Same reaction I get
whenever someone
meets me for the first time.
Always starts with
a stare,
a lean,
a question
(or three).
And for me,
an answer that I
spent the past seventeen
years rehearsing
down to the last word …
Heterochromia
As in:
two eyes
two different colors
one blue
one brown
part ocean
part earth
made of both.
As in:
a genetic mutation
the crashing of
two genes
—a miraculous disaster in the making—
No, I don’t have a white parent!
(Even though that blue eye came
from Ma’s German granddaddy.)
I’m Black mixed with Black mixed with magic.
And no, I ain’t wearing contacts!
So, LAWD HAVE MERCY
can we get back to the discussion at hand, sir?!?
(I didn’t quite say all that tho.)
“Angelic Voices, huh?
That’s real cute,” Merc said.
“So are those eyes of yours.
Good luck with the songwriting, baby gurl.”
He. Called. Me. Baby.
Security stepped forward,
side-swatting us
like gnats in summer,
while Sean “Mercury” Ellis,
wrapped in a trio of video thots
made his way onto the bus.
And right there,
on the corner of Lafayette,
I almost emptied myself
of wishing, hoping, dreaming.
Almost.
it’ll tell you that almost means:
Not quite.
Nearing.
Not done yet.
I wasn’t done.
Yet.
“Let’s just go home,” Shak said.
“Oh, hells no! I spent my last dollar on that ticket,” Dali pouted.
“What if those twenty-seven-dollar tickets are fake? What if security kicks us out? What if—”
“We gotta trust in Denver’s plan.” Dali beamed at me. “I know I do.”
I stepped back into the line,
felt Dali’s shadow follow behind me.
And then, finally, Shak’s.
We’d waited that long.
We weren’t going NOWHERE.
backs dripping wet,
phone buzzing,
calls from Ma on repeat,
I clicked IGNORE as
time moved
four o’clock,
five o’clock,
six o’clock,
double doors rolled out like red carpets.
Lines swerved,
swayed,
snaked their way through
metal detectors,
steps,
corridors.
A weight pressed down on me.
Stacked, meaty arm-head-shoulder of a man.
“Y’all the singers from earlier?” he asked.
“Yo, that’s dude that was with Merc.”
Dali’s whispered words floated in the air.
“Yes,” I spat out, “Angelic Voices. That’s us.”
“Follow me, young ladies.”
One star,
one wish,
one pause of a beating heart
was all it took for homeboy’s words
to drink us me in.
Dali and Shak trailing me,
I floated behind him,
hypnotized by a long-ago memory:
Bon bagay ap vini … Good things will come.
You used to say that
to me as a little girl.
Remember, Papi?
That Haitian Creole,
like a lullaby,
always guided me through
every missed step,
every fall,
every off-key
piano or guitar chord.
Do you still say it now?
Even though you no longer
have time to sit next to me at the bench,
hands placed on mine
like angel wings,
together,
flying
through notes,
scales,
symphonies,
Bliss?
Because that’s exactly
what that moment felt like.
Bon bagay.
(And more.)
VIP meant
no waiting in lines
no binoculars needed
black leather seats so close to the stage.
The curtains opened,
sparks flew, floor-to-ceiling,
smoke gathered,
but only for a second, because
there he was …
thin cord attached to his back,
descending from the heavens
till he planted his feet, slid to the front,
the beat kicked in, and then …
he winked at me.
I. LOST. my. shit!
Screamed till every
vocal cord ripped to bits
For two hours, every lyric, every song,
I pictured myself up there with Sean “Mercury” Ellis,
Shak, Dali harmonizing at my side,
I felt Merc’s sweat flicker,
as he danced,
tickling my skin
like an afternoon spring rain,
Heard the tenor in his voice,
real and true
—no autotune needed—
Saw the gleam in those smoky eyes
as he extended his hand,
pulling her—not me—up to the stage.
Houselights dimmed,
taking my spirit right with it,
as the spotlight zoomed in,
on the silhouette of them both.
Hypnotized her with the serenade,
intense from the first note to the last.
Fingers locked together like chains,
until the fog cleared,
curtains closed,
concert ended,
and Merc and Dali folded
into the d a r k n e s s.
