Mya says, “Nothing like where I grew up.”
“Me either.”
She pulls into a property that’s large even for this neighborhood. A mansion, far as I can tell. She parks and cuts the engine, the Range Rover one of about twenty vehicles clogging a circular cobblestone drive that butts the house.
“Fiasco lives here?”
“Rents it,” Mya says. “March to August.”
She steps out of the Range Rover. I follow. Instead of walking in through the front door, she follows a path on the side of the house to the back. As we get close to the rear of the house, the chatter of voices and the swelling sounds of hip-hop music invade my ears.
Fiasco’s Dirty Jersey crew is everywhere. They’re on the grass, on the patio by the house, splashing in the pool. There’s a gorgeous girl every few feet. A bikini is the attire of choice for most of them. I say girl because not one looks older than twenty or twenty-one.
Mya walks past several of Fiasco’s boys, doesn’t even acknowledge them as they call out her name.
She makes a beeline for Fiasco.
I see him, close to the pool, surrounded by a bevy of bikini’d beauties.
He’s got a huge smile on his face.
I can’t say I blame him.
But the smile fades as he spots Mya hard-strutting in his direction.
Mya barks, “Who’s checking IDs?” as soon as she reaches him.
Fiasco says, “Checking IDs for what?”
“Play stupid and get the whole thing shut down. Lose everything you’ve worked so hard to build.”
Fiasco frowns, starts to reply to Mya, but then spots me. “E.P.,” he says, “you made it. You ready to be a star?”
The bikini girls eye me, wondering who I am to get such attention, I suppose. Mya does, too. She looks hurt that Fiasco tossed aside her concerns like dirty laundry. I want to shrink away. Disappear so Fiasco can resume the conversation with Mya.
Fiasco announces, “Everybody’s here. Let’s shoot ourselves a rap video.”
Everyone cheers.
Everyone except Mya. And me.
It’s closer to a movie than a rap video, though.
There’s actual dialogue, actors and actresses, a plot, the whole nine.
And it’s an exclusive situation. Very few people will ever get the opportunity to watch a video made, to see the process behind what ends up on MTV and BET. I stand in the shadows of the production. Behind me are the two big dudes from Fiasco’s warehouse, Mr. Jets and the Black Fonz. Seeing the Black Fonz again makes me nervous. I can’t help remembering him ushering those two young girls into the PRIVATE room. I can’t help feeling threatened in his presence. But I fight the feeling.
Focus on the video being shot.
Fiasco is the lead, of course. Mya’s his leading lady. They’re shooting what is supposed to be an intimate bedroom scene. Incense sticks are lit, a pleasant vanilla musk scent. Candles are burning to enhance the dim lighting.
Everything is perfect.
Or almost everything is perfect.
The usual chemistry between Fiasco and Mya in his videos is missing. Mya would rather be anywhere in the world besides this video set. You can gather that from her expression and from her lack of warmth in what is supposed to be a romantic scene.
Fiasco feeds her fruit. Carefully fingers wedges of melon and cubes of pineapple between her luscious lips. She eats with her eyes closed.
Mya open her eyes and says, “Is that cayenne pepper?”
Fiasco says, “Yes,” then stops dead in his tracks. A deep frown creases his forehead. He cocks his head to the side, does this angry thing with his lips I can’t describe. “Wait a minute. Did you say ‘cayenne pepper,’ Mya? You’re flubbing your lines now, too. I fed you fruit and you come up with ‘cayenne pepper.’ What is wrong with you, girl?”
The scene has completely broken down.
The director, a twentysomething black guy with a thick British accent, real name is Bartholomew something-or-other but everyone calls him The X-Treme, throws his hands up in frustration. He’s too dramatic for my taste. He’s more of a diva than my sister.
Fiasco says, “Mya.”
She snaps, “What?”
“Time is money, girl.”
“Ask me if I care.”
