Black American Princess in Training

I’m sitting in Remington Brown’s brownstone. It’s her twelfth birthday, and we’re celebrating by going to see “You Got Served” while her mother waited idly in her Lexus. We’re unchaperoned and feel so grown-up. Afterwards, we eat so much pink Carvel ice cream cake that my stomach bubbles. Now it’s time for pajamas, and I’m hoping the pair my mom helped me pack is cute enough. We’re all sitting in a circle, eyeing each other’s looks. Three girls are rocking short-shorts and cami sets in soft shades of pink, blue and purple, their long brown arms and legs comfortably on display; another few have donned cotton pants patterned with polka dots and matching tops that have phrases like “I need my beauty rest!” printed across them. The flyest look, by far, is a pale pink nightgown with matching robe. It looks luxe, like something a lady might wear.

The room fills with the sound of high-pitched praise. “Oh my God, your pajamas are so cute!”

Remington’s friend, Jess, turns to compliment me on mine, an olive green set with chocolate brown piping that my mother got