Why did Merc pick her?
Why not me?
Or Shak?
Or some other random, screaming fan?
He knew I wrote that song.
He knew I set up that whole
street performance.
Was I jealous?
Hella thirsty?
No, of course I wasn’t.
That’s dumb AF.
A magnified look into the right:
Merc picked Dali because … well, look at her.
Shak had Merc by a good half a foot … in flats.
Ain’t no way he coulda lifted my ass with one hand like that.
Right? (right.)
Also: WHERE? WERE? THEY?
Seemed like Shak
deflated, too, when Merc pulled
Dali up on that stage,
but a nudge from her
faded that magnifier into oblivion:
“Yo, Denver, your phone is vibrating.”
No Caller ID: If you need me, I’m backstage, ya know, just DYING!
Me: Dali? That’s you?
No Caller ID: Yeah, Merc’s security guard made me use his phone. Merc said for you and Shak to come back here. He put us up front on purpose! Wants to know what other songs we got.
Me: STOP
Me: LYING
No Caller ID: Nope.
Me: !!!!!!
No Caller ID: The security guard’s name is Meat. He said go to the right of the stage, follow the path marked with neon arrows and meet him there.
No Caller ID: Also, what the hell kinda name is MEAT?
No Caller ID: Also, I’m deleting th
ese texts now.
Me: LMAO! We’ll be right there.
No Caller ID: It’s happening, Denver. Just like you said it would.
Me: Olive juice.
No Caller ID: same, olive juice
and said olive juice,
no sound escaping your lips,
you’d see it almost looked like:
I love you.
Olive juice.
Those words
belonged to me and Dali,
and no one else.
A reminder,
a code,
cloaked in
two words
that to others
would mean
absolutely nothing
at all.
Where we gotta go?
Over there?
In the dark?
I don’t see nobody waiting.
Why can’t security just bring her to us?
Denver?
Denver!
Why you walking so fast?
WAIT FOR ME!”
A ballad in the key of scaredy-cat,
by Shakira Brown
like a yellow brick road
squeezing,
pinching,
holding in
excitement building,
until we came to the end,
and a young woman,
hair of fire,
face of stone,
propped beside him.
“We need to pat you down,” he said.
“It’s protocol.” But he didn’t touch us—
homegirl did that.
Used her hands to explore
arms, legs, the curves of our backs,
while Shak and I stared at each other like …
WTF?
“Open your backpack.” Meat flashed a light
into my pink fifteen-dollar AliExpress pride ’n’ joy.
Then homegirl started digging:
fifty-leven gum wrappers, three flash drives,
two maxi pads, one song journal, till she
found what she was searching for.
“We’ll return your phone later.”
Sorry, but it’s—”
Protocol. Yeah, got it.
“You wouldn’t believe
how many people try
and take videos of Merc …
he ain’t a fan of digital footprints.”
All good.
Those were the cards you’re dealt,
when you’re a star, I guessed.
They led us through
winding, dark passages
until we reached an open space, full of light,
food, liquor, music.
And people. Their eyes?
On us.
simmered beneath the beat
as I scanned the crowd
of Groupies’r’Us
spread far and wide,
twerking, dancing, prancing
around the room.
“Where’s Dali?” I asked.
Meat’s expression?
Blank as hell.
“Ya know. Our friend?” I reminded him.
“And where’s Merc? Think I can get a selfie?”
Shak added, cheesy as hell.
Meat towered above us,
arms pretzeled tight.
“Give ’em some time.
Prolly showing her around.”
But I didn’t hear him hear him
because Shak and I stood there,
bombarded by waiters
offering up
vodka,
ganja,
you name it.
And Shak did that goody-two-shoe,
church-girl act that she’s good for.
“Ain’t we ’bout to sing?” she said,
slapping my hand (and my mind)
back to reality.
Man, listen.
If we were back home,
if I didn’t have that long-ass drive,
I woulda hopped on ALL of that
with a quickness.
Dali, too.
Who turns down free vodka?
But … Shak was right.
The King of R&B
wanted to hear
my
music.
So I needed my head in the game.
