Readers should be aware that this book explores issues including abuse, eating disorders, divorce, manipulation, and rape.
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
PART ONE: CHECK-IN
PART TWO: SECURITY
PART THREE: TAKEOFF
PART FOUR: LANDING
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
are the worst—
’specially during holidays.
But that’s not the case for us,
right, Captain Lafleur?
We hustle past the bustle,
sight unseen,
straight to the holding room,
where we’ll wait … and wait some more,
before being escorted to the plane … first.
Pilot perks.
Also: boss moves!
This leaves plenty of time
—one hour, forty-four minutes—
for me to explain how it all went down.
I’m gonna say some stuff
you ain’t gonna like.
But you’ve done some stuff
I didn’t like either.
So maybe you’ll get it.
And I’m sorry, Papi.
For lying. For leaving.
But not for the music.
Even though it took some time
to open my eyes,
I fixed everything, you’ll see.
I muted the monster once and for all.
And now …
I get to go home.
With you.
Just like you, and Gwen,
and Ma wanted.
But first, I gotta start
from the beginning.
Inside the great white tent
in the community center parking lot,
an emcee tapped and screeched
into the microphone …
“Singing India Arie’s
‘Beautiful Surprise,’
give it up for our next
Corn Festival talent finalists …
Angelic Voices!”
Slow claps simmered
from the small audience
as three brown girls
took their place in the spotlight.
Fingers plucked F#m chords
three voices, three harmonies
powered through verse and chorus,
as onlookers looked on,
and over,
and at
anything else
but the magic unfolding on the stage.
It wasn’t the first time
we sang and dreamed
and wished upon a star,
every wish, every prayer unanswered.
But for me,
I longed for the day
when hustle
turned to gold.
Show it to my family.
Show them who I really am.
That night, as we celebrated our win
—fifty bucks and a bushel of corn—
three amigas lay on a blanket
in the grassy meadow of Shohola Falls.
“We rich rich now, y’all!”
I fanned my sweaty face
with my cut … a whole seventeen dollars.
“Even Black Jesus knows
that ain’t enough to do enough.”
Shak half laughed, half groaned.
And she and I high-fived
our measly-ass thirty-four dollars
beneath a silver moon.
“I’m so done with
this small-time mierda,”
Dali cursed at the blue-gray skies.
“We need a stroke of luck.
Like … if y’all could sing for anyone
in the universe, who would it be?”
“Kirk Franklin.” Shak didn’t hesitate.
“Queen Yeli, J. Lo, but most of all …”
Dali and I locked eyes and belted
“Sean ‘Mercury’ Ellis!!!” in perfect harmony.
We’d been stanning homeboy since third grade.
“The King of R&B?
Wouldn’t that be something?” Shak smiled.
And on that night,
three brown girls,
three heartbeats colliding,
laughed and laughed
at that dumbass dream.
But as the sky grew darker,
the stars undressed themselves,
and the universe whispered ever-so-softly,
Some wishes are granted
only to the bold …
YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS THIS!
Sean “Mercury” Ellis at the Prudential Center in Newark, NJ!
Grammy Award winner, hit maker, pop-R&B superstar!
You comin’ or nah?
Top fan comments:
denverlee01: Calling @dalisaybabe @ballershak, behold … A SIGN!
Samiam24: #nah Merc is #sketchyAF #ImGood
Cutierock14: We bow down to #MercEllis all day, errrday!
dalisaybabe: Damn @denverlee01, what kinda brujería did you do? You literally conjured this man up! Right @ballershak?
ballershak: Word. Black Jesus came through on the prayer front! Hallelujerrr! This is gonna be fun!
lyrically known as Whew, those girls can SAAANG,
locally known as But, who really gives a damn?
Talent dripped through our pores,
dreams of fame as real
as starlight,
but none of it mattered in
that town,
that school,
those mountains,
my family.
In Shohola,
nobody won Grammys
or Billboards
or VMAs.
That’s why soon as I saw
that my favorite artist of all time
was gonna be just two hours away,
it was obvious this was meant to be,
so my goals were hella clear:
Be bold. Get seen. Be heard.
