by Nikki Carter
Dreya snatches Manny by the arm and gives him a lit tle whack on his bottom. “Boy, take your grown talkin’ self back to bed, ‘fore I call Mommy at work.”
“She can’t even get calls at work. I already tried to call on you. They said it had to be a ‘mergency.”
“That’s emergency, you little runt, and you’re about to have one,” Dreya fusses, “if you don’t get back in that bed.”
My perpetually unemployed Aunt Charlie has a job right now. She’s working at a record store in the mall. She got the job after she told the manager that pop star Drama was her daughter. Dreya didn’t want Aunt Charlie working there, but we’re not pulling in the big bucks yet, and Aunt Charlie needs money for cigarettes, bingo, and her hair weave.
My phone vibrates on the table, letting me know that I have a new text message.
Be there in five.
I finish up the last paragraph in my English Literature essay. Mystique will be here soon, and I don’t want her to have to come in and deal with Dreya and her mini-me Bethany.
Dreya watches me as I put on my high tops and my Aéropostale jacket. She cocks her head to the side, which I have come to know as her nosy look.
“Where are you going?” Dreya asks.
“Out.”
“I can see that. Out with who, and where are you going?”
I promptly ignore her and pull on my Juicy Couture backpack. This is the only expensive thing I’ve bought with my money. When Sam and I wrote a song for Mystique, we got to split fifty thousand dollars, and I got a fifty thousand dollar advance from Epsilon Records. All of it, except what I spent on this purse, went into my student savings account for my freshman year at Spelman.
Dreya gets up from the couch and walks over to the dining room where I am. “Don’t act like you don’t hear me, Sunday.”
“Back that up, Dreya. You getting me confused with Bethany.” I push her out of my way to emphasize that point.
I hear Mystique’s car pull up outside, and Bethany’s nosy behind runs up to the window to see who it is.
“She’s going with Mystique,” Bethany announces.
Dreya narrows her eyes that are filled with pure hatred. She can’t stand the fact that Mystique has taken me under her wing. Mystique’s been in the business for over a decade, and she’s only in her late twenties. She’s got her own label under Epsilon Records, and I’m one of her debut artists.
Dreya sucks her teeth. “You stay chasing behind Mystique. You ain’t nothin’ but a groupie to her.”
“You and I both know that’s not true,” I say. “The word you’re looking for is protégée. Don’t get it twisted.”
The doorbell rings, and Bethany lunges for the door to answer it. Mystique never comes to the door any other time, so this is a rare chance for the real groupie to get her shot.
“Hey, Miss Mystique!” Bethany says. For some reason she’s adding some extra sista-girl to her tone, like she has to sound black to be down with Mystique. She is so embarrassing.
“Hey ladies, how are y’all doin’?” Mystique’s voice is soft and husky with a hint of her Alabama accent still there although she’s traveled the world.
Dreya looks Mystique up and down and sashays back over to the couch before answering. “I’m straight.”
Her words are soaked with attitude, why I don’t know, because even though Mystique is as sweet as pie, she’s the kind of person that can make or break you in the industry. Dreya’s hating is so out of control that she doesn’t even know when she’s shooting herself in the foot.
Mystique ignores Dreya’s attitude and gives her a syrupy smile. “You havin’ a bad day, ma?” she asks.
“Nah,” Dreya says with a mean mug expression. “I said I’m straight.”
Mystique chuckles and gives Dreya a nonchalant hair flip. “Okay, then. I came in to let you ladies know that my mother wants you to come down to her boutique, Ms. Layla’s. She’s been designing some pieces for your summer tour, and she’s really excited for y’all to see them.”
Bethany lets out a half snort, half giggle. I cut my eyes angrily at her. She better not let out another sound. Dreya’s giving her the eye too, so she straightens up, and sits down at the dining room table.
Dreya and I have been avoiding our inevitable meeting with Ms. Layla. Her costumes are … um … unique. She’s given Mystique a signature look that includes lots of sparkles, glitter, rhinestones, and sequins. Dreya and I are afraid that she’s gonna have us looking like some Mystique copycats on stage.
Mystique lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow. “What’s wrong? Y’all aren’t saying anything.”
