by JN Welsh
She wanted this. Artistique got her out of the club and showcased her among what she believed were her ideal fans. Most of all, it kept her low-key famous, a position she’d do whatever possible to protect. The agents who came sniffing around only wanted her to do more so that they could get more. Like Tommy. She shuddered.
“What am I going to do?” She sighed and checked the time. She’d cut her period of moping short because she needed to get to the concert hall, which irritated her just as much as the offer Tommy had made to her last night. “Fuck!” She hauled her shit and headed for the subway.
Backstage, it had taken her an hour to calm her mind from problem-solving her Artistique dilemma. As she played in unison with the other strings, she lost herself in the pieces and her bow didn’t fail her. The orchestra created magic for the attendees, and for that slice of time the music soothed her.
After the Saturday performance, Nyah had gone out for one drink with her fellow musicians but when she didn’t stay out late, Gladys didn’t give her shit about it. “I have to get some sleep to be ready to do the application with you,” Nyah said, and Gladys was all business.
“I should get going soon, too. We have a lot to prepare for.”
Back at home, Nyah showered her achy limbs and slipped into her pajamas. She plopped in a rolling desk chair, clicked on her computer and the track she’d been working on displayed on the screen. The hour crept to midnight so she eased the black, cushioned headphones over her ears. She pressed play, and the bassoon and bass, a steady stream under the track, sounded in her ears. She was known for the way her tracks built and then exploded. This one was no different. The music burst in her ears like a warm grape exploding in her mouth, delicious, sweet and tart. She bobbed her head and could almost see the crowd at Artistique living in her song.
She shoved the headphones off her head, the screechy frequencies haunting her quiet apartment. Frustration about the current situation didn’t lessen with her creativity this time around like it had in the past. The problem wasn’t that she couldn’t locate an agent. She knew plenty. Her particular conundrum required finesse and she didn’t know what it would cost her to say yes to being their client. One agent’s head, in particular, popped up like the Whac-A-Mole carnival game, and she needed a cushioned bat to smash it down. Her shoulders hardened like knots with the impending decision she had to make.
Later that night, when she dug into her jacket pocket to retrieve Tommy’s card, she calculated just how much humble pie she’d have to choke down before he agreed to help her.
* * *
Nyah’s phone rang like clockwork on Sunday morning. She untangled her limbs from the soft warm cotton haven and silky smooth eight hundred thread count sheets.
“Good morning, baby girl.” Pete Monroe’s soft bass-filled voice made her sink her head back onto the fluffy pillows. In the background she heard the Miami waves that no doubt floated in from the patio doors of her parents’ Florida estate.
“Hey, Dad,” she croaked, her dry, scratchy throat a direct result from screaming at Rebel the other night. Fatigue, caffeine, and way too many drinks had dehydrated her. Even her eyeballs were dry.
“You must have had a night. Did you just wake up?”
She sat up and cleared her throat. “You know how tired I get after performances.”
“Right, right. So how was your week? Tell me what you can before your mom grabs the phone from me like she always does.”
“Things are good. CeCe from the London Symphony is in town and wants me to do a solo for her during practice on Tuesday.”
“What’s that, an audition?” he asked.
“Kind of but not really. I think since she’s here it’s probably a good idea for us to get on her radar.” Nyah quoted Gladys, though right now the thought and added pressure of performing for CeCe elevated her stress levels.
“Have you submitted your application, yet?” Her father gulped, and from living with him most of her life, she knew he sipped his morning tea.
“Gladys and I will be working on it today. Anyway, enough about me. How are things with you guys?”
“Well, it looks like some people want to honor me as one of dance music’s icons. I don’t know about that title, but I guess since I’m an old man now that makes me one.” Her father had had her late in life but he’d been no less active with her. Her parents made sure to put her in activities that helped their only child learn that the world didn’t revolve around her.
“That’s great, Dad. Who’s honoring you?”
“Apparently the new organizers for the Sunburst Festival. They support the up-and-coming artists. I like being a part of that.” He hummed into the phone.
“Wow, Dad. Look at you influencing the youngins,” she teased.
He hemmed and hawed like he sometimes did before bringing up a touchy subject. “It would be nice if you dusted off your DJ equipment and we did a spot together. What do you think?”
The pulse in her neck pounded all the way up to her eardrum. “I don’t think so, Dad. All people will do is compare us again.” Guilt strained the muscles in her throat. She’d kept her DJ life a secret to get out of her father’s shadow, because when she’d bombed those years back, the criticism and insults had attacked her like a nest of agitated hornets. She thought she had tougher skin until the media had portrayed her as an entitled celebrity’s kid who thought she could get by without talent. Carlo had made the whole thing worse when he refused to speak to the media on her behalf. In his words, she wasn’t big enough, and wasting time on fighting with the media was pointless. She did what she could on social media but her bland performances had only fueled the fire. No one knew her and what kind of artist she wanted to be—including her.