There’s a digital clock on the bedside table that reads 11:59 p.m. It’s actually a quarter past four in the afternoon. Mama will be upset if I’m not home by six or seven o’clock. I’m known to spend time after school at the library, at Benny’s, wherever, so Mama doesn’t worry about me. I don’t look for trouble and it doesn’t generally find me, either. But I’m always home before dark. If I’m not today, and that looks possible, I will have a lot of explaining to do. Mama’s been extra sensitive lately. Extra controlling. Extra demanding. Ever since our powwow in the kitchen, Mama’s been on high alert. In her words, she will not “lose one or both” of her children. With things the way they are, I can’t imagine what will await me if I walk through the front door of my house after the sun has set for the day. Still, I can’t leave. This video is my opportunity. This is my big chance.
Fiasco reaches out to Mya, takes her hands. “I need you to work with me. You know how important this project is to me.”
She shoots back, “You know how important certain things are to me, too, but did that affect your choices? I’ll answer for you. It didn’t.”
Fiasco looks over at me. I straighten my posture. Is he looking to me to rectify this situation? Have I garnered that much weight in his life?
Fiasco calls out, “Alonzo, can you keep watch on the young heads outside, make sure they stay out of trouble, since we didn’t check IDs?”
The Black Fonz, aka Alonzo, drifts away like a heavy wind.
Fiasco sighs, turns his attention back to Mya. “This project is important to me, Mya. I need it to go well. Please?”
Mya smiles; Fiasco mirrors her.
Then she says again, “Ask me if I care.”
Fiasco’s smile fades. Mya’s holds.
The X-Treme throws his head back and cries out like someone struck him with something; he has a look on his face like he ate some bad seafood. The video shoot is falling apart. Just my luck. I get invited to be in a hip-hop video, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and the whole thing is sinking like the Titanic. Just my luck.
Fiasco grinds his jaw, points an accusing finger at Mya. He says, “Girl…I swear.”
Mya says, “You want to hit me? Do it. I can handle it. I can handle anything.”
Fiasco balls his hand in a fist, pulls back his arm to throw a punch.
I hold my breath.
He’s gonna hit Mya.
More Murdaa than Fiasco, that’s what he is at the moment.
He holds the punch, though. Backs away. He moves over to a corner, pulls out his cell phone, presses it to his ear, and immediately starts in on an animated conversation with someone. Curses flow from his mouth.
The X-Treme goes over to Mya, starts talking to her. It’s obvious he’s pleading with her. Just as obvious, she’s being difficult.
It’s getting closer and closer to five. Mama will be livid if I don’t walk in the door soon. I don’t have many options. I came with Mya. I have no ride home.
I move toward her.
The X-Treme begs her not to “mash my video,” in that annoying British accent. Pretense, I bet. He’s probably from Trenton or something.
I say, “Mya?”
“Not now, Eric.”
I’m not “baby boy” when she’s angry, I guess.
“I need—”
She wheels on me. “What? You need what? What? What? What?”
I say, “Your cell phone. I have to make a call.”
She marches over to a chair and snatches up her pocketbook and fumbles it open and pulls out her cell phone and tosses the pocketbook down and marches back over to me and angrily flips the phone at me.
It bounces off my fingertips and hits the floor.
<
br /> Mya says, “Dayum,” and turns her back on me.
The X-Treme resumes his begging.
I struggle to remember numbers I rarely dial, and then the memory part of my brain fires.
I get an answer on the third ring. “Yeah,” the voice says. “Who is this?”
I say, “Kenya.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s me.”
“Eric?”
“Yeah.”
“Whose phone you calling from?”
I say, “Long story. I need a favor from you.”
“Hmm. What?”
“Can you get one of your friends to give me a ride? I need to get home before Mama flips out.”
Kenya says, “I don’t have any friends to give you a ride.”
I sigh.
She says, “Where you at?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Oh boy,” Kenya says. “What mess you in, Eric?”
“I’m supposed to be in a video.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know Fiasco?”
“The rapper?”
I say, “Yeah.”
“What about him?”