“N-nothing’s wrong, Mystique,” I reply. It is the most unconvincing lie I’ve ever told.
“Come on, Sunday. I know better. You can be straight with me,” Mystique says with the most inviting smile. I don’t believe her, though. Mystique and her mama are tight.
Dreya says, “Bottom line is, we ain’t tryin’ to wear none of that stuff your mama has you struttin’ around in. I do leather and chains, not sequins. No thanks, and no, ma’am.”
Mystique looks at me and laughs. “Sunday, did you think my mother was going to have you in sequins?”
“Is she?” I ask.
“My mother has created stuff that fits each one of you! I’ve seen some of the costumes, and I think you’ll like them. Drama, yours are really edgy, and they match your stage image. Sunday, yours are that preppy hip-hop look you’ve got going.” Mystique puts her arm around me and squeezes, and I feel myself relax.
“No sparkles?” I ask.
“Just a little, tiny bit of sparkle. But I promise you’ll like it.”
I smile up at Mystique. “I’m trusting you!”
Dreya rolls her eyes. “If I don’t like your mama’s stuff, I’m hiring a personal stylist to come with me on the road.”
Mystique’s smile quickly fades and is replaced with a frown. “Actually, you’re gonna be using my mother’s outfits whether you like it or not. Epsilon Records has contracted her as the sole stylist for the summer tour.”
“We’ll see about that. Drama doesn’t do wack clothes.” Dreya crosses her arms in defiance and stares Mystique down.
Mystique laughs out loud. “Save the diva routine. It’s not cute, and, sweetie, you aren’t even there yet. You’ll wear what they tell you, or you’ll be sitting at the house. Come on, Sunday. I’ve got some people I want you to meet, and I’m trying not to be in a bad mood when I get there.”
“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s roll.” I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing too.
As we walk out the door, Bethany asks, “Mystique, did your mother design some outfits for me too?”
“What is it that you do again?” Mystique asks with a confused look on her face.
“I’m Dreya’s assistant, and I sing backup.”
Mystique shrugs. “Oh, okay. Well, I don’t think so, but maybe. Come on, Sunday.”
On the way to the car, Mystique gives a backward glance to the house. “You and Drama need to drop that other girl. She’s gonna be trouble.”
“Who, Bethany?” I ask.
Mystique’s driver/bodyguard, Benjamin, opens the car door for her and then me. Benjamin, or Benji, as Mystique calls him, doesn’t look like the typical big goonie type that would be a bodyguard. He’s half-Samoan and half-black and has hair hanging down to the middle of his back, and a pretty boy face. He reminds me of the cover of one of my aunt’s romance novels. But his big arms and back and his nearly seven-foot tall body are pretty intimidating.
“Is that her name? She just seems a little extra eager,” Mystique replies. “The kind that would do anything for fame.”
I nod slowly as I sink into the soft leather of Mystique’s custom-made pink Mercedes Benz. She sure did peg Bethany, because she’d do anything right about now to have a record deal and the fab life.
Like Mystique’s.
Everything about Mystique’s world is fab. She’s got the ma
n, the clothes, the cars. As fly as this Benz is, it’s Mystique’s “play” car—the one she rides in when she goes to the studio or on errands. When she and her man hit the town, it’s in a Maybach. They’ve got the industry and the game on lock.
“We go way back, Mystique. Bethany used to sing with us, so I doubt if Dreya’s going to cut her loose.”
Mystique gets a faraway look on her face, like she’s traveled to another place in her mind. “Sometimes you leave people behind.”
We pull into the driveway of a fly mansion in Buck-head. There are a bunch of other cars here too, including Sam’s Jeep. The thought of seeing him makes me smile. Then, I see Truth’s tricked out Impala and roll my eyes.
“Whose house is this?” I ask Mystique. “Is there a party going on? I thought we were going to the studio.”
“Not a party, just some guys hanging out. This is Zachary’s Atlanta crib. He’s got an artist over who I want you to collaborate with. We’ll use Zac’s in-house studio. It’s the business.”
“Your fiancé, Zachary? Zillionaire?”
Mystique chuckles. “Yeah, this is his house. But when we go inside, don’t call him Zillionaire. He hates being called by his rap name. Everybody in his circle just calls him Zac.”
