Charlotte babysat her three young cousins after school until their parents got home from work. She was only 16, but to the children, she was a grown-up. She made them play quietly while she did her homework. Then the fun began. Arts and crafts, dress-up time, all sorts of games.
After playtime, they would all sit on the floral sofa, one child on Charlotte’s lap, one up close on either side, inhaling her scent of Jergen’s lotion and Juicy Fruit gum. There they watched Star Trek. The children loved Kirk and Spock, but they cheered when they saw Lt. Uhura. She looked like them. She was smart. She was an astronaut. She was beautiful, just like Cousin Charlotte.
One day, the youngest said to her cousin, “You smell different.” Charlotte turned the TV on early. There was no dress-up, there were no games. She sat at the dining room table, head down on her closed books. She didn’t get up even when Uhura was on the screen.
A few days later, their parents said that Charlotte had to go away, and Mrs. Washington would look after them from now on.
“Is Cousin Charlotte sick?” one of the children asked. Their parents looked at one another.
“Yes, she’s sick,” their mother said. “She’ll come home when she’s better.”
Mrs. Washington wouldn’t let them watch TV; she said it was the devil’s work. She didn’t play games. She thought arts and crafts were too messy. She had no interest in getting the costumes out for dress-up.
Sometimes, the children would sneak into their parents’ room and watch Star Trek while Mrs. Washington slept in the easy chair. One child said Charlotte must have gone away in a spaceship like Uhura. One said she had gotten married to Spock. One child said, “No, she’s sick for real, or she wouldn’t have left us.”
Cousin Charlotte came home in the spring. She was thinner and walked with her head down. The children saw her at their grandparents’ house, and they ran to her shouting questions. She smiled and hugged them all.
“Yes, I’m much better,” she answered the eldest. “No, I didn’t live on a spaceship,” she told the middle child. And to the youngest she said “No, I can’t babysit you anymore.”
The next day after school, the children heard Mrs. Washington talking on their parents’ phone.
“A good girl wouldn’t have got herself in that situation,” she said. “Well, I know she won’t never set foot in my house.”
The children didn’t understand, so they slipped quietly up the stairs, turned the volume low, and watched Uhura among the stars.
Claudia Wair is a Black American writer whose work is forthcoming or has appeared in Vestal Review, Pithead Chapel, Astrolabe, Bending Genres, and elsewhere. You can read more at claudiawair.com, or find her on Bluesky @CWTellsTales.bsky.social and on Instagram @CWTellsTales.