Platinum

by Aliya S. King

  The service, fiercely guarded by a private security detail, opened with a poem read by Beth Saddlebrook. Mrs. Saddlebrook is married to Isaac “Z” Saddlebrook, a rap singer who is currently enjoying a resurgence in popularity with a verse he contributed to Kipenzi Hill’s latest song. Ironically, the song, “So Long,” was meant to be a farewell. Ms. Hill recently announced her retirement from the music industry. The single was the first and last from a final album, a greatest-hits collection.

  Mrs. Saddlebrook, who recently gave birth, had to be helped up to a small podium by her husband and her oldest son. She cried briefly before unfolding a paper handed to her by Ian Peterson, Ms. Hill’s longtime personal assistant, and reading a message left by the deceased: “As you watch me enter this new phase in my life, please treat this show like you would any other. Applaud me! Rejoice! Just because I’m retiring doesn’t mean I don’t like to make an entrance.”

  Ms. Hill is survived by her parents, who managed her career since its inception. Ms. Hill recently married her longtime boyfriend, rapper Jacob “Jake” Giles.

  Mr. Giles, along with Mr. Saddlebrook, Mr. Peterson, and Ms. Hill’s father, John Hill, carried Ms. Hill’s white casket to a section at the far right of the burial plot. The foursome dropped to their knees to settle the coffin into the ground. The men, all dressed in white, used their hands to drop mounds of dirt to cover the coffin. After ten minutes, they were joined by the remainder of the guests. For one hour, the ten people in attendance transferred dirt. The rain came down heavier, turning the dirt into a thick, heavy mud. By the time Ms. Hill’s casket was completely covered, the attendants were covered in caked-on mud. Just a few feet away from where Ms. Hill was buried, the small group sat on the ground, crying and embracing each other. They left as a group. The groundskeepers followed, finishing the job.

  Ms. Hill’s gravestone is inscribed with her full name, Kipenzi Joy Hill-Giles, and her date of birth and date of death.

  ALEX RAN UP THE STEPS OF BROOKLYN BOROUGH HALL AS FAST AS she could with Tweet on her hip. “How can I be late for my own wedding?” she said to Tweet.

  Tweet shrugged and laughed. “What if my dad marries someone else ’cause you’re late?”

  “Imagine that,” Alex said, swinging open the door and dashing over to the elevators leading up to the judge’s chambers.

  “Alex?”

  Alex, having just gotten into the elevator, turned around to see Cleo Wright coming down a staircase surrounded by three men in suits.

  “Cleo, I can’t talk to you right now,” Alex said, stabbing the number seven on the elevator pad.

  Cleo nodded at the men, shook hands quickly with one of them, and then ran over to the elevator and put her hand out just before the doors closed. Alex rolled her eyes and stepped as far away from Cleo as possible.

  “Why are you here?” Cleo asked.

  Alex shifted Tweet’s weight on her hips. “I’m getting married today. Want to be my maid of honor?”

  “Oh, wow. Congratulations, Alex. I mean that.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “The book will be out soon.”

  Alex looked up at the numbers, waiting for the number seven to light up. “I heard,” said Alex. “You’re already number three on Amazon for preorders.”

  “You’re still getting royalties, even though you took your name off the book.”

  Alex smiled with her mouth closed. “Thanks.”

  “I was wrong, Alex.”

  Alex kept her eyes on the number pad and raised one eyebrow.

  “This book,” Cleo said. “It’s all wrong.”

  The elevator doors opened and Alex put Tweet down and held her hand firmly. She looked back at Cleo. “Did you realize that before or after Kipenzi died?”

  “After.”

  “Your sales are going through the roof now,” Alex said. “You talk about what you did or didn’t do with her husband and her husband’s best friend. Even the boyfriend of the reporter writing the book! It’s all very salacious.”

  Cleo took a box out of her carryall and handed it to Alex. “I changed it. A lot. Toned it down. The one in stores next week is softened up a bit. This is the real one. All real names. All true. Only copy that exists.”

