the campfire.
Three girls
now known
lyrically
as
Untouched
scatting beneath
navy skies,
guitar in my hand,
D major chords on repeat,
mulling over the question
that loomed above our heads:
When do we tell our parents?
“I know Nana and Pop are old and
low-key clueless, but I think we gotta say something.
No more sneaking off, ya know?
Let our folks arrange all this for us.”
“Arrange what, Shak?” I asked.
“Contracts? Lawyers? Don’t we need that stuff?”
“We don’t need all that.” Dali kept humming,
soprano sweet.
“Merc wants us.”
“And what if he stops?” Shak’s eyes narrowed.
The songs of night blended with our own.
Crickets chirping.
Fire crackling.
Branches swaying.
“He won’t. He knows exactly what he wants
from each one of us. We just gotta give it to him,”
Dali said,
the veins in her neck
thick like tree roots.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
My fingers stopped strumming.
“Nothing.” Dali refilled her cup with rum,
took a big-ass gulp.
“Oh, come on, Say Say!
You know it’s
MAD one-hit wonders out there.
All I’m saying is we need a
backup plan if Merc loses interest.”
“Let’s not give him a reason to,” I said,
swallowing my own fear of the what-if.
“Okay, Whitney.”
Shak raised her hands in surrender.
“You’re right, Dali. Merc’s obsessed with Untouched!”
Shak and Dali dapped
and laughed to the moonless sky.
“Yeah,” I whispered softly,
beneath D major chords.
“We’ll tell our family … when the time is right.”
I swear I heard angels,
like a church chorus,
the second we finally got the text.
Merc was in New York,
back from his mini tour.
And the only thing on his mind …
was US!
Mannnnnn,
we dipped off
hella quick,
Pocono Mountains
fading into skyscrapers
kissing clouds.
Sick beats waited for
our voices to light up the booth.
And so we did.
We recorded the bridge
and outro for
“Once in Your Life.”
And …
We. Torched. That. Shit.
“Whew! That’s FIYAH!”
Merc screamed
as he replayed the mix.
I checked my watch.
We’d been there four hours.
But it felt like four beats of a heart.
“I’ma need y’all back next Sunday!”
Merc walked us to the exit.
“No doubt!” Me. Dali. Voices merged.
“Can we come another day? Like Thursday?
Nana and Pop will flip if I miss mornin’ service.”
“Bless your lil’ heart.”
Merc mocked Shak’s southern drawl.
“I’m sure the Lord will understand.”
Then Merc buzzed us out,
turned his back,
and kept it moving upstairs.
On the ride home,
we almost tore the roof of my Civic off
interrogating Shak.
“You can’t miss ONE day of church?”
“Guys, I’ve already missed camp
and work and church.
I love our singing group,
but I have a lot goin’ on.”
“So, what are you trying to say
about me and Denver?
We ain’t got no life?”
“No! That’s not what I meant!
It’s just with senior year comin’,
and college tours,
the juggle is a struggle, yo!”
“Chill with the college talk.” Dali
rolled down the window and
pretended like she was throwing up.
“And I don’t know how to say this …
but Merc creeps me out a lil’.”
Dali snapped her head around,
Exorcist style.
“You two kinds of crazy tonight, chica!”
“Look, I know! But when Meat
escorted me to the bathroom tonight,
one of those hallway doors was cracked open.
And y’all know what I saw?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Eyes. All veiny and yellow
where the white part should be.
“Ooooooh, maybe it was El Cuco!”
Dali said,
which of course made me
snort-laugh and
almost dive right off the
Lincoln Tunnel.
“No, Chucky!”
“No, Freddy Krueger!”
Dali and I
kept going like that
for all of I-287.
But Shak
didn’t find it funny.
From my rearview mirror,
I saw her roll her eyes
and coil like a snake in the back seat.
She was quiet
the whole ride home.
Slammed my car door,
raced up the driveway
to her front door,
slammed that one, too.
And then Shak ghosted on us.
H
A
R
D.
Me: Four days, no call, no text? We love you Shak Attack, come back!