This was our chance.
How’d I know?
Because the universe told me so.
Last day of junior year
and Mr. Andrade had the NERVE
to be at the board … teaching!
Dead smack in the middle of
THE most boring discussion
about …
“What was he saying again, Shak?”
Shak started to tell me,
always the good girl I’d never be.
But I didn’t hear a damn thing,
cuz right on time
Dali appeared outside
the science lab door.
Pretty as an angel,
a smile like the devil himself,
no one ever suspects Dali.
Left eye winking,
lips puckered up,
Dali mouthed, “It’s go time, muchachas!”
But before we could get a word in—
RIIIIIIIIIING!!!
Fire alarms blazed,
crowds gathered,
feet scattered
students
teachers
principals
huddled outside
in beautiful
utter chaos …
a perfect melody
in the key of
distRacti0n.
was in full effect!
Sunroof open,
AC on full blast
school clothes tossed
an in-the-car makeover
of epic proportions
for two, not three:
lip gloss
midriffs
cutoffs
For them … not me.
Wasn’t
catching my stomach
hanging out like that
I dressed myself
in the usual:
too-big jeans,
too-big tee,
chest
skin
island hips
dipped invisibly
Yeah, my body was big
but my voice was even bigger.
All I had to do was get to the concert
to prove my point.
Ma: DENNY, I GOT A FIRE DRILL ALERT FROM YOUR SCHOOL.
Me: It’s over now. Headed to calculus. Then hanging out at the Falls. Dali’s after. I’m sleeping over, k?
Ma: HANGING OUT? GWEN WOULD BE DOING SOMETHING MORE PRODUCTIVE. LIKE FINDING A SUMMER JOB!
Me: It’s the last day of school, Ma.
Ma: YOU CALL ME AND CHECK IN, OK? PICKING UP ANOTHER SHIFT IN THE ER. PAPI COMES HOME TOMORROW MORNING. DON’T BE LATE.
Me: Turn the caps lock off.
Ma: HUH?
Me: Never mind. See you in the morning.
Ma: BRIGHT AND EARLY FOR PAPI. DON’T TEXT AND DRIVE!!!
Me: K, Ma. Got it.
turned the music up,
let the sound
drown the anxiety rising
bone-to-skin,
laughed,
and sang
in the key of
IDGAF!
Because right then,
right there
I had zero fucs to give.
Not when …
summers were made for music.
(not annoying parents)
Mini concerts in the park,
jam sessions in the basement,
hitting up the Apple Valley on Route 6,
to enter the talent contest,
and pray to win that hundred dollars.
Not each though—
that was a three-way split.
Not enough to do enough,
Shak would say.
But every summer,
we did that (& more) anyway.
Hoping, praying, dreaming
of seeing a talent scout
a record exec,
or get THIS …
our parents in the crowd.
But I we were never enough, I guess.
That’s why I had to
make it happen,
nervous as I was.
So we sped off in my Honda Civic,
three tickets in hand,
didn’t care ’bout those nosebleed seats,
’cause I had a plan.
And there I was
driving-driving-driving,
while Shak and Dali sang the roof off
as I begged the universe
to make my wish come true.
Because deep down I knew
that moment
that highway
that summer was made
just for me.
(us)
summers were made for?
Dreams.
Intergalactic,
out-of-this-world,
to M
me E
fly R
C
U
R
Y
and back
kinda dreams.
“What if our folks find out we dipped off?”
“What if we get lost?”
“What if …”
“What if …”
“What if …”
Songs in the key of doubt,
by Shakira Brown
“Do you think this lip stain makes me look older?”
“Do you think my booty looks good in these shorts?”
“Do you?”
A lullaby in the key of diva,
by Dalisay Gómez
Dali’s ass looked perfect
in those jeans,
and I woulda told her that …
had Shak not been around.
But!!!
… that wasn’t the point.
The point was
brains outweighed beauty,
which meant
my plan was
absolutely,
positively,
g-e-n-i-u-s …
right?
(of course!)
Metadata.