  “Is this the version that they found at Kipenzi’s crash site?” Alex said, holding up the box.

  Cleo nodded. “The idea that she might have died reading about …” She dropped her head and put a hand to her mouth. “It’s not right,” she said.

  “It was never right,” Alex said.

  “I know.”

  “Cleo, I have to go get married now. My bridesmaid is getting a bit antsy,” Alex said, holding up Tweet’s hand. Alex held onto the box with one hand and led Tweet into the judge’s chambers with the other.

  “The truth is in there,” Cleo said as she got back on the elevator. “About me and Birdie. And you too. If you want to know.”

  Without speaking, Alex let the glass door of the office close behind her.

  “AND BY THE POWER VESTED IN ME BY THE STATE OF NEW YORK, I NOW pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Washington, you may now salute your bride.”

  Birdie picked Tweet up. They both leaned over and kissed Alex on each cheek at the same time.

  “Where’s the honeymoon?” the judge asked, going back to his desk.

  “On our front stoop in Brooklyn,” Birdie said. “We’re on a budget.”

  “You can at least do a nice dinner.”

  “We have something to take care of first,” said Alex, looking at Birdie.

  Birdie tilted his head. “What’s up?”

  Alex turned to the judge. “Do you have a shredder?”

  “In the front hall, in the copy room.”

  Alex grabbed her bag and ushered Birdie and Tweet into the copy room.

  “Tweet, have you ever used a shredder?”

  The little girl shook her head solemnly.

  “It’s fun. But you have to be very, very careful. See, look. You put a piece of paper right here at the top.”

  The dull roar of the shredder made Tweet jump and then laugh. “Let me do it again!” she said.

  “We’re all gonna do it,” Alex said. She handed the top half of the manuscript to Birdie, who scanned the title page and then looked directly at his new wife. “Did you read this?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “No.”

  Birdie looked at Alex for a long moment. “We can talk about this.”

  “Shred,” Alex said.

  It took twenty minutes to shred all five hundred pages. When they were done, they emptied the plastic container filled with the confettilike scraps and put them inside a clear plastic garbage bag. Alex held the bag over her shoulder as if she were a hobo. On their way out, Alex tossed the bag into a garbage can on the corner of Joralemon and Court streets.

  Birdie and Alex walked to Junior’s and shared a slice of cheesecake with Tweet. That night, Tweet’s mother picked Tweet up for the weekend. And Birdie and Alex folded themselves into bed and watched television until the sun came peeking through for a sunny May morning. When the sun was completely overhead, Birdie got out of bed to draw all the curtains and returned to his wife.

  CLEO SAT ON THE FLOOR OF THE LIVING ROOM OF HER NEW HOME. The movers had brought the last of the boxes inside hours ago.

  Seven bedrooms. Six full bathrooms. One half bathroom. An interior designer would be there in the morning to fulfill her vision and cater to her every whim. A full-time housekeeper was scheduled to begin before she’d even have a chance to get the place dirty.

  Cleo’s new home was nestled at the top of a hill in central Jersey. She’d envisioned a farm with lots of land in northern New Jersey, a place where she could raise livestock and ride horses. Instead she was in a gated community with twenty-four-hour armed security. The death threats had begun pouring in to her publisher as soon as Platinum hit number one on the New York Times Best Sellers list. She’d gone into hiding for t
hree weeks, hunting for homes online. She’d closed on the house sight unseen and had movers pack up all her belongings.

  Cleo flipped through the contacts in her phone and stopped at Ras Bennett. She hit dial.

  “Yes?”

  “Ras?”

  “You have the wrong number.”

  Cleo pulled back the phone to make sure she had dialed correctly. She had. She hung up and called the studio.

  “He doesn’t work out of here anymore,” the receptionist said, before hanging up.

  Cleo called the secret landline Ras had installed in the cabana by the pool. It had been disconnected.

  Ras? Where are you?