Dali: We’re sorry. We promise we’ll be more careful.
Shak: Glad you guys understand.
Me: Pick you up Sunday at noon, k?
Shak: WOW.
Dali: What you mean wow?
Shak: I’m not going. I told you why.
Me: So you just gonna play us like that?
Crickets.
01905552702: Sup, baby gurl. See u guys tomorrow?
Me: Merc? That you?
01905552702: In the flesh, well text, ha!
Me: New phone?
01905552702: I keep burners on deck. You know how it is. Gotta switch it up, keep crazy fans and the paparazzi off my back.
Me: Ok. Well, we got a problem. Shak can’t miss church.
01905552702: Come anyway. We’ll record and then I’m takn y’all somewhere.
Me: Without Shak? But we need her third harmony. And where we going?
01905552702: Just come. Will make it work.
Old-school
1990s R&B
blasting behind
the door
of my room.
Sisters with Voices,
better known as
SWV,
singing sweetly
about all the things
that make one weak.
Like this girl.
Dalisay Gómez,
honey and fire in human form
topknot,
floral sundress,
cherry-stained lips.
An in-the-room makeover
of epic proportions
for our big day with Merc.
I tossed on
my cut-up black jeans,
Converse,
pink AliExpress bag,
scrunched my hair with
Miss Jessie’s Pillow Soft Curls.
“You are the epitome
of casual-cute, muchacha.”
Dali’s fingers laced in mine,
pulled me into her embrace.
I didn’t hear the door fly open
only saw the look on her face.
Hands unlocked,
music stopped.
“Ma, what’re you doing home?”
Two eyes,
blue as moonstone,
a genetic oxymoron
against
light brown skin.
Her words,
laser hot.
“Denver, let me talk to you.”
Dali grabbed her purse,
said Hello, Mrs. Lafleur,
and flew her ass straight
down the stairs.
“Where you headed?”
“Girls’ date,” I chirped, stomach tingling.
“And your third partner in crime?” Ma scanned my room.
“On our way to get her. Sleeping at Dali’s.”
I lied quick, easy.
“I forgot some files.
I’m headed back to the hospital now.
Pulling a double.
You get to Dali’s before midnight …”
I took a deep breath,
happy that was all,
but I shoulda known
Ma wasn’t done …
“And, Denver?
That little thing
you think you’re feeling?
It’s just a phase.”
(noun)
Definition (according to Webster’s):
an aspect or part (as of a problem)
under consideration
Definition (according to Black folk):
temporary disappointment,
human hellbound
Definition (according to Ma):
the waiting
for an awakening,
sharp thrust into reality,
that life is already hard
carrying the weight of the world
in this Black body,
this Black skin …
Why make it harder
as a …
lesbian?
Definition (according to me):
…
Nothing.
This thing wasn’t a phase at all.
the place where stars
are born
Singing in that booth
without Shak
felt like
a too-small Band-Aid
over a too-big wound.
Two girls,
one new song,
three harmonies,
One press of a button,
vocal magic on a track.
Merc whipped out some Henny
after we were done recording.
“I’ll pass,” I said.
Needed to be alert for the long drive home.
Shak woulda been hella proud.
Merc’s face went all cloudy on me.
If the man had pearls, he woulda clutched
them, too.
But I just hit him with the
“Sorry, bruh” shrug.
Dali swooped her arm to the table,
“I’ll take a hit!” gripped the red plastic cup,
gulped the spicy liquid down.
One sip,
two sips,
three sips.
Eyes rolled back,
smile grew wide,
Dali’s ass was flying high!
I laughed so hard, I thought
my bladder would burst.
“Where you going?” Merc said.
“Bathroom.”
“You gotta ask permission to leave the room, sweetheart.”
I laughed again and headed for the door.
“You’re so funny, Merc.”
Meat,
all six foot eight of him,
blocked me at the exit.
“He ain’t kidding.”
Merc stood up, grabbed hold of my arm.
“I’ll take her. Gotta protect my little star, you know.”
