Chapter 6

      “This is nice... the leather is so soft. I’ve taken taxis and Ubers, but I’ve never been picked up by a hoity-toity ‘car service,’” Wavonne says as we approach the National Museum of African American History and Culture in the city. We’re in the back seat of a black Lexus with our own driver and everything. The show arranged for our fancy pickup this morning, and now we’re maneuvering up Fourteenth Street as the imposing building, on five acres of precious National Mall real estate, comes into view. I’ve passed by the museum numerous times, but it’s only now, with immediate plans to view the interior, that I really take it in. Oddly, it looks both ancient and contemporary. The architecture reminds me of artists’ renditions of the Tower of Babel. It’s as if someone took the bottom third of three pyramids, turned them upside down, layered them on top of each other, and covered the whole thing in a bronze mesh. I have a vague memory of hearing something on the news a while back explaining how the bronze lattice pays homage to ironwork crafted by enslaved African Americans.

      The museum has only been open for three or four years. I’ve always wanted to pay a visit, but you have to get timed tickets in advance and, with all I have to do at Sweet Tea, there is not a lot of time for exploring the city’s cultural attractions.

      “I’m excited to finally see the inside,” I say to Wavonne as I step out of the car.

      “I’m excited to meet Leon Winfield,” she replies, lifting herself from the back seat after her red stilettos make contact with the pavement.

      “Are you seriously going to walk around a few thousand square feet of museum in those things?”

      “Don’t be hatin’ on my shoes. They’re Tory Burch. Even the bottoms are groovy.” Wavonne steadies herself by grabbing on to me, lifts up one foot, and shows me the glitter-covered sole.

      “Tory Burch? Isn’t her stuff really expensive?”

      “I got them ‘gently used’ off Poshmark. Four hundred bucks.”

      “Where did you get four hundred dollars to spend on shoes?”

      “Outta your purse,” Wavonne jokes. “Relax. I charged them. I’ll have them back up and sold on Poshmark for three ninety-five before the bill comes.”

      “I hope so.” I take in the rest of her getup. “You do know this is a museum and not a night club?” She’s squeezed her size-sixteen figure into a size-fourteen black, knee-length, sheath dress with a red halter neckline sort of crisscrossing her ample chest.

      “My flair for style is why they asked me to come along. I’m just trying to keep up my end of the bargain. We’re going to be on nationwide television. Maybe I’ll be discovered . . . become the next Taraji P. Henson. She’s a local girl, too, ya know,” Wavonne says. “Besides, someone has to show a little flash. You’re not going to get any camera time in that . . . What’s a polite word? Nondescript outfit. It looks like something Whoopi Goldberg would wear to host The View. I can’t believe you didn’t let me help you with your wardrobe.”

      “Wavonne, you came at me with a low cut purple blouse with feathers on the sleeves. Forgive me if I shooed you away. And what’s so wrong with what I’m wearing?” I’m a bit unnerved as I did put a little more effort into my appearance this morning than I usually do. I blew out my hair and even put on a little makeup. My Kasper beige pantsuit isn’t exactly haute couture, but I thought it looked nice. And, yes, I’m wearing flats but, considering we’re going to do a lot of walking today, it’s a wonder I don’t have sneakers on.

      “Nothing’s wrong with it, Halia. I don’t think anyone would notice it long enough to find anything wrong with it. It’s a beige pantsuit. A burka is about the only thing with less style.”

      “Never mind,” I say as we lay our purses on a conveyer belt to be x-rayed and walk through a metal detector. “When did you have to start going through metal detectors to get inside a museum?” I ask no one in particular, but Wavonne takes it upon herself to answer.

      “Since always.”

      “We used to take field trips to the Smithsonian all the time in grade school. I don’t remember having to go through Security.”

      “That was back when the only weapons available were clubs and spears.”

      “Ha ha,” I bemoan as we enter the building, and I catch sight of Cynthia with Russell and Twyla and a few others huddled around her. “There they are,” I say to Wavonne, and we approach the group.

      “Welcome, ladies,” Cynthia says as one of three cameramen turns his camera in our direction. “Don’t mind him.” She gestures toward the man. “They’ll be getting footage all day. We’ll only use some of it... show a few clips before the competition gets started.”

      “I didn’t know we’d be on camera right away.” Wavonne turns to me. “Is Gladys on straight?” she asks, adjusting her wig.

      “Yes. Gladys looks fine. You sure teased her up high today.”

      “What’s it they say?” Cynthia asks. “The higher the hair, the closer to God? How did you get it fluffed like that?”

      “I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” Wavonne quips. “It’s a spectacle of curlers, a steamer, a good bristle brush, and about a gallon of hair spray.”

      “Well, it certainly has... um... presence,” Cynthia offers. “Let me introduce you to the contestants. We’ll start with Sherry. Sherry Ashbury.”

      We follow Cynthia toward a striking young woman sipping on a bottle of water. There’s something silly to me about using coffee to describe skin tones, but Sherry’s is somewhere in the mocha/latte realm. With her warm beige skin, wavy dark hair with golden highlights, and deep brown eyes, she’s what one might call ‘racially ambiguous.’ My guess would be she’s half Caucasian and half African American, but she could be a mix of any number of races. She’s about five eight, looks about twenty-something years old, and has a figure like a 1950s movie star—ample hips, a small waist, and generous bazoombas—in short, she is gorgeous.

      “Sherry, I’d like you to meet one of our judges for the episode we’re filming today.