  Cleo went out to her backyard and sat on the steps that led down to the swimming pool. She called every one of Ras’s contacts. She either got voice mail or the number was disconnected. Finally Jean, his driver, picked up the phone in his Town Car.

  “Where’s Ras?”

  “Jamaica.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “He’s not. Moved the family there last week.”

  “That’s impossible. I just saw him a few weeks ago. He never said anything to me about moving.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Thank you,” Cleo said.

  Cleo settled herself on the floor of her dining room with a stack of her books and a pen. She scribbled messages in each, stuffed them in padded envelopes, and then set them aside to be mailed out. She reached for a copy and opened it to the title page: “Dear Mommy: Here’s how I turned out. Make sure you show everyone at church. Love, Patricia.” She inscribed a copy to Ras: “Thank you for encouraging me to tell my story. I love you. Love, Marasa.”

  The doorbell rang. Cleo grabbed her stack of books and rushed through the kitchen, dining room, recreation room, and sitting room to get to the front door. He’s here.

  It was a deliveryman with an oversized package. “Be careful. It’s heavy.”

  Cleo gave the mailman the books to send out and then signed for her package. She dragged the enormous parcel into her living room and ripped the paper off. It was a ten-by-twelve replication of her book cover, the letters Platinum spelled out high. She had to get on tiptoe to touch the raised foil lettering at the very top. At the bottom was a metal plate. A re-creation of the issue of the New York Times in which her book was number one was centered. The inscription: “In recognition of your accomplishments. Here’s to the sequel! Your friends at Simonstein Publishing.”

  Cleo went to her bare kitchen. In the refrigerator was just a bag of oranges and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She took the bottle and two champagne glasses and walked back to her dining room and slid down to the floor, crossing her legs. She pushed one glass away from her, as if someone were there to take it. She poured each glass to the rim, raised hers to no one, and whispered, “Cheers.”

  She drained her glass. And then reached over to take the other glass and drank that one as well.

  Her head swimming, she sat in silence, pouring and sipping her champagne. She stared at the reproduction of her book cover until her eyes blurred over.

  An hour later, she was still sipping and deep in thought. The only sound in the house was her phone opening and clicking closed again as she fiddled with it in her hand.

  She went to the last letter in the alphabet and pressed talk. A man’s groggy voice answered the phone. In the background she could hear the sound of a baby crying.

  “Come over,” she said.

  “What you got over there?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Text me your address and give me an hour.”

  Cleo hung up. Texted her address. And then went to her bedroom and took out a half ounce of crack cocaine, five ecstasy pills, and a twenty bag of weed from her dresser. That would be enough to get him through the weekend.

  Cleo stayed on the floor, pouring and sipping her champagne. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, waiting for the doorbell to ring.

  ALEX SAT ON HER FRONT STOOP, TWEET SITTING ON THE STEP below her. She was making dozens of two-strand twists that she put in Tweet’s hair every Sunday. Every so often she’d shield her eyes from the sun and peer down the street, looking for her husband and his modified pimp strut to come down DeKalb Avenue. Birdie was meeting with Jake about signing to the label and her stomach was churning.

  “I see Daddy!” Tweet exclaimed, half standing.

  “Okay, calm down,” said Alex, kissing her on the cheek. “Sit.”

  Birdie walked down a few steps to the mailbox, gathered the mail, and then came up to the steps.

  “My two favorite women,” said Birdie, leaning over to kiss Tweet on the cheek.

  Alex closed her eyes and lifted her face. Her husband cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her softly on the lips. “Would you still love me if I was rich and famous?” Birdie asked.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  Birdie pulled a sheaf of papers out of his knapsack.

  Alex flipped through the first few pages and then stood up, nearly knocking Tweet off the stoop. “This is a contract. From Jake.”

  Birdie bowed. “Consider me officially a proud sellout with a six-figure advance.”

  Alex clasped her hands over her mouth. She leaned in to hug Birdie.

  Birdie sat next to Alex as she continued to work on Tweet’s hair.

  “So when are you gonna start changing?” Alex asked.