“I know him, Kenya. I met him a while back. I’m out at his place, supposed to be in his new video, but there’s a problem.”
Silence greets me on the line.
I say, “Kenya, you there?”
She says, “So it’s true? I got a text from a former friend asking me about your being cool with Fiasco. I thought it was a joke.”
News travels fast.
I say, “It’s true.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I don’t have time for explanations. “Can you help me?”
“That’s all you have to say on the matter?”
I say, “Yes.”
Kenya huffs, “Where are you at?”
I tell her all the details about the property on Crawford’s Corner Road.
She says, “I’ll get Donnell to bring me.”
“Oh, okay.” Wait a minute, hold up. “Donnell Tucker? The boy you can’t stand?”
“Yeah. And?”
“Nothing. Do you.”
Dial tone greets me.
Donnell Tucker and Kenya in the same car.
And I’m walking away from the chance of a lifetime, the opportunity to be in a video that will probably be played all over MTV and BET.
Is the world upside down or what?
“You know this beautiful young lady?”
That’s the Black Fonz. I nod in reply to his question, unable to open my mouth and speak. His presence is a dark cloud. When I look at him, all I see are those young girls being led into the PRIVATE room.
“Guess you’re good, then, young lady,” he says. “But I do have to pat you down. Security purposes, of course.”
Kenya smiles at him like she’s on a game show. She doesn’t know what I know. The Black Fonz starts at her ankles, works his way up, lingers too long for my taste at her hips. He grazes over her upper body pretty quickly and then straightens. “You’re good.”
Kenya says, “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you.”
Again, Kenya smiles.
The Black Fonz leaves us be. We’re just around the corner of the house, on the edge of the backyard. There are a few hangers-on still outside, but most everyone is in the house for the video shoot. I left, came outside after the drama between Fiasco and Mya unfolded. I care for them both. I hated to witness their meltdown.
Kenya grips my arm. “This place is off the chains.”
I nod. “It’s very nice.”
Her grip tightens on my arm. “Where’s Fiasco?”
“Inside, I believe.”
“Take me.”
I say, “We need to get home.”
Kenya bats her eyes, gives me a hug and rests her head on my shoulder. “Please.” She must think I’m Donnell Tucker.
I want to go. I don’t want to disappoint or upset Mama. I say, “Donnell brought you?”
Kenya removes her head from my shoulder. A big smile graces her face. I’ve never seen her happier. “Yeah. Ain’t that crazy?”
“What happened with you two?”
Kenya shrugs. “I stopped running.”
“Where’s he at?”
She frowns, says, “Out front waiting in his car.”
I say, “He—”
Kenya cuts me off with, “Stop playing, Eric. I want to meet Fiasco. Please.”
She says it with such passion, such desperation. For once I’m what she needs. I say, “Follow me.”
I lead her inside. Take her to the bedroom. Fiasco isn’t there. Mya, either. The X-Treme is sitting in his director’s chair, swilling a Mug root beer like it’s a Heineken. I ask him, “Where’s Denzel?”
He looks up at me. His eyes are red. I suspect he’s been crying. He looks at Kenya, then me again. Confusion is all over his face. He asks, “Who? Denzel?”
I say, “Fiasco, the leading man.”
The X-Treme sniffs. Motions toward the other side of the house. He’s back drowning his sorrows in the twenty-ounce bottle of Mug before I can ask another question. I leave him be, head in the direction he pointed me. Kenya’s on my heels like a puppy.
Glass doors lead to an outside patio I hadn’t noticed before. I see Fiasco out there by himself. I slide the door open, usher Kenya through first, and then step out myself. I close the door behind me. Fiasco has his back to us. He doesn’t turn around to see who’s invading his space.
I say, “Fiasco?”
He grunts in answer but still doesn’t turn around.
“Like you to meet my sister.”