All-knowing magic,
hidden in pictures,
that showed me where,
out of all the planets in the universe,
Mercury was positioned.
First, at home in Atlanta.
Concert in Richmond.
Cavs game in Cleveland.
Video shoot in Philly.
And then his final destination:
40.7335° N, -74.1710° W
In other words …
25 Lafayette St., Newark, NJ.
His arrival time? 10:17 a.m.
Ours?
Noon-thirty.
Fifty-leven girls
thought to do the same shit.
fireball in blue sky,
aimed at your body
like lasers.
Heat-hugging,
sweat-building
air,
we inhaled,
exhaled
like fiends searching for our next fix.
Steel double doors ahead,
too far to touch,
barricaded by
girls,
skintight clothes wearing,
lollipop sucking,
video-vixen wannabes.
And me.
In my basic-ass outfit
standing beside
Dali (Miss Universe)
and Shak (legs for days)
Waiting …
Waiting …
Waiting …
Sean “Mercury” Ellis was inside the Prudential.
Mic check done, ready to hit the streets,
grab a bite, before the concert began.
And so we all stood
beneath the sun.
Hope filling up,
fingers crossed that he’d float out,
like Black Jesus,
invite someone, anyone
onto that tour bus parked at the corner.
And I tell you, just like in the movies,
those doors flew open,
pupils combusted.
Stares turned to whispers,
whispers bubbled up
to loud chants.
“Merc is here!”
“Merc is here!”
Hella pissed
’cause I couldn’t see nothing.
Just heard the claps echoing,
up, down, and all around
Lafayette like a parade.
Felt the huddle grow tighter.
A stampede of epic proportions
swallowed me, Shak, and Dali
whole.
“Can I get a selfie, Merc?”
voices cried out.
My eyes found a clearing,
zoomed in on a giant
hovering above the crowd.
Security.
Big head stacked on big shoulders,
stacked on even bigger arms,
swatting video thots
like gnats in summer.
I grabbed hold of Shak and Dali,
forced our bodies away from the crowd,
inched closer toward the tour bus.
“It’s no use,” Dali said.
But I didn’t hear her hear her
because my eyes studied
the sea of red-bottom shoes
and Timberland boots,
and finally,
I saw the only pair that mattered—
diamond encrusted Air Force 1s.
“He’s coming this way. Shak, connect the speaker!
Pull up the track!” I yelled.
And so began Mrs. Doubtfire with the questions.
“Right here? Right now? On the street?”
I snatched my phone from her,
clicked play,
and let that C minor 7th chord
do what it do.
And by do,
I mean SAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!
Dali came in with that
soprano note,
high enough to crack a hole
in the sky.
Me and Shak
swerved in beneath her,
the perfect alto-tenor blend.
If music were a color,
ours woulda been blue-red-green
ocean meets fire meets earth,
and I’m not just saying that
’cause those were my lyrics,
my chords, my literal heartbeat … in a beat.
I say it because
the minute we unleashed our voices,
noise canceled,
Air Force 1s emerged,
each diamond
bringing more sunshine with it.
Sean “Mercury” Ellis.
Shades slid
to the tip of his nose.
Gray eyes sparkling
beneath the midday sun.
Homeboy was snapping,
swerving,
grooving to “Shoot Your Shot,”
our song—
my song.
Time stood still as
verse blended into chorus,
into the final,
belting, universe-breaking
note.
Applause, thunderously loud.
Eyes upon eyes
stared us down.
But there was only one set I cared about.
“That was dope,” Merc said. “Y’all wrote that?”
“Denver did.” Dali giggled,
then covered her braces
with her left hand.
There was no time to be shy,
not when the chance to fly
was right in our faces.
“We’re Angelic Voices,
an R&B group, from PA.
Looking to score a record deal.”
I handed Merc the business card I printed at home …
like a freaking BOSS!
Whispers from the crowd spread like disease.
“Ain’t getting no record deal looking like that.
’Specially McThickums.”
But I didn’t hear them hear them,
’cause I was too busy
breathing in the same air as Merc.
He leaned in and I knew what was coming next:
“Yooooo, what’s up with your eyes?”