  “Never.”

  “You’re not gonna wear shades at night, in the club?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Who’s gonna be in your crew?”

  “You and Tweet.”

  “We don’t make much of an entourage.”

  “I want you to stop writing.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Just for a little bit. Take yoga. That painting class. You supported us for long enough. Can you please take a year off to do anything you want? No deadlines. No editors. No crazy groupie stories. No travel. Just be with me. Give Tweet a sibling.”

  Alex smiled. She finished Tweet’s last twist and the little girl ran next door to look for a friend. Alex leaned onto Birdie’s shoulder.

  “What else we got,” she said, pointing to the random letters and packages in the pile of mail.

  “Bills I can actually pay!” said Birdie, making a pile. “And yet another cover story for Alex Sampson Maxwell.” She pulled out a new copy of Vibe. A black-and-white picture of Kipenzi graced the cover. There were no cover tags, simply the word Vibe behind her and the date of her birth and death at the bottom.

  “It was supposed to be about all the wives, not just Kipenzi,” Alex said.

  “Death changes things.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Something else for you,” Birdie said, handing over a parcel.

  Alex frowned as soon as she saw the return address. “It’s from Cleo. I don’t want it.”

  “Open it.”

  Alex moved over, as if the book could bite her. “No.”

  “I’ll open it,” Birdie said, peeling back the brown wrapper. “It’s the book. Just a copy of the book.”

  Birdie handed it over and Alex took it. The black background of the cover was striking. Every time she got on the subway, there were at least three or four girls with their heads buried in the book she had written. It was a strange sensation. Even though Cleo was unscrupulous, vindictive, and evil, Alex was still proud of the narrative she had been able to put together.

  “How’s it start?” Birdie asked, leaning back, his head to the sky, eyes closed.

  Alex cleared her throat and turned to the first page:

  Being with me is an honor. I’m not a commoner. And contrary to popular belief, I don’t have sex with everyone. If you’ve been with me, you’ve achieved something. I’m a benchmark. Like going platinum.

  Alex rolled her eyes and thumbed through the book. “I can’t,” she said. “Can’t read another word. I’ll be sick.”

  Birdie leaned over. �
��What’s this?” he said, turning the pages to the inside front cover.

  “Oh God,” Alex said, pressing the book back into Birdie’s hands. “She left me a message.”

  “Want me to read it to you?”

  “No.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Alex tried not to look as Birdie’s lips moved. His face was stricken.

  “You should probably read this.”

  Alex took the book, opened it, and placed it on her lap.

  Alex, thank you so much for helping me get my story down. Good luck to Birdie with his deal. I talked him up to a few important people so I think that might have helped. ;) Not sure how deep you’re going to be in the writing game. But I have a story for you.

  You should ask Ras about that baby he adopted. There’s a good story there. And if I know you the way I think I do, you won’t be able to resist finding out the truth. You can thank me later.

  C

  Alex looked up at Birdie.

  “You’re taking a year off,” Birdie said. Alex opened her mouth to speak and he shook his head. “No, Alex.”

  Alex looked back down at the book and read the words again. And then once more. She closed the book, clutched it to her chest, and nestled closer to Birdie.

  “A year off?” Alex whispered, leaning into her husband’s chest. “Maybe …”

  Acknowledgments

  This novel was born out of a story written for VIBE several years ago. Many thanks to Serena Kim for assigning the story to me and always helping me to do my best work.

  My agent, Ryan Fischer-Harbage, planted the seed for this novel. I can’t thank him enough for the idea and for pushing me to complete it. In ways both professional and personal, Ryan has been in my corner since we sat next to each other at the Radcliffe Publishing Course in 1998. Who knew?

  Sulay Hernandez: my editor. I’m in good hands with you. And I’m grateful. I look forward to more books together. And be prepared to let me rock with a thoroughly flowery and literary title. Unless, of course, this book lands on a few best seller lists. If that happens, you can name the next one Diamond Life and I won’t bat an eye.