Meanwhile
the tick-tick-tick of that internal clock
reminded me of two things.
It was time to blow.
Then we had ta go. Fast.
Felt like
fifty-leven minutes passed before
Merc did that
appear-outta-nowhere-like-Black-Jesus
thing again,
gray camcorder in one hand,
Dali, wrapped in a Gucci zip-up,
in the other.
Merc rolled up on
Shak & me
like we were old friends
separated by time and space,
reunited,
picking up right where we left off.
“What up, Merc? Dope show!”
Shak tried to play it cool,
but those goose bumps on her arms
said otherwise.
Dali,
eyes propped open,
a tad too glossy and wide,
that typical sun-kissed skin,
flushed two shades down.
A look I’d seen before,
in the quiet moments of us.
And suddenly,
a dull ache
simmered …
“You good, girl? Whose jacket is that?”
Dali slipped it off,
handed it to Merc.
“I was shivering.”
She giggled. “Ya know, long flight.”
Code for: high AF.
“Being onstage prolly got to her.” Merc winked.
“Right, Say Say?”
“Who the heck is—”
Dali cut me off.
“Merc can’t pronounce Dalisay
to save his life.”
She circled her finger
in the small of my back,
a resurrection of sorts,
as I tried to pretend
like that nickname and
that jacket and
the fact she smoked out
with the biggest star
in the universe
didn’t bother me one bit.
(Spoiler alert: It did.)
“Anyway. Thanks for the hookup,” my voice quivered.
“It’s cool. Had my dude Meat scope y’all out,
’cause I like what I heard earlier.
Would love to hear more …
That’s if you have it?”
“Oh, we got it all right.”
I was all business then.
No time to worry about
the nerves cooking up in my gut.
Fixed my eyes on the acoustic guitar,
propped against the leather couch in the corner.
“May I?” I asked.
“Do your thing, baby gurl.”
Merc clicked the record button
on his camcorder.
Which didn’t help my nerves.
At. All.
I begged my trembling fingers
to find peace,
but once I strummed the opening G chord
of my original song “Once in Your Life,”
the vibrations took control,
I saw Dali’s whole spirit change,
felt the unity in the breath
the three of us inhaled,
exhaled as one
before we lost ourselves
in the melody of it all.
For Shak, music was
a choice.
Basketball, honor roll, hella scholarships
tapping at her door.
For Dali, music was
security,
a way to help her family back in Santo Domingo.
But for me, music was
the only option.
Bad grades, no other skills or goals.
I wasn’t an athlete like Shak
or a beauty queen like Dali.
After senior year,
there’d be nothing else waiting for me.
Soon as we hit
the final note,
questions
spilled out,
rapid fire.
And it was everything
I wanted needed to hear:
“Where y’all from?
Shohola? Never heard of it.
How soon can y’all meet me in the studio?
Next week?
How old are y’all again? Y’all look fifteen.
Oh, seventeen? Eighteen in August, Denver?
“—Bet. Legal enough.
Let me get your digits.
Y’all drive, right?
Let me drop y’all some coins for the ride back.
“No sense in bringing your parents to the studio.
Don’t need nobody killing our vibe!
Here’s the address.
Come ready to work.
And, Denver, bring your song book.
The whole damn thing.
Y’all about to be the second coming of Destiny’s Child.
Y’all ready to become stars?”
OH, HELL YEAH WE WERE!!!
a drive up the Pocono Mountains,
that bend
and wind
and end
in Shohola typically means
a sky full of stars,
white-bright moon to lead the way.
But our ride home was nothing but
a dark, rainy cloud
hovering beneath a moonless sky,
And us,
full of questions (what do we tell our parents?),
worry (what if he changes his mind?),
excitement (@!#!&!),
and $500 (each) in our pockets,
thanks to Merc.
Now that was enough to do enough.
I texted Ma back
(eventually),
but first we had to get the story straight,
practiced it on repeat
all the way home:
Sorry, we were making music all night.
Slipped into Dali’s trailer,
just before her mom arrived
from work at 2:00 a.m.,
scattered popcorn kernels
on the floor,
“forgot” to turn the TV off,
painted the picture of an epic sleepover.
Three girls sprawled out