21 Questions

by Mason Dixon

  Simone hoped Reagan would avoid the vocal cord hemorrhage and subsequent surgery that had threatened her idol’s career.

  “Does Dre know you’re a lesbian?” she asked. Dre didn’t care who she slept with, but she was behind the scenes, not on the album cover. It was her job to make records, not sell them—and herself—to the public.

  “I told him the first time he said he wanted to sign me as an artist. I wanted to make sure he was on the up-and-up and wasn’t trying to dangle a contract in front of me just so he could get in my pants. When he mentioned I’d be working with you, I jumped at the chance.”

  “Why?” Simone couldn’t hide her surprise. She wasn’t a household name. Yet.

  “Because I knew I could be myself with you.”

  For a brief moment, Reagan reverted into the shy girl who had appeared on Simone’s doorstep the day before. Then she smiled and Simone saw the confident young woman she’d heard on record. The one whose voice could strike a chord in any listener, reminding people of their similarities rather than pointing out their differences.

  “I admire your desire to be honest about who you are,” Simone said, “but that’s a lot of pressure to take on at twenty-two. Are you ready to be someone’s role model? There are a few openly gay R&B and hip-hop artists making music underground, but there aren’t any in the mainstream. Except for the ones who claim they’re bi or bi-curious when they’re publicity-hungry newcomers, but turn straight as an arrow once the hits start coming. Are you sure you want to be the first who stays the course?”

  Reagan sipped her iced chai tea latte. “Are you asking because you’re worried about album sales, or are you asking because you’re worried about me?”

  Simone thought of all the artists who had crumbled under the pressure of fame. Judy Garland. Janis Joplin. Jimi Hendrix. Jim Morrison. Kurt Cobain. Amy Winehouse. Whitney Houston. “I want you to be a success, not a cautionary tale.”

  “So do I. If given a choice, I’d rather do it being myself than pretending to be someone I’m not.”

  They hadn’t spent a second in the recording studio, but Simone could already tell her collaboration with Reagan would be a productive one.

  “Even though your EP won’t hit the streets for a while, we need to start getting the word out about you. I have a friend who works for a marketing company. I’ll give her a call and see if her team can meet with us next week or, better yet, she would be willing to give us some ideas for free.”

  Reagan grabbed a handful of Simone’s fries. “Is she just a friend, or are you kicking it with her?”

  “She’s dating my soon-to-be ex-boss.”

  “You like her, though, right?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You get a goofy look on your face when you talk about her.”

  “Don’t read too much into it. Goofy is my natural expression.”

  “Uh huh. Is she the reason you’re quitting your job? So you don’t have to watch her knocking boots with your boss?”

  “No.”

  Reagan leaned forward and grabbed more fries. “Then say her name without smiling.”

  Simone couldn’t even say Kenya’s name in her head without wanting to break into a grin.

  “See?” Regan pointed an accusatory French fry in her direction. “I knew she was more than a friend. What’s so special about her that you’d be willing to ignore every other woman in the world and focus on her?”

  Simone was better at writing music than lyrics because she often struggled to put her feelings into words. This time was no different. “I know it probably sounds cheesy, but she puts a song in my heart. The version of your song you like so much? She’s the one who inspired it. I came up with the music after I spent the afternoon hanging out with her.”

  “What would you do if you ever slept with her, write a whole album?”

  Simone imagined Kenya underneath her. Reaching for her. Calling her name.

  “I don’t know, but I’d love to find out.”

  *

  Simone’s text message requesting marketing tips left Kenya uncertain if she should be flattered or amused so she opted for both. She texted Simone back as she watched Mackenzie play tennis against her friend Fernanda, an interior decorator from Milan who had recently set up shop in South Beach and was rapidly building a reputation as the go-to designer in town. Fernanda’s looks were stellar, but her tennis game left much to be desired. The score was lopsided in Mackenzie’s favor, but judging by the amount of laughs spilling from both players, the score seemed inconsequential.

  “Thank you for thinking of me,” Kenya typed, “but you are aware I’m in HR not creative, aren’t you?”

  Simone’s response made her smile.

  “Dre hasn’t put enough money in the promotional budget for me to be able to afford anyone on your creative team so I thought I’d go with the next best thing.”

  “How do you know you can afford me?” she asked as Mackenzie hit a forehand winner to stretch her lead. “You haven’t heard my rates yet.”

  “So I guess you don’t accept food stamps. What if I offered you an endless supply of free drinks instead?”

  “Then I’d think you were trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me.”

  “Little old me? Perish the thought.”

  Kenya listened to Mackenzie and Fernanda banter in Italian. She couldn’t understand a word of their conversation, but it sounded sexy as hell. When Mackenzie had introduced them that morning, she’d said she hadn’t known Fernanda very long. They’d met at a party a few weeks ago and discovered they had mutual friends. Now Mackenzie was thinking of hiring her to redecorate her house in order to infuse more of her personality into the place and make it look less like a bachelor pad, a change Kenya would welcome with open arms.

  “How can I help?” she wrote.

