Detroit, Michigan
The tour bus pulled behind
Little Caesars Arena.
My nerves?
a bubbling-hot mess
That feeling never got old.
Lines wrapped around the whole building
crowds huddled in epic proportions
I scanned the faces upon faces as we entered,
heard the chants,
the fans screaming Merc’s name.
But then in the distance,
I saw a small
cluster of signs
held high in the air.
Venom spewing through
every painted red word:
Merc is a monster!
Merc is a predator!
#MuteMercNow
Merc wasn’t perfect,
I knew that.
The isolation,
the separation,
of me,
Dali,
Us.
I hated how he
had me spoonfeed lies
about my own parents
on Instagram.
But y’all lied first.
We weren’t prey.
And he wasn’t a monster.
Wasn’t no hero either,
but who said we needed one?
There was a huddle
in front of the double steel doors
Flashing lights
a whole chorus of voices
calling out Merc’s name
Meat and a large security team
sandwiched us all in
singers, dancers, musicians,
claustrophobia settling in my bones
“Sha …”
A familiar voice,
drowned deep within the noise.
“Shashou?” I whipped myself around.
Heartbeat quickened,
I jumped up
scanning the crowd,
searching for hair,
thick and always piled
to the heavens.
When we were little
Gwen and I
would call each other
Shashou,
Haitian Creole for
my baby,
my sweetheart,
Sha for short.
The huddle grew tighter
moved faster
among a sea of faces,
black, brown, and everything
in between,
double doors slammed fast
behind #TeamMerc.
I ran to them,
dropping the bags in my hand,
Meat blocked my path.
“Gonna need you to
head to the dressing rooms, Denver.”
“I think my sister’s here.
Let me out,” I begged.
But Meat just stood there
scrunching up his face.
“Does she work for Billboard magazine?”
“No.” My eyes began to sting.
“Hollywood Edition? Vogue?”
“No.” Sting turned to water.
“Then I doubt that was your sister.
Those people have media passes.
Now Merc needs you down in hair and makeup.
Show’s starting soon.”
Was I losing my mind?
I know what I heard.
Sha …
If it was Gwen,
she would
have tackled
herself through the crowd.
Yeah, that felt about right.
Plus, it couldn’t have been my perfect sis.
She was studying abroad in Paris,
going on with her life, her dreams.
I grabbed my things,
and made my way downstairs,
told myself I had my
own dreams to chase.
Like Meat said,
we had a show to do.
back in June?
At the Prudential in Newark?
Three girls with
starlight in their eyes,
swooned
and swayed
and prayed
that they could
be up there
singing with Merc?
And remember that moment
he pulled Dali
from the stage,
serenaded her with
his signature song?
Fast-forward
four months.
As the bass thumped,
Merc jumped off the stage,
landing directly in front
of a girl,
cornrowed,
Merc’s face plastered
on her red T-shirt,
faced stained with omg tears.
“What’s your name and age?” Merc sang into the mic.
“Isabel Fadden! Old enough, ha!”
“Wanna sing with me?”
“OMGOMGOMG!!”
Merc grabbed
homegirl by the hand,
pulled her center stage,
and together they sang “Do Me”
while her friends went apeshit!
Homegirl sounded a HAWT MESS
as her body folded into Merc’s,
lights dimmed low, curtains closed.
End of the show.
In our dressing room,
Dali paced the floor
like she missed an appointment or something.
“You okay, girl?”
“What’s taking him so long?”
“Who, Merc? Beats me.”
“Did you hear that girl? Wack-ass vocals!
Teeth all jacked up? Toe’-up braids? Dancing with Merc?”
I laughed hard
’cause Lord knew
Dali was telling the truth.
“Who cares?
It’s just an act anyway.
No different than
what he did with you the first night.”
Dali stopped pacing.
Then she just busted out crying.
Thick tears,
rapid succession.
“Dali, what did I say?”
“Just STOP!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Stop what?”
Back pressed against the dressing room wall,
Dali slid down to the floor.
“You don’t get it.
