That summer, the cicadas screamed like they were dying of love. Honey and her two best friends—Jade, whose father was Nigerian and mother was Korean, and Marisol, a Dominican girl who’d been adopted by a Black family so deep in the Valley her Spanish came out with a Tidewater drawl—formed a pact. They called themselves the BlackValleyGirls . Not a club. A declaration.
The boys in the Valley called her “exotic.” She hated that word. It felt like a cage made of compliments.
When the song ended, the silence lasted one heartbeat—then the crowd erupted. Honey’s grandmother made her way through the bodies, slow and regal. She pulled Honey into a hug that smelled of Tiger Balm and frying oil. -BlackValleyGirls- Honey Gold - Blasians Like I...
Honey looked down at her brown-gold hands, the chain glinting at her throat.
Honey Gold was the queen of them.
The night of the Gold Rush, the air was so thick you could chew it. Honey stepped onto the plywood stage in a yellow sundress and combat boots. The crowd—a sea of Black and brown faces, of Vietnamese aunties fanning themselves, of kids with braids and bowl cuts—settled into a curious quiet.
Later, as the fireworks cracked green and gold over the creek, Honey sat alone for a moment. The gold chain at her neck felt warm, like it remembered being placed there by unseen hands. That summer, the cicadas screamed like they were
She wrote it in her grandmother’s kitchen, the old woman nodding from her rocking chair.