At that he finally turns, slowly. His eyes are red like The X-Treme’s. To my surprise, a white plume of smoke circles Fiasco’s head. My first thought is he’s been smoking weed, but then I notice the brown-on-white two-tone of his cigarette, the green and white box of Newports clutched in his hand.
I say, “Didn’t know you smoked.”
He says, “I didn’t know it, either,” then drops his cigarette and stomps it out. A ready smile comes to his face. He moves to Kenya, a hand outstretched. “I didn’t know E.P. had such a pretty sister. You a straight banger, ma.”
If Kenya was Christina Aguilera, her cheeks would be fire-engine red. She says, “Yeah, I’m a…I’m…I’m E.P.’s older sister.”
“Y’all close?”
Kenya says, “Tighter than Wayne and Birdman.”
Fiasco chuckles. “Aiight, now. You like hip-hop, too?”
Kenya says, “Fo’ sho’.”
My mouth drops open. Kenya hates rap.
Fiasco says, “Your brother here is a rap aficionado. Even knows stuff from before his time.”
Kenya nods. “He’s a Wikipedia entry when it comes to rappers. Ask him anything about hip-hop and he’s got an answer. I love that.”
I say, “Now, Kenya.”
She ice grills me. I keep my mouth shut. She cooks pancakes on Saturday mornings, per our Mama, and I don’t want anything other than the occasional chocolate chip added to the buttermilk batter.
Fiasco says, “I had a scene in the video for Eric, but I hear he’s leaving.”
Kenya says, “Yeah.”
Fiasco frowns. “That’s too bad. I could have worked you in as an extra, Kenya.”
Kenya looks at me. “I’ll handle Mama. We’re staying.”
My twin has spoken.
Fiasco says, “This video gonna revolutionize the game.”
It’s been a good shoot thus far, even with the absence of Mya. Fiasco used a different girl, obviously not as pretty as the Black-Korean bombshell, as a fill-in. And Kenya got to strut her stuff in the background for a ten-second pool scene.
I say, “It’s tight. It’s something the young heads need to see. Love enduring. Everybody’s afraid to love nowadays, all you see is ice grills and hate. That’s it.” I talk so much cooler when I’m around Fiasco. And it comes out so naturally
. It’s amazing how much positive influence he has over me.
Fiasco nods at my little speech, yells to The X-Treme, “Aiight, let’s get the B-side flowing. Bring in the gangstas, Mr. Director.” Fiasco’s excitement is palpable. He half sings, “It’s Murdaa.”
The X-Treme directs somebody else to bring in the gangstas.
Fiasco says, “You ready, E.P.?”
“What’s going on?”
Fiasco says, “I came up with the idea to do a promotional video with both my projects on it. A combo platter with both Fiasco and Murdaa.”
I say, “What?”
Fiasco nods. “And you, son, are gonna represent for the Murdaa part. I’m gonna get your street cred up, too.”
I say, “What? What I’m gonna do?”
Fiasco smiles, says, “You’re gonna be a gangsta, son.”
I’m too surprised to speak.
“I can’t be a gangsta, Fiasco. I don’t know how.”
He touches my shoulder. “You can and you will.”
A young lady comes over as if on cue, hands me a bandanna and a tire iron. There’s another girl with her. The other girl hands her a pair of baggy jeans and a white tee. She then hands me those items as well. It takes two to get anything done on set. I’ve learned that today during my brief introduction to Hollywood.
I look at the items in my hands for some time. What do I do with them?
Fiasco says, “Get changed, E.P.”
I manage, “What?”
Fiasco says, “Tie the bandanna around your head. Juelz Santana style.”
“Gonna need help with that.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
I say, “I’m a little rusty tying bandannas.”
Fiasco directs the girl who handed me the items to come back over. He tells her, “Thug my boy out.”
She takes me to a dressing area. At her direction I step behind a partition and slide on the jeans, ease into the white tee. Dressed, I come back out with the bandanna still in my hand. She ties it on my head, adjusts it, then stands back to look me over. She says, “Untuck your chain, and let it hang low to your chest.”
I do as she says.
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