sure what she’d do when she arrived, only knowing that she had to get there. She’d figure it out. Rebellion felt exhilarating. She smiled.
The buzz grew fainter.
Six and a half hours later, soothed by the sound of Kenny G on CD, Nikita pulled into the endless driveway of her parents’ imposing Long Island estate. For the first time since she’d signed off the Cornell campus she questioned the veracity of her hasty actions.
Several moments passed—Kenny’d G’d, Al’d Jarreau’d and Grover’d worked his magic—before she took the key out of the ignition. She released a sigh. “It’s now or never.” Never, a little voice whispered back.
Nikita slid from behind the wheel of her silver-and-black Mercedes convertible—a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday four years earlier—easing the door shut. Her honey brown eyes settled on the house.
Set on sixty acres of land, in Lattington—which was situated in the “Gold Coast” of above upper-crust suburbia—the Harrell home was the envy of many. It was an architect’s delight, of Southern, turn-of-the-century charm coupled with modern accoutrements such as tennis court, swimming pool and gazebo. Their home had been the focus of many Home and Garden, House Beautiful and Architectural Digest issues. What seemed to impress everyone most, was that the Harrells were both black and affluent. Dr. Lawrence Harrell was one of the most renowned vascular surgeons in the United States, and Professor Cynthia Lewis-Harrell was the first black woman to head the mathematics department at Princeton University. Then there was Nikita.
Absently she ran her professionally manicured hands along the length of her ten-months-in-development dreads. They’d finally reached below her ears, and she couldn’t wait until they were long enough for her to vary their style. Her parents, on the other hand…
She looked up. Second-floor lights twinkled against the impending nightfall, a sure sign that she’d missed dinner and that her folks were settling down for the evening. Tradition.
Determinedly she proceeded down the cobblestone walk, careful because of her heels. The smooth stones could tell many a tale of her skinned knees and bruised elbows.
She pressed the bell and listened for the familiar beeps of the alarm being disengaged. The door swung inward.
“Niki! What on earth? Your parents didn’t say anything about you coming home,” Amy rushed on, hugging Niki to her slender frame. She had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Amy was the real power behind the well-oiled Harrell machine.
Amy released Niki and set her away. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? I’ve never known you to just come home without letting anybody know.” She peered around Nikita, looking for something that would explain the unannounced arrival. “Come in here and let me look at you.” She hustled Nikita into the house. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“In trouble?”
“No, no. Nothing like that, Amy,” Nikita assured. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that’s all.” She forced a smile.
“Humph. That doesn’t sound like you. Not like you at all. Your folks are upstairs and you already missed dinner,” she scolded, walking with Nikita down the Italian tile foyer.
“Amy! Who was at the door?”
Nikita’s heart knocked at the sound of her mother’s strident voice.
“It’s Nikita. She wanted to surprise us.” Amy threw Nikita a sharp look of disbelief.
Her mother, caressed by a pale peach satin lounging outfit and a cloud of Donna Karan’s Chaos cologne, floated to the top of the oak staircase. “Nikita! Larry, Larry. Nikita’s home.”
“I’ve dropped out of medical school.”
The silver teaspoon that her mother held clattered against a tiny demitasse cup. Cynthia’s gray-green eyes rounded in disbelief.
Nikita’s gaze darted across the table toward her father, who appeared to have not heard a word. The only indication that he had was the telltale flare of his nostrils.
Cynthia turned toward her husband. “Larry, for God sake, did you hear what she just said?”
“Of course I heard her. I’m not deaf. She’s obviously joking,” he continued without inflection. “Because no one for whom I’ve paid more than seventy-five thousand to finance their education would walk in here, sit at my table and tell me they’re throwing all that in my face.” His voice suddenly exploded. “She’s obviously joking!” His fist slammed down on the table, causing everyone and everything within range to jump.
Nikita swallowed hard, and for a split second she contemplated telling them yes, it was a joke. But if she did do that, the joke would ultimately be on her.
Her tone was soft, but decisive. “It’s not a joke. I’ve left medical school. I’m not going back.” There, she’d said it, and the earth hadn’t quaked and lightning hadn’t struck.
“Oh yes, you are going back,” her father spat out, rising to his feet. “And you’re going to finish at the top of your class, as you always have.” His hazel eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “After all we’ve done for you—”
Those words rolled around in her head like a beach ball out of control, and something as sharp as the sound of dry wood inside of her snapped.
Nikita sprang from her seat, leaning forward, pressing her palms against the linen-covered, hand-carved table. “What about all I’ve done for you!” She pinned her father with a defiant stare, then turned on her mother. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve done everything you’ve directed me to do. Joined all the right clubs, had the right friends—and the right color, of course. Excelled in every subject, attended the schools you wanted me to attend. Majored in a subject I hate. I was valedictorian for you. Summa Cum Laude for you, Mother, Father. What about me?” Tears of frustration burned her eyes and spilled. Her body trembled. “I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. Not…any…more.” She sat down hard in her seat and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.
“I should have seen this coming,” her father said. He pointed a finger of accusation. “Ever since you started growing those weeds in your head—”
“They’re not weeds, dammit. They’re dreadlocks, a symbol of our heritage.”
“Nikita! I will not have you use that language in this house,” said her mother.
“The only thing you just heard me say was damn? Maybe I should say it more often, so someone around here would pay me some attention.”
Her mother opened her mouth, then shut it when her husband continued his tirade.
“Weeds,” he spat, caught up in his own rhetoric, ignoring the sparring between mother and daughter. “The first step toward your demise. No upstanding young woman would be seen in public like that. I don’t know what heritage you’re speaking of,” he continued in his pompous tone. “It certainly isn’t mine, or anyone’s I know. All you need is a Jemima rag on your head to complete the look. We’ve come too far for this. We’ve worked too hard—”
“Why won’t