Everything works out for you, Denver.
You write the songs, you perform background,
and I just sit and watch. And I’m trying to be happy
for you, I swear, but it’s hard. And I hate myself
for feeling this way.”
I knelt down beside her.
Grazed my fingers through her spiky hair.
“He’s gonna put you in the next show.
I can feel it, Dali.”
“Is that all you feel about Merc?”
My mouth twisted,
brain fogged up hella fast.
“I mean, he’s kind to you, right?
He’s never tried to …”
Silence took precedence
over unfinished sentences.
“Tried what?
Something fresh?”
—I could feel bile catch in my throat—
“Um, no. Why? Did he try
something with you?
Like that time he took
you to that resort …”
“No, no, no.” Dali wiped the last of her tears,
nestled her head against my chest.
“I thought I saw Gwen tonight … well, heard her,”
I said, a hint of disappointment settling.
“Ain’t she at some fancy French school?” Dali asked.
“Yeah.” I choked out my response. “I was just tripping.”
“I think I miss home, Denver.”
“Me too.”
The weight of those words
lived, breathed, grew
inside of me.
Saying it loud,
like Dali did,
split me o
pen,
made me feel everything
I’d been trying not to.
I missed Brooklyn
I missed Ma
I missed YOU, Papi
I missed Gwen
I missed Shak
And Shohola—
a little bit.
“We’ll visit soon,” I said.
“First thing I’ma have Mami do
is make you some Dominican food.
Getting too flaca on me, girl.”
Dali tapped my stomach,
only it didn’t jiggle like it used to.
The thought of
Tía Esme’s sancocho
with a side of avocado awakened my
whole spirit.
“You sure we’ll go home again?” Dali asked.
“All celebrities visit
their old stomping grounds. Right?”
I winked.
But she didn’t answer back.
Just stared at me
hella hypnotic
trapped me into
a push and pull
of yes and no
Lips touched,
tongues intertwined,
memories sparked,
drowning deep,
hands folded,
melting,
blending,
into that thing
I (she? we?) always did,
but never spoke of
again
and
again
But …
a loud tap
rattled the door,
pulled us straight out.
“Time to roll!” Marissa yelled through
the crack, then slammed it.
Dali jumped up,
started grabbing her things fast.
“I can’t do this anymore!”
I sat on the floor,
stunned for a second,
wanting to remind her
of who-kissed-who
And that all those other times
it wasn’t me, Dali, it was …
you.
Even though
I never stopped her.
Was she ashamed of us?
Was I?
I think the answer was both
no and yes
Me and Dali
were the visual representation of
a question mark, in human form.
But the real question was …
Did I care?
I liked
the perfectly
imperfect
broken
hidden pieces of us.
And for me,
that was enough.
“I’m out!”
Dali bolted through the door.
Running after her,
I saw Merc walking past the buses,
Panasonic in hand,
Isabel with the fuc’d-up braids
diva strutting for the camera.
I swear groupies stayed thirsty.
Ready at a moment’s notice to give it up to Merc
or anyone in his entourage.
Glad me and Dali weren’t like that.
Meat told everybody to keep walking,
but Dali slowed her stride
once she saw Merc,
cursed “I hate you, pendejo,”
clutched her stomach
and just let …
G
O
!!!
I started rubbing my hands
against her back, like mad.
“What’s wrong with you, Dali?”
“Get off me, yo!”
She yanked away,
as if my touch was a disease.
Then she hunched over again
and kept going-going-going.
Merc’s ass didn’t even stop to help.
Instead he and that girl
made their way to the limo waiting.
“Ay yo, Marissa, make sure you clean that shit up!”
Limo doors slammed.
Merc sped off beneath a full moon.
Meat poured a glass
of ginger ale
laid out saltine crackers
and a steaming Cup of Noodles.
“You gotta stay hydrated.”
Meat tried to feed her,
but she didn’t even flinch.
I ran cold water
over washcloths,
whispered olive juice
as I wiped her sweaty face,
but she wasn’t having that either.
“I ate something bad.