“I’m in his circle?” I ask.
“Yeah, Sunday, you are. You’re in my circle so you’re in his circle.”
I’m in Mystique’s circle? I’m in Mystique’s circle! This is incredible. I wish Dreya could’ve heard her say that. She would’ve been heated!
Benji opens up the car door again, and Mystique slides out gracefully. I’m the complete opposite of her, so it’s a good thing I’m wearing jeans! As I clumsily stumble out of the car, Benji gives me a flirtatious smile.
Dang, he’s fine!
“You better stop looking at me like that!” I fuss. “I’m only eighteen. I’m barely legal.”
Benji grins. “Operative word. Legal.”
Mystique gives Benji a playful punch on his arm, which probably feels like a mosquito landing on him as strong as he is.
“Benji, leave her alone! You always teasing these young girls,” Mystique says.
“I’m just having fun,” Benji retorts. “Are you mad, Sunday?”
I shake my head. How can I be mad at him with all that hair rippling over his shoulders, looking like a Black gladiator? Just fine for no reason.
Benji walks us up to the door of Zac’s mansion, and before we even go inside I can hear the music bumping.
“I thought you said this wasn’t a party,” I say.
Mystique laughs out loud. “It’s not. Zac just likes to play his music really, really loud.” She pushes the door open and motions for me to follow her inside.
If this isn’t a party, I seriously need to check a Webster’s Dictionary and get the updated definition. There are little pockets of people dancing, some guys playing Sony PlayStation on a gargantuan flat screen television mounted on a wall, and lots of food.
And there are girls everywhere! I’m talking the video vixen type. Long lace fronts and big booties galore. Truth is posted up on a leather couch with two girls. One of the girls is basically sitting in his lap, and the other has her head resting on his shoulder.
I shake my head and roll my eyes at him. I hope he can see how disgusted I am. Now I see why he didn’t come and pick up Dreya today. She’s sitting at the house planning their prom outfits, and he’s over here creeping.
Mystique pulls my arm and whispers in my ear. “Yeah, that’s a mess right there. He’s tripping for real.”
“Well, if my cousin walked up in here and saw that, she be ready to wreck shop.”
Mystique nods. “That’s why I didn’t invite her. I knew Truth was on some mess, but that’s their business. Come and meet Dilly.”
“Dilly?”
“Yeah. He’s the rapper I want you to collaborate with. He’s really good.”
We walk through the groups of people and head to the back of the house. Mystique opens a screen door that leads us to a swimming pool, decked out to look like something from the Caribbean. Zac is lounging on a pool chair, and so is Big D. A frown covers my face when I see LaKeisha, my mom’s boyfriend’s baby’s mama, and her thugged out brother, Bryce, the owner of Club Pyramids.
“What’s he doing here?” I whisper to Mystique.
Mystique shrugs. “He’s one of Zac’s friends, I guess. He owns Club Pyramids.”
“I know who he is.” My whisper comes out as an angry hiss.
Bryce and his thugs are the ones who stole my college fund. My mother had loaned it to her boyfriend Carlos, when he was trying to buy a stake in their club. Not only did they steal my money, but then they shot Carlos and left him for dead.
After that he disappeared from the hospital, and my mom is still stressing behind it, wondering if Carlos is dead or alive. To say that I can’t stand this dude is an understatement. But here he is posted all up in Zac’s circle.
Big D rushes over to me, tries to block my view of Bryce. “Hey, baby girl. I didn’t know you were coming through.”
I look Big D up and down, giving him serious mean mug. “Where’s Sam? I saw his Jeep outside.”
Big D smiles. “You want to know where your man’s at?”
Really, I need Sam to calm me down before I get to blowin’ up in Zac’s house. Especially since LaKeisha and Bryce have the audacity to keep grinning at me like we’re cool or something.
“Why is he here?” I whisper to Big D, knowing he knows who I’m talking about.
Big D turns to Zac, “Let me talk to my artist real quick.”
“Hey, Sunday,” LaKeisha says as Big D drags me away from the pool and toward the house. “Your single sounds really hot. Looks like you might be going to college after all.”
I try to snatch myself out of Big D’s arms to lunge at that heifer, but he’s… well… big. I can’t budge out of his bear hug.