And I swear I never felt so special.
Merc waited for me, like a real gentleman,
to come out the bathroom,
slipped his hand around my waist,
fingers pressed in the curve of my hip.
“You feeling all right?” he asked,
lips close enough to brush against my nose.
The smell of his breath, a mix of Henny and heat.
If this were one of those rom-com flicks,
we woulda kissed and
I’da melted right into his arms.
But WTF was I kidding?
I’d feel nothing.
Like, at all.
Not to mention, Merc was like …
uncle status,
no matter how fine homeboy was.
“I’m good,” I said.
He loosened his grip,
that whole movie image
just in my head, then gone
as he fist-bumped me
like the homey
I knew him to be.
And I had to laugh at myself
for worrying about Shak
and her stupid heebie-jeebies.
“I got two surprises for y’all.
You ready, lil’ sis?”
“Always, bro,” I responded.
Right there,
I told myself
I’d always
be ready,
with open arms,
for whatever
homeboy
had up his sleeve.
For better or better.
Surprise #1
I never noticed the single crack
in the concrete floor before that night.
It started from the entrance of the elevator
and zigzagged its way from door to door.
Merc led me and Dali
down the hall,
the light above hissed
flick, flick, flick,
past each door
until we reached the one
near the bathroom
cracked open,
the sinking feeling
that someone was watching us.
Merc gripped the knob
and opened it fully.
Lights on full blast.
Three smiling ladies,
staring back at us.
And guess what?
No boogey man.
No creepy eyes!
Instead, there were
racks of clothes
lined against the walls.
Labels for days!
Gucci
Fendi
Prada
Mirrored tables
covered in those lights
you see on Broadway shows.
Makeup brushes in hand,
flat irons on deck.
“This is my new singing group, Untouched,”
Merc said to the stylists.
“As you can see,
these youngins need a little help.” He winked.
“Give ’em the full treatment.”
Oh yeah, Big Brother Uncle Merc
status was in full effect!
’Specially with this next-level hookup!
Dali did that nail-digging-in-my-wrist
thing again.
Only that time, I swear
that pain never felt so good.
Every kink,
every curl
sizzled straight
into submission.
Bodies dipped
in a Fendi disguise.
Red-bottoms clicked
against concrete,
letting the whole world know
Untouched had arrived!
Two-thirds at least.
Surprise #2
Meat at the wheel,
Merc in the passenger seat,
me, Dali, and Marissa,
sandwiched in the back.
A ride
in a Maybach S 650
was like
blue paint against navy skies
matching the pants I wore
shiny as chrome rims spinning,
gleaming like stars and city streetlights.
Top down,
summer heat
threatening the return
of kinky curls,
“Who cares, Denver?”
Dali shook my mane with her hands.
“Let that shit go!”
And I didn’t know
if she was talking ’bout
my hair … or Shak.
(or-Ma-or-Gwen-or-You!)
But it didn’t matter.
Nothing else did.
Because I was
happily riding
in that car
with #TeamMerc,
blasting Hot 97
singing every lyric
of that old-school Jay Z,
“Big Pimpin’,”
with my queen (Dali)
and the KING (Merc)!
The ones who
filled me with hope,
freedom,
and forgetfulness …
Like the fact that
Marissa had our phones.
And because of that,
there were texts I didn’t see.
Shak: Merc called me tonight. Told me since I bailed on him, the least I could do is send him a picture … in a bikini.
Shak: Like … really??? Yo, call me back.
camera-flashing,
immortal beings
that followed Merc
E
V
E
R
Y
W
H
E
R
E
!
(and I loved ev-uh-ree second of that shit!)
Flashing lights
swallowed Merc whole,
as me, Dali,
Meat, Marissa,
and the rest of
Merc’s nameless,
wordless crew
trailed behind him
through the back entrance
of Club LAVO.
Hip-hop thumped,
shaking walls,
bottles crowned
with mini fireworks,
the waitress led us to our own little corner
of the world,
no eyes,
no whispers,
no pointing
as Merc dropped coins
—eleven g’s—