I’ll be better tomorrow.
Just leave me alone, both of you.
I don’t need your fuc’n help!”
She sprang up from the chair,
led us to the door,
and slammed that shit
in both of our faces.
October 17, 11:57 p.m.
Gwen: I get it. You’re upset with me for ratting you out. But I’m not sorry for worrying about you. You didn’t have to sic four bodyguards on me tonight. I just wanted to see you again. Make sure you’re okay. We’re falling apart without you, Denny. Please, just call me back.
The rising of the sun
brought a morning
I wasn’t prepared for.
Three buses lined up
all set to head back to Atlanta
each crew with their own.
I recognized every face,
except the one I needed
to see the most.
“Let me talk to Dali,”
I told Merc.
“She left. You’ll ride with me.”
“What do you mean left?
Like to use the bathroom inside the hotel?
I can wait.”
“Nah, more like adiós.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” I said.
Though the memory
of her words
still rang fresh in my ear.
“But she’s coming back, right?”
Merc shrugged.
“Doubt it.
She left you this note though.”
Denver,
Do you. You were always the most talented one anyway.
I’m out.
Dali
Not everyone is built for this.
But you? You’re a real one.”
But I didn’t hear him hear him,
because I was too busy
trying to form thoughts
into words.
Dali woulda never up and left.
Not without me.
Not without a real goodbye.
And definitely
not with that trash-ass note.
Right?
…….
(right.)
promises a safe landing,
You used to always say that, Papi.
I thought it was your fancy pilot talk.
But now?
The message is like a stain I can’t wash out.
I am home. (almost)
I am safe. (finally)
(thankyouthankyouthankyou)
the temperature in Lehigh Valley, Pennsylvania,
will be a high of forty-seven degrees,
with a low of thirty-four degrees,
and partly cloudy skies.
We will arrive
in approximately
forty-five minutes.
We here at Spirit Airlines
would like to thank you
for flying with us today
and wish you and yours
happy holidays.
Flight attendants,
please prepare the cabin for landing.
that when a white-browed
sparrow weaver
begins to sing,
its partner joins in—
their duet in perfect tune.
I know you can’t
hear me singing
from where you’re seated, Papi,
but soon as we land,
I’ll raise my voice
loud enough to harmonize
with yours.
And when we
get to our destination,
can you play
Prelude in E Minor
for me …
for old times’ sake?
How Merc reacted to Dali dipping off:
A shrug
a hug
Silent ride
walk inside
The house
lights out
Like
she
never,
ever
mattered.
Two a.m.
I lay in bed
tears rolling,
biting down
on the pillow
to muffle words,
curses,
screams,
apologies.
I imagined her
next to me in the mass
of that lonely room.
Olive juice, Dali.
I’m glad I said it last night,
and I meant every word.
Even though she
didn’t say it back
that time.
I’m sorry it wasn’t enough
to keep her.
Maybe I was the one
who was never enough for Dali.
Was she with her family?
With mine?
Did they miss me?
Did she?
And Merc,
I know he never really saw Dali.
Not the way I did.
I should have
spoken up,
said something,
anything
to make Merc see
that her voice
that gift
was just as good,
if not better,
than
(mine.)
A tap on my door
before he opened it
and walked in.
“I can hear you all the way downstairs, Denver.”
“I just need to talk to her.
You have to let me call her!
She’s more important to me
than your stupid boot camp rules!”
I cried out.
Those last words,
a roundhouse kick to Merc’s gut.
His face hardened, but his words
did the opposite.
“Okay, baby gurl.
You win.”
Merc pulled out my phone,
and through my tearstained fingers,
I did everything I could to
catch a glimpse
of the digits
Merc typed
before he handed it to me.
0-2-2-7
Got it.
Dali’s number rang …
and rang …
into nothingness.
“Why won’t she answer?” I sobbed and sobbed.
“Maybe she left her phone at the hotel?”
I was uncontrollable now.
Back convulsing,
tears and snot merging as one.
“No, baby gurl, she’s got her phone.