Undercover, she’d found her sound, built her brand, and when it came to music, she took risks with extreme confidence she hadn’t even known she had. Getting onstage with her father would undo everything she’d worked for.
“I know you had a bad run of it those years back. I’m as proud of you then as I am now. Your feet are firmly rooted in the classical scene, but, well, think about it. I’d love to have you up there with me, Nyah. It’s a few months away. You can always change your mind.”
Nyah gave a complimentary “yeah,” but she heard the disappointment in her father’s voice. Knowing that she played clubs and had a following as DJ Queen Roe made her feel like the worst kid ever pushed out of the womb. Her only saving grace? Saying no to her father meant saying yes to life as a dynamic artist, doing things her way. That small acknowledgment would have to help her sleep at night.
“Everything else good?” Nyah asked.
“Yeah. You know, the normal aches and pains but I’m still groovin’,” he said.
“Is that Nyah?” She heard her mother in the background.
“That’s more time than she gave me the last time,” her father mumbled. “Let me pass you to your mom. Love you.”
Nyah was in the middle of reciprocating her father’s love when Eva Monroe’s voice boomed in her ear. “Hi, baby, how are you?”
“I’m good, Mom. I was just telling Papa Monroe about the London Symphony.” Nyah repeated most of the same information that she had just relayed to her father.
“You all recovered from that really bad cold you had a few weeks ago? That awful cough sounds like it’s all gone.”
“It was a bee-otch to get rid of. The ginger, garlic and turmeric home remedy you gave me worked wonders.”
“Remember, if you feel like you’re coming down with something, a little oil of oregano in some water or juice will knock that baby right out. And don’t forget to take your elderberry every day.”
“I am, Mom.” Nyah had been running around for months playing the orchestra and deejaying. Sure, she’d survived on tons of caffeine, but her nutrition and sleep suffered. Eventually her body had taken her out like a light and she
had a severe cold for over a week. She’d medicated enough to do one performance but then she had to be replaced for the next day’s performance and miss two rehearsals. Enter Mrs. Eva, the reigning queen of home remedies, to the rescue. Her mother wasn’t averse to medical science but spending her summers with family in Jamaica and Ghana, she always used homeopathic first and traditional medicine second.
“Are you excited about Dad’s news? It really is a great honor for him,” Nyah said.
“Of course.” Her mother all but squealed it. “He’s done so much in the community and he’s the first person people mention when they talk about their influencers. I’m thrilled for him.”
“Me too.”
“He wants me to perform with him, but... I can’t, Mom,” she blurted.
“Hmm. I know you still have some feelings about what happened a few years back, Nyah, but you are the daughter of a DJ, you have professional skills and you’ve been on various stages. It would be a nice moment for you to share with your dad.”
“No need to ply on more guilt. I already feel it, having said no.”
“Well, then maybe you need to say yes,” she suggested.
“Mom?”
“You’re going to have to put all that behind you for good one day, baby. The sooner you do, the better decisions you’ll make.”
Her mother’s words put another layer of salve on old wounds, yet still the injury ached. Nyah didn’t know what it would take to heal the deeper damage. “I hear you.”
“Regardless, this is an honor for your father and he really wants you to be there. Please make every effort to attend.”
“I will, Mom. No matter what, I’ll be there.” Nyah not only made the promise to her mother but to herself.
“That’s my girl.”
“Well, I have to get ready. Gladys will be here soon.”
“It would be wonderful if you got that assignment. It will give your father and me a reason to spend a month in London.”
“A month? Oh, that’s right. I forgot you two are ballers.”
“Retired ballers,” her mother reminded her. Nyah could see her mother going to her charity calling people retired ballers just to make them laugh. A true comedian and lover of people, her mother never missed an opportunity to make people feel good.
“Even worse.” The thought of her parents staying in London for a month should make her cringe but she’d likely invite them to stay with her even if they’d probably decline.
“We claim our blessings.” Her mother’s laughter spread mirth through Nyah. “Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, honey.”
“You too. Hugs to both you and Dad.” Her mother returned the sentiment before hanging up.
Nyah’s father’s invitation lodged itself in the back of her head. She knew it would keep popping up, but she was determined to keep the promise she made to herself. No one would connect Queen Roe and Peter Monroe if she could help it.
* * *
A few hours later Gladys marched into her apartment with her bag and a bundle of energy. Nyah followed Gladys’s perky movements with lethargic steps. “Hey, girl.”
“Did you just get up?” Gladys asked with the speed of someone who’d ingested way too many double espressos.
“No. I’ve been up for a bit. I had a rough couple of days, so I slept in some.” It had at least been an hour since she got up.
“Well, let’s put on a pot of coffee and get going.” Gladys clapped her hands together, a chop-chop the only thing missing from her statement.
“Uh...you need more coffee?” Nyah asked.
“Yes!” Gladys exploded.
“This is my off-coffee day. I have way too much caffeine during our performance days so I try to catch myself.”
“Tea, then. Or a cold shower. I just need you to meet some of my energy, boo.”
