of the South, I figured what the hell, it’s not like I’ll ever see her again. I acted like we were having an actual conversation while I tapped her answers into my Berry. She didn’t think I was paying attention. She said her mother hosted a party for Mrs. Obama a few months back. “Michelle came to the house and served hors d’oeuvres,” said Rayetta with something more than pride—familiarity maybe. “She was real nice. She sure got our vote.”

This was the first time I’d felt stingy since second grade. Michelle was ours, damn it!

A black president—shrug. For those of us who didn’t watch Roots on the first color TV ever, that always seemed possible. But a black first lady—with diplomas in plural, a career in progress, a presidential husband, and perfect babies—now that was “historical quantity.” Michelle was our anchor in outer space.

Rayetta knew this, and I’d tried to ignore her. After spending years claiming to be the best black woman possible, I wasted two silent days in a backseat, afraid to talk to a real one. I left Rayetta out of my story, but kept our interview on my Berry for months.

“I have never been more hyped to not have nobody,” said Gina as we were making plans for the inauguration. She’d be in Washington for the whole week. Triple negatives aside, I was confused.

“Are you serious, dude?” Since when did single and loving it become acceptable for our “about me” sections?

“Dude, Michelle is making it super famous to be a black woman right now. I’m ready.”

I guess she was right. Maybe Mrs. Obama would be our sixth man, invisibly racking up assist after assist. Maybe we’d even get laid. But Gina was the basketball star in high school. It took a year of scoring a grand total of ten points in JV until I ditched the Alonzo Mournings for a pair of pom-poms—making noise on the sidelines seemed more productive. Anyway, I was beginning to think I was unMichelle-able—at least when it came to the man I wanted most to see me as first-lady material.

During the final four of our breakup championship, Dexter called me an elitist. We argued about picket fences and my hatred for the mediocre lives they were built to prettify. That type of life disgusts me, I told him after it’d been made totally clear that he didn’t want that type of life with me. We’re so different, he said. You’re right; I was just horny when we met. We both know this is pointless, I mean, it’s not like you were ever in my league or anything. Sweet Jesus, somebody stop me. I want someone who’ll take me to live in Malaysia or something, I said, like a Peace Corps volunteer with an endless trust fund. Because Dex didn’t want to run the country with me, I decided to run him down with all the expectations I never had.

Like I say, it was frightening to be a black woman when a black woman like Michelle was around, was everywhere. And when her husband won the White House, everybody kept talking about how little black boys would have no more excuses. No father, no money, a name blacker than dirt—you too can rule the world. But no one talked (cared) about how Michelle changed us. We’d lain awake nights wondering if our Wonder Woman acts would ever get found out. Then suddenly there was proof we could be everyday and superhuman. But where were the instructions?

Still, Gina was weirdly positive that all this would work in our favor, and I was still scared shitless—this could be a train wreck waiting to happen. But like a rubbernecking driver on the freeway, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Michelle does weird things with her lips sometimes. When she’s waiting for someone to finish asking her a question or just waiting for someone to shut up, she folds her mouth in on itself just briefly, like she’s warming it up or something. What comes out next—you know it’s going to be good.

She was on The View once, televising the revolution. While Barbara Walters stuttered on about something or other, there it was again. Michelle’s lips pressing against each other as if getting ready for a smack or a smack-down.

“People aren’t used to strong women.” She was talking about her husband’s opponent, Sen. Hillary Clinton, but this was all about me. Usually the people who think the people on TV are talking to them are straitjacketed. I,