
“Lemme talk to Celine and I’ll get back to you. Is this number you’re calling from good?”
“Yeah, you can reach me here. It’s my cell.”
“How’d you getmycell, by the way?”
“Like you said, I run things now.”
I can’t fight back the grin Janelle always effortlessly coaxed from all of us. “Good-bye, Nelle.”
When we disconnect, I stare at the phone in my hand for a few seconds, processing how out of touch I must be with Celine’s life. I know the basics. I pay her tuition, rent, and credit card bill. I remember a few of the internships she’s applying for because she specifically said she didn’t want my help. She didn’t want special treatment, so she’s been using her mother’s last name Powell since they moved from France so she could attend high school and college here. On the one hand I respect her wanting to make her own way in the field where I’ve found so much success. She doesn’t want to lean on my name, but I also want to be more involved.
Her mother’s voice echoes from the past in my ears; pleas for me to take off work and spend time with Celine. To come off the road. I’ve missed a lot, but my baby girl as homecoming queen at our alma mater? At least I can make that.
“Daddy, bonjour.” Her mother and I are both American, but French language and culture weave in and out of everything she does.
“You can take the girl out of Paris, but you can’t take Paris out of the girl, huh? How are you?”
“I’m fine. Um . . . what’s up? Something wrong?”
“Can’t your old man just call to see how you’re doing?”
“You can, but . . .”
But I don’t often. I sigh and wish Iwascalling just to be calling.
“Actually I just got off the phone with Janelle Hopkins.”