  “Teach me how to get Reagan’s name and face in the public eye without resorting to putting up a bunch of flyers no one will pay attention to,” Simone replied.

  Kenya tried to think of what she would do if she were in Simone’s position. Learning one new job was hard enough. From the looks of it, Simone was taking on three or four. Producer, publicist, and A&R rep. Talk about padding a résumé. Simone didn’t lack for ambition, that was for sure, but was she taking on more than she could handle?

  “Use your connections,” she suggested.

  “Did you forget who you’re talking to? I’m a bartender, not a businesswoman. I don’t have any connections.”

  “Sure you do.” Networking, Kenya stressed to each new hire, was a round-the-clock activity. If handled correctly, even a trip to the grocery store could result in an addition to your personal or professional circle. “Think of how many people you come across during the course of a shift. Each is a potential music buyer.”

  “I never thought about it that way.”

  “Start. You can also ask Crystal to slip your song into her playlist at Azure or see if you can talk one of the local radio DJs into giving Reagan some air time for an in-studio or call-in interview. If you want to build an audience, help her find a recurring gig at a local performance venue and cross your fingers the crowd will become invested in her success.” Kenya was ready to buy in after listening to only one song. Or was it Simone’s success she was invested in instead of Reagan’s? “That’s all the ideas I’m willing to dish out for free. The rest are going to cost you.”

  “Thanks for the suggestions. Are you in a better mood today? You seemed down last night.”

  Down wasn’t the word for it. Kenya had felt like her personal life was falling apart all around her. Again. Funny how much better everything seemed in the light of day.

  “Yesterday was an emotional rollercoaster,” she wrote. “I hope to avoid taking a similar trip any time soon.”

  “Glad to hear everything’s okay. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Kenya wasn’t ready for the virtual chat to end, even though she couldn’t decipher the meaning of most of the emo
jis Simone had sprinkled into the conversation.

  “Are you in a hurry?” she asked. “Don’t you want to ask me any questions that aren’t marketing-related?”

  “I don’t want to keep you from Mackenzie.”

  “You aren’t.”

  “Where is she if not with you?”

  Kenya looked up in time to see Mackenzie hustle to reach a drop shot that bounced twice before she could get her racquet on the ball, costing her an opportunity to close out the match. “She’s within earshot,” she typed as Mackenzie launched into a profanity-laced tirade that proved how seriously she took even what was supposed to be a friendly competition. “Does that count?”

  “Just wanted to make sure she wasn’t looking over your shoulder. I don’t want to get fired before my last day.”

  Kenya felt a pang of melancholy at the reminder of Simone’s impending departure from Azure. And, perhaps, her life. Once Simone started concentrating on her music career, how much time—if any—would she have to devote to anything else?

  “Granted, I’ve only been to Azure a handful of times, but the place won’t be the same without you,” she wrote. “I’ll miss seeing your smiling face when I walk in. And don’t get me started on the drinks.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.”

  Kenya’s pang of melancholy bloomed into a full-fledged ache. “You make this sound like good-bye.”

  “Not when I have nine questions left.”

  Kenya felt an almost palpable sense of relief when she read the words. She valued the friendship she and Simone had forged. Simone was one of the steadiest influences in her life. She wanted to keep her around.

  “Lucky number thirteen,” Simone texted. “What are you most grateful for?”

  Kenya didn’t know how to answer the question. She wouldn’t have made it as far as she had in life without the supportive teachers, friends, and family members who had helped her achieve her goals. But how could she possibly single out just one to say she was more grateful for their assistance than the rest?

  Mackenzie hit an ace to win her match against Fernanda and jogged to the net to kiss her beaten opponent on both cheeks. Fernanda didn’t take the loss too badly, though. She and Mackenzie made a date to go over design ideas, and Fernanda said she would exact her revenge once she started sending in her invoices.

  Mackenzie gave Fernanda a playful tap on the butt with her racquet. “Next time, I’ll let you win.”

  “Ciao, Kenya,” Fernanda said with a sunny smile after she gathered her things. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “You, too.” She waited for Fernanda to leave before she said, “She’s the first of your friends who appears to like me instead of tolerating my presence for your benefit.”

  Her reception on La Dolce Vita during the White Party had been rather chilly. None of Mackenzie’s friends had made an attempt to get to know her. In fact, the only people who had spoken to her at length were Mackenzie, Celia, and Simone.

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed. With the amount of money she’ll be charging me in the coming months, Fernanda has plenty of reason to smile.” Mackenzie gave Kenya a quick kiss and drank a bottle of mineral water in one long swallow. “After I get cleaned up, I have to head to the marina for a while.”

  “Are you throwing another party today?” Kenya had to head to Orlando soon for her company’s annual corporate retreat. She was looking forward to spending a little quality time with Mackenzie before she left town for five days to supervise the various trust exercises, breakout sessions, and group outings executive management had asked her to plan to ensure the team didn’t lose either its cohesion or its creative spark.

