of cookies & cream
in her mouth.
It was Netflix night at her crib.
Just me, her, and no Shak.
Still wasn’t used to that.
“Text about what?”
“He’s back from LA
and ready to work.
Studio time is booked for next week.
And get this … he’s sending a car service!
“Mami was all:
Dios mío, this guy’s
the REAL DEAL, eh?
“She already said I could go
but she’s not trying
to miss another day of work.
So what’s up? You coming?”
Here was the thing:
Merc didn’t hit me up,
didn’t invite me to jack,
and I knew exactly why.
“Nah, next time.”
Dali flung her hair
across my lap,
lay on top of me,
lips all pouty.
“I don’t like that idea, Denver.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
I clicked play
on Jane the Virgin,
stuffed an Oreo
down my throat,
and tried my best to pretend
that shit didn’t taste like
disappointment.
8:30 p.m.
no sooner than you
walked through the door
I popped off with
questions about that contract
my dreams
my future
The why? (weren’t you at the meeting, Papi)
The how? (could you forget about me)
The WHEN? (would you and Ma sign)
Every answer
that cascaded off
your lips
sounded like a
running list of synonyms
for the word
NOPE!
Instead, you had
something else on your mind.
“Denver?
Your mother and I
have something to tell you …”
coming years ago.
See, pretending is a talent
we got on lock.
The perfect picture of
a happy family:
the successful doctor
with her successful pilot husband
their one successful daughter
Gwendolyn Jaylis Lafleur:
Maker of dean’s list,
Doer of nothing wrong,
and the Other,
singer of emo-ass songs,
player of instruments,
which was cute,
but not enough to do enough.
The greatest show on Earth
was the one where on the outside
things seemed good,
till you grabbed a microscope,
looked deep,
saw the tiny crack
stretching its way
through years of “missed flights” home
and late nights at the hospital.
When I was younger,
I didn’t see these things.
But time passed,
and the cracks multiplied,
heavy under the weight
of pretending.
that funny little word
that came before
D
I
V
O
R
C
E
All those years
of stretched out days,
endless nights,
I listened to Ma
cry for you
to come back
as you barreled out
the front door,
while I looked out my bedroom window,
wishing you’d take me with you,
watched you
drive off to
godknowswhere
beneath a midnight sky;
your absence
a disease,
your presence
a present
for all of us.
It wasn’t
the first time
I’d heard
y’all say
you were done.
It was just
the first time
I believed you.
was also code for:
that contract
and my dreams
didn’t mean jack
Because it didn’t fit the vision
of what life would look like
for me
for YOU.
(and Ma)
care about what I said?
Dali is going to record without me!
You’re sabotaging my future
because your marriage sucks!”
I expected to feel
the sting of a hand
against my cheek,
a hard grip on my arm,
fiery words
to extinguish my own.
Instead
Ma hustled
to her bedroom,
cigarette smoke
building beneath
closed doors,
then curling,
swirling through
every crevice like a whole mood.
And you, Papi, stormed off,
yet again
tires skidding
over unpaved roads …
I headed to the basement,
let it out
the best way I knew how:
lights dimmed
candles lit
fingers plucked Em chords,
ready to record.
The thing about
music was
once it sparked,
lyrics unfolded,
a prelude
to a flame
that refused to die.
Written by Denver Lafleur
Verse:
I always do what you say
Put aside my dreams every day
I give my time,
sacrifice my life,
Just so you could fly
Now I wonder when
I can begin
to shine my light within
Pre-chorus:
Starting today,
I’ll find my way
Chorus:
I’m through with you,
through with you
through with you, ooh
I’m through with your rules
I’m putting me first
’cause I know my worth
veins breaking
through skin
Turned off the record button,
pulled up Dali’s and one of Merc’s
many numbers,
clicked send
Heard the basement door crack,
footsteps descend
Smelled the
smoky stench
before I saw Ma’s face
“Merc’s right, Denver. Your talent is endless.
I know this little singing thing
is important to you. Just like it was for your father
when he tried to be a musician at your age.
But jazz was never gonna pay the bills.
We just need more time to decide.”
Little.
Of course that’s
all I heard.
Little music
Little phase
Little dream
I forced myself
to remember a time
she ever listened to my music,
stuck around,
showed up.
Came up empty.
We stood like mirrors,
ocean meeting earth,
my eyes
a reflection of
both hers and yours, Papi.
Hurting
Wordless
Truth unfolding …
Not sure
I had much time left.
Gwen
: Denny, you up? I’m so sorry I haven’t been returning your calls. Been so busy with interning and getting ready for next semester abroad.
12:29 a.m.
Gwen: I heard the news about them separating. Wish I was there with you.
12:33 a.m.
Gwen: You should get away for a while. My dorm is open. Think about it?
12:48 a.m.
Me: Sis, Ma started smoking cigarettes again. I think it’s for real for real this time.
Gwen: I know.
void of stars and moon,
there was a girl who quietly
slipped out of her home
on Chickasaw Lane,
walked past the Trails End sign
dimly lit at the exit,
crossed Route 6,
sharp left on Springwood Drive,
followed each curve,
in long, hurried steps,
until she reached Winding Brook Road,
the crunch of gravel beneath her feet.
Quietly, she climbed the ladder
on the side of the big house
with the double red doors,
until she reached the flattened roof
fingers tap-tap-tapped the bedroom window,
awakening rescuing me
from the nightmare, skin-deep.
“Dali, what are you doing here?”
“I heard your song.