Mystique, oblivious, of course, to the drama, says, “Her single is hot. It’s gonna go to number one on the R & B and Pop charts. No doubt.”
Big D whispers in my ear, “Be easy, lil’ mama. This isn’t the time nor place.”
I relax and follow Big D into the house, but I’m still mean mugging him. “Why are they posted up over here?” I ask.
Big D paces back and forth in the chrome-plated kitchen. Everything looks spotless and brand new, as if no one has ever cooked a meal in here. From the looks of the take-out barbeque containers lined up on the shiny counters, no one cooked today.
“Bryce is a club owner, and his little brother is a rapper. Zac always stays in good with them. It’s all love between them.”
I roll my eyes and deepen my scowl. “Well, it ain’t all love between us, and I’m not about to sit up here pretending I like that murderer.”
Big D sighs and runs his hand over his low fade. “Come on now, Sunday. You know that stuff don’t have nothing to do with you. That’s between them and Carlos. Don’t mess up your thing with Mystique and Zac behind some ‘hood drama.”
“Don’t you think we owe it to Zac to tell him the kind of dudes he’s running with?”
Big D holds a finger up to his lips, giving me the “be quiet” signal. “He knows, but Mystique doesn’t. Just chill,
okay?”
I take in a huge breath, let it fill up my lungs, and hope that the oxygen will clear my head. Every time I think of what could’ve happened to Carlos, I want to go swing on Bryce and LaKeisha. Why would LaKeisha even be down with doing something foul to Carlos? He’s her daughter’s father.
Sam walks into the kitchen reading a text on his phone. “Hey, Sunday, didn’t know you were coming. What’s poppin’, Big D? You need me?”
“Your girl needs you. She’s about to burn some serious bridges out there.” Big D motions toward the pool area, and Sam peeps out the kitchen window. His gaze stops on Bryce, and he inhales a sharp breath.
“You cool, Sunday? You want me to take you home?” Sam asks.
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As much as I do want to flee the scene, I can’t. Not without giving Mystique some kind of explanation. And I’m not about to let Bryce or LaKeisha think that they ran me up out of here.
“I can’t. Mystique wants me to meet some guy named Dilly. She wants me to collaborate with him on a track.”
Big D groans. “Dilly is Bryce and LaKeisha’s little brother. He’s y’all’s age, and has mad flow.”
“I’m not collaborating with anybody in that family,” I announce.
Sam says, “Don’t trip, Sunday. Dilly didn’t have any thing to do with what happened to Carlos, just like you didn’t have anything to do with any dirt Carlos may have done.”
My shoulders slump, and I let out a sigh. “All right. I’ll be open to it, but I swear if Bryce or LaKeisha say anything wrong to me, I’m blowin’ up.”
A thin, attractive girl walks into the kitchen with a pouty expression on her lips. She looks like one of those America’s Next Top Model types. Skinny and waifish enough for high fashion but ethnic enough to look exotic.
“Samuel, what is taking so long? I’m getting lonely in that game room all alone.”
My eyes widen. Is this Sam’s new boo? His prom date? This party is going from bad to worst-party-EVER!
Sam looks nervously from me to his friend. “Uh, Rielle … meet Sunday. Sunday, this is Rielle.”
Rielle claps her hands together. “You are Sam’s artist! The one he’s putting on the map!”
Tall tale anyone?
“I’m Sam’s artist now?” I ask, not playing into his story at all. Yes, I am hating, and it is well-deserved.
Big D chuckles. “Well, you’re one of many that he’s working with. You know what he means.”
Rielle giggles and says, “I think it’s so cute that he’s taking you to your prom. Producer and protégée. The blogs will love it.”
I shake my head angrily. “Okay, I don’t know what he’s been telling you, but …”
Before I can finish my put-Sam-on-blast tirade, Mystique glides into the kitchen. She opens a cooler on the counter and pulls out a soda. “You ready to meet Dilly?” she asks. “He’s excited about working with you.”
I narrow my eyes at Sam, and decide to burst his bubble later. “Sure, Mystique. Let’s do the do, but can we go into Zac’s studio? The sun is beaming extra hard out there, and it was making me a little lightheaded.”