  “No, I have a business meeting with some potential investors. I would invite you to accompany me, but the negotiations are delicate and the sight of you in a bikini would distract me too much. You’re welcome to stay here if you like. I should be back in a few hours. Now tell your BFF good-bye and come help me scrub some of the spots I can’t quite reach.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Don’t take too long, or I’ll start without you.”

  As she headed toward the house, Mackenzie shed articles of clothing like she was leaving a trail of bread crumbs behind. As Kenya began to follow the path, her cell phone vibrated in her hand, reminding her she hadn’t provided an answer to Simone’s latest question.

  “Did I stump you?” Simone’s text read.

  “I’m most grateful for second chances,” Kenya finally wrote. “And all the people who were willing to give me one.”

  Unlike hers, Simone’s response was immediate. “Before you return the favor, make sure the recipient is deserving.”

  *

  Simone didn’t like working Mondays, Tuesdays, or Wednesdays because the crowds were relatively light and the hours seemed to drag by before closing time. Thursdays were exponentially better. The crowds were larger, and most people were in a good mood because the weekend was in sight. Tonight the vibe in Azure was so festive she was tempted to check the calendar app on her phone to make sure it wasn’t a holiday.

  “Do you have any idea why we’re so slammed?” she asked Amanda as they struggled to keep up with the incoming drink orders.

  “Yeah, doofus, it’s karaoke night, remember?” Amanda swapped out an empty beer keg for a fresh one and rolled the empty one out of the way. “Every lesbian who thinks she’s the next k.d. lang or Melissa Etheridge wants to take a turn on the mic.”

  “I forgot Mackenzie decided to make karaoke a weekly event instead of a once-a-month thing.”

  “That’s one of the things that can happen when you work two jobs. You end up paying more attention to one than the other, or you wind up sucking at both. Are you sure you want to leave this gig behind?” Amanda indicated the growing crowd. “There are more women in here than even I can handle on my own.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage somehow.”

  “I always do,” Amanda said with a wink.

  In the brief time she had between customers, Simone pulled out her phone and sent Reagan a text. “If you’re not busy,” she wrote, “get over to Azure. I think I know a way to get you some free publicity.”

  “See you in ninety minutes,” Reagan wrote back. “I need time to put my face on.”

  “Make it sixty. Your face looks fine the way it is.”

  “Thanks, boss. See you in an hour.”

  Simone smiled as she put her phone away. Her smile grew even broader when Reagan showed up fifteen minutes early instead of fashionably late, saving her from having to deliver a lecture about the importance of being on time. A lecture she had received more times than she could count but had only recently decided to heed.

  “You rang?” Reagan asked. Her look was casual but attention-getting. She had paired a T-shirt that looked like a ’70s-style powder blue tuxedo with knock-off designer jeans and a pair of well-worn Doc Martens. She looked like a million bucks in an outfit that had probably cost less than two hundred dollars.

  Simone handed her a thick three-ring binder that contained the hundreds of selections programmed into the karaoke machine’s memory banks. “Pick something in your vocal range and put your name on the sign-up sheet.”

  Reagan wrinkled her nose as she flipped through the laminated pages. “You want me to sing karaoke? I’ve never even heard of some of the songs in here.”

  “How about this one?” Simone flipped to a song by Tracy Chapman, a toe-tapping bluesy number that was a complete departure from the singer-songwriter’s introspective, folk-oriented early work.

  “I can do that one.”

  “Cool. Now pick one more.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if the first performance goes as well as I think it will, you’re going to need to do an encore.”

  Reagan glanced at the sign-up sheet. “Have you seen how many names there are on this list? It’ll be forever before my turn comes around again.”

  “That’s perfect for us. If you’re the final perfo
rmer, you’ll be all everyone’s talking about on their way home. If your name starts trending on social media, the buzz will only grow from there.” Reagan stared at her wordlessly for a long moment. “What?” Simone asked when no comment appeared forthcoming.

  “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Simone said, feeling genuine excitement take root within her, “it really is.”

  She knew it was only a matter of time before some deep-pocketed exec from a major label swooped in to try to steal Reagan from Liberty City Records. Reagan was too talented to stay small-time for long. Until that day came, however, she planned to sit back and enjoy the ride.

  *

  “Check this out.”

  Kenya clicked on one of the links Simone had sent her and angled her computer monitor so Celia could see the screen. The cell phone footage wasn’t as sharp or as professionally produced as some videos that had been uploaded to the website by other users, but its raw, unedited quality only added to its authenticity. Its realness.

  “Who is she?” Celia asked as a young woman in a powder blue T-shirt put her own spin on a cover of a Tracy Chapman song.

  “Reagan Carter. The singer Simone’s going to be producing.”

  “No wonder she’s quitting bartending and switching to music. That kid’s good.”

  “Simone uploaded the video last night and it’s already had over ten thousand hits.”

  Celia looked suitably impressed. “That’s how Justin Bieber got his start. He developed a following on YouTube, a label signed him, the hits started coming, and now he’s worth two hundred million dollars. I just hope Reagan doesn’t end up egging someone’s house or wearing pants that make her look like she’s got a full diaper.”