No way I’m leaving you alone.
Olive juice.”
as we lay in my bed,
curtains drawn back,
fingers exploring
parts where pain
once dwelled,
two dueling meteor showers
lit up Pennsylvania skies.
A silent, wordless
burst of magic
that was our universe,
that was … us.
There was no need to
tell Dali what went down
with you and Ma earlier.
The lyrics,
the music
communicated it all
through
bitten lips,
bursting stars,
beating hearts …
a thousand different ways.
times
unabashed
love
only
reveals
itself
under
darkened
skies,
satin sheets, words unspoken, behind locked doors
…
An aria in the key of denial
Written by us both
The next day,
that black Mercedes SUV
cruised through Trails End
music bumping,
thumping off hip-hop beats.
I had a good mind
to ignore you and Ma,
hop in that ride with her
and head to the studio.
“Don’t worry,” Dali said.
“They’ll come around.”
The driver stepped out,
suited up, blazer, bow tie, hat and all
just like in the movies.
Folks in the trailer park
stopped and stared
as the driver reached Dali’s doorstep.
“Right this way, Ms. Gómez.”
He opened the door.
“Per Mr. Ellis’s request,
I’ll hold on to your cell phone.
He prefers that you study your lyrics.”
Dali handed over that phone,
a look painted on her face like
How will I even survive????
And honestly, I wondered the same.
raced through me
a disastrous remix of
imnotokay
thisisnotokay
ishouldbegoing
notyou
withyou
Especially since
meeting Merc would’ve
never happened without … me.
But the mere thought
seemed selfish, wrong.
So the proper thing
to do was
wave
smile
stand at the
edge of the driveway
watching
Dali
and
my her chauffeur
and my lyrics
literally drive away
Suspense
ate away at my nerves,
hours passed,
no word from Dali.
I missed everything that night.
The pulse of the music,
soaking in chords, notes, melodies.
Meanwhile, Ma didn’t even come home.
Nor did you, Papi.
Typical.
Dali:
Home now.
He loved your new song,
but barely let me sing any leads.
Denver, I need you with me next time.
K?
Me:
k.
One thing
I’d never done
was broken a promise to Dali
Ever.
No sense in starting.
there lived a girl
who stared NO in the face,
laughed at that shit,
and took matters
into her own hands.
A song in the key of DO YOU, BOO!
By Denver Lee Lafleur
And by it,
I mean that contract.
Step 1: Read it (See, Papi, I did study sometimes!)
Absorb all of it—
those
mixed-up,
mashed-up
words
like
foreign-language
too hard,
too trapped
beneath thick tongues
Step 2: Sign it
Because the longer
I left my future
in your hands,
the quicker it was gonna
slip
a
w
a
y
Step 3: Send it
One click of a button
loud enough to
let Merc know
that this life,
this dream,
wasn’t worth
stalling a second more.
01905552702: Aye, superstar! I see u got ur folks n check.
Me: Sure did.
01905552702: oh, baby gurl
Me: ?
01905552702: Denver, I know your handwriting.
12:51 p.m.
01905552702: u there?
Me: BUT THEY LEFT ME NO CHOICE. Guess you’re done with me now???
01905552702: Nah, we just getn started.
I couldn’t unsee:
the passing of time,
no ginger-spiced
Saturday mornings,
no bittersweet
Sunday goodbyes
with you …
Ma slipping
into that sunken place,
a bottomless pit
of woe-is-freakin-me.
A zombie
of a woman
playing
work-sleep-wait
on
Repeat
Repeat
A convenience for me tho,
the perfect excuse
to dip off
sight unseen
to the studio.
New songs in my journal,
Dali at my side,
Merc with the sick beats.
Time did not exist
when I was there with them
Eventually
I figured
Ma (or you) would notice
I was gone
—a bit too much—
But right then and there
I had’ta do what was best for ME.
Memories
were like water.
Life giving,
soul filling,
moment in tim
e.
Easy to be forgotten,
if you couldn’t hold them tight.
Maybe that’s why
I started to notice
that camcorder,
almost always at Merc’s side.
With it, a duffel bag
filled with VHS-C tapes,
mini golden treasures,
epic adventures,
in the studio,
on the road,
fans screaming,
songs written.
Merc said that Panasonic
PVL453 was the first
thing he purchased
when he hit it big.
And it was way
too precious to part with.
Plus it still worked.
I guess every celebrity
has their weird must-haves.
To me,
camcorders were on the
ancient end of the technology spectrum.
Maybe they’d be worth a grip in the future.
Then again,
maybe not.
Merc brought in a heavy hitter
to help produce the final cut
of our newest song,
“I’m Through.”
Bryan Lewis,
hitmaker to the stars,
white boy in a Bob Marley disguise,
comin’ straight outta Australia
just to work with Untouched.
fifty-leven takes
was all it took
to hear those magic words
through my headphones.
“I think we’re all done, Denver!
Merc will love it.”
Meat opened the door of the booth.
“Sounding real good, girl!” He beamed.
“You can come on out now.”
I zombie-walked
my way past the control board,
Bryan dapping me up,
before I collapsed on the couch
wishing Dali were there to catch my fall.
Instead, she was
in studio B, down the hall,
recording backgrounds on our next
song for the last two hours.
“Where’s me ole mate, Merc?
He needs to hear this!”
Bryan played the track from the top.
Mannn, that bass kicked in
followed by the tap-tap-tap
of the drum
and then that voice.
All buttery and,
dare I say, Whitneyish.
But all mine.