As someone who was about to apply to the Black and Minority Ethnicity classical symphony, Nyah should be busting out of her skin and simultaneously dancing on every surface in her apartment, including the ceiling. In addition to her BME application, she’d been granted a special audition with the maestro, the creator herself, CeCe Hines. The stars had aligned to give her a great opportunity to excel as a musician, yet Artistique had drained the problem-solving part of her brain.
Nyah summoned vitality and vigor, then grabbed some cold seltzer and various cheeses from her fridge. “We need some snacks for this,” she said, swinging the cabinets open and pulling out a box of rosemary and garlic herbed crackers as well as some wasabi chips. “I’m here. Get set up and help yourself to anything else you want in the kitchen. I’m just going to grab my laptop.”
Nyah unplugged her silver laptop from a host of other wires she used to transfer the music she created to the set list she performed. She always covered her DJ equipment whenever Gladys or anyone came by. Having a controller and scratch pad wouldn’t be completely out of the ordinary. After all, Gladys had met her father when her parents attended performances. However, Gladys’s simple questions might have Nyah fumbling with explanations and she hated lying. So she avoided any inquiries with a quilted black nylon cover.
“Did you decide on what you’re going to play for CeCe on Tuesday?” Gladys asked when she returned.
“I think I’ll do a Taylor-Coleridge for the application but Bottesini for her on Tuesday. But if she really likes the piece I do on Tuesday, I think I’ll just use that for the application with whatever notes she may have for me. How about you?”
Gladys flattened her palm on the countertop. “Well, I was thinking of doing the four mallet Bach Air for marimba solo with my own arrangement, and then the Emmanuel Séjourné Concerto for Marimba and String Orchestra for my application, as planned, with you on double bass, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Both are lively enough, uplifting and dynamic. I thought about doing a timpani solo etude but I think marimba is better. I mean, who doesn’t love marimba? Since she’ll be sitting in on rehearsal, she’ll see me with various instruments, but I can really shine on marimba, especially during the latter phrases.”
“Just rock out on the drums.”
“Nyah...”
“Kidding. Your choices are perfect.” Nyah thought about it for a minute. “So...no Evan accompaniment, huh?”
The glare of death said it all.
“O—kay.” Nyah bravely suggested something else. “This might be unconventional, but what about doing one of your own compositions?”
Nyah had never seen Gladys choke on a frog in real life, but with all the sputtering and rubbernecking her friend did, Nyah would bet money that it looked similar. Trinket and her stage fright popped into her head. “Never mind.” She waved her hand frantically as if to erase the thought and cast her eyes down at her computer screen. “The application mentioned that submissions with an original piece were welcomed.”
“I guess I can think about it. I’m just not sure it’s ready.”
Nyah fake-typed. “I’ve told you how awesome I think your compositions are but if you don’t believe me, then why not ask one of your trusted fellow percussionists, or Martin?”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever works.” Nyah glanced up to find Gladys staring off into the distance. “Let’s get back to the application pieces and make sure all our ducks are in a row.” Nyah shrugged in an attempt to make it no big deal. Gladys had been composing music since her teens for other people but never once attempted to play one of her own pieces. The only way Nyah had found out about it had been when she stumbled on her sheet music. She’d love to see her play one of her creations one day.
They worked on their application and essays until the late afternoon when Gladys had to head home to get in her mandatory three hours of practice. Nyah also needed to do the same.
“Thanks for today, I think we are in really good shape,” Gladys said.
“I should be thanking you, I don’t know if I would have gotten all this done without you.” Nyah hugged Gladys.
“You still want this, right?”
The question took Nyah by surprise. “Yeah.” As soon as the words were out Nyah felt the uncertainty vine its way to her lungs, and she breathed in deep. She blamed it on the organizers of Artistique. She wanted to be a part of history and work with CeCe and BME London Symphony. “I think I’m just a little nervous about the audition slash ‘I’d like to hear you play’ bit that’s happening on Tuesday.”
“You’re going to do great.”
“We’re going to do great,” Nyah corrected.
“Exactly.”
“See you at rehearsal.”
After Gladys left, Nyah made a pot of tortellini soup with Italian sausage and kale. When it was ready, she fixed herself a bowl, garnishing with a little Parmigiano-Reggiano. The weather offered a few glimpses of spring, but the temperature remained on the colder side. Regardless of the temperature, a chill ran through her. She curled up on her couch and drank a spoonful of the hearty soup to warm her up. What if she did all this for London and her desire for it waned? If she didn’t really want London, then what did she want? She wasn’t sure anymore and that did not sit well with her at all.
Chapter Six
Tommy’s fork paused mid-air when an unknown number illuminated on his cell phone. The aroma of spices from his mother’s roast pork, stewed vegetables, and rice and beans flaunted its flavors from the utensil, resting only inches from his mouth. He gobbled the bite before picking up the phone. His cell phone number was unlisted, so if someone called him, he’d likely given the person his number, and it was certainly about business.