by Nikki Carter
Dreya and Evan have, I guess, decided to let the world know about their romance. The two of them are completely embarrassing. I don’t think the second row at the Grammys is the place to make out. I know the show hasn’t started yet, but my insides cringe with each slurping sound.
Big D, Shelly, Dilly, and Bethany are seated a row behind us, and there are chairs marked for Mystique and Zac in the front row. The only one missing from Big D’s original crew is rapper Truth. According to the bloggers, since he was not nominated for any Grammys, nor was he asked to perform, he was staging his own personal boycott of the show. I’m not sure if anyone even cares.
Mystique’s entrance into the auditorium is an event in and of itself. She’s wearing a fitted silver gown that glimmers and clings in all the right places. Zac is debonair in his tuxedo, but he has on sunglasses inside. It really annoys me when people do that.
“Mystique looks incredible,” DeShawn whispers. “If she wasn’t with Zac, I would so try to holler at her.”
“What! I thought you were trying to get with me!”
DeShawn laughs out loud. “So, when I tell you I want to get with you, the answer is no, but you’re still jealous of another chick? How’s that work?”
“That’s how girls are,” I say. “We’re pretty selfish.”
“I’ll tell you a secret. Guys are pretty selfish too. I think we might be worse than y’all.”
Sam grunts under his breath. I wonder if he wants to contribute anything to my conversation with DeShawn. I’m sure he could shed lots of light on guys being selfish. Outside of Dreya, Sam has to be the most selfish person I know.
I lean forward and look down the aisle to get Dreya’s attention when she comes up for air from Evan’s vacuum lips. When she finally looks up, I mouth the words, Good luck. She smiles and winks at me, but doesn’t wish it back. I know Dreya, so this is good enough. She doesn’t really want me to win the Best New Artist Award, but I think she’ll be okay with it if I do.
Mystique turns around and smiles, “You look gorgeous, Sunday. Where did you get that vintage Versace dress?”
“Evan sent a stylist for me.”
She lifts an eyebrow and bites her heavily lipsticked lips. “He did?”
“Yeah. I think she was from New York.”
“He’s pulling out all the stops, huh? Good luck on your categories.”
“Good luck to you also.” Mystique is nominated for Best R & B Performance and Album of the Year. She’s expected to win them both, since the competition this year is not really that strong. Mystique pats Sam on the knee affectionately before she turns back around in her seat.
Over the next hour, we watch everyone who’s anyone in the music industry walk in and take seats. The positions of the seats let you know how relevant each person is in the industry right now. With the front-and-center seating of the Reign Records crew, I guess we’re some of the most important in the building—not bad for a bunch of kids from Lithonia.
About a third of the way through the show, they announce the Best New Artist award. In fact, I’m backstage preparing for my performance when they announce the winner, a country artist named Shay Graham. I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath until I exhale. I also realize how much I wanted to win. I blink back a tear as I watch Shay accept her award from backstage.
My reaction to losing is nothing like Dreya’s. She had stood from her seat as if she was anticipating them calling her name. The camera captures her shocked and angry reaction, her mouthing the word What?, and Evan pulling her back down to her seat. The whole exchange is only a few seconds long, but etched into history.
I have no choice but to shake off my disappointment, because it’s time for me to sing. Prior to the show, Big D and Evan tried to convince me to use a vocal track, just in case anything went wrong with the performance, but I was totally against it. I want every performance to be one-hundred-percent me singing. If I ever get to the point where my voice doesn’t sound good on stage, I’m throwing in the towel. I refuse to be a studio creation.
Dilly and Bethany introduce me for the performance. It makes me laugh that the two of them have to have fake, jokey banter on stage when they are exes. At least they have a better relationship than me and Sam.
Once I’m on stage in my fitted blue minidress, I sing my heart out. “The Highlight” is probably my favorite song off the record, but I’ve added some extra embellishments for this show. I have the band stop playing on the last note, so that I can hit it a cappella. The note is so high and so clear that when I stop singing there is a huge pause, as if everyone in the room has sucked in their breath. But after the pause, the applause is incredibly and thunderously loud.
Everyone is clapping, but for some reason, I focus in on Sam, who is on his feet clapping and whistling like he doesn’t have any sense. DeShawn is standing too, but Sam’s reaction is straight-up foolish.
I don’t start calming down until I’m back in my seat and next to DeShawn. He gives me a one-armed hug when I sit, and Big D pats me on my back.
“Great job,” Big D says.
DeShawn whispers, “You were incredible.”
Sam says nothing, but I do catch him glancing at me a couple of times out of the corner of his eye. It’s a shame that we’ve deteriorated to the point where he can’t even tell me that he liked my performance.
They get to the Song of the Year award, and I don’t even feel myself get nervous again. I don’t expect to win in this category—I never did. There are too many songwriting veterans in the mix this year. My best chance of winning my first Grammy was in the Best New Artist category. I’m so relaxed that my shoes are kicked off in front of me. I get my hands ready to clap for whoever the winner will be.
Then, KeKe Palmer and Justin Bieber say, “And the winner is ‘Can U See Me.’ ”
Oh my goodness! Am I in the cotton-picking Twilight Zone or something? I jump up from my seat, and Sam starts pulling me to the stage, but then I realize I’m not wearing shoes! I snatch away from Sam and run back to my seat to put my shoes on. Everyone in the crowd seems to think this is funny, and even though I’m super embarrassed, I have to laugh too.
Sam waits for me to get on stage before he starts saying his thank-yous, so I dash up the stairs holding up my dress like I’m Cinderella racing back home before the clock strikes midnight.
When I get up to the podium, I pick up the Grammy and look at it. Then I look at the audience and say, “For real? Song of the year? I so didn’t expect this award, so y’all know I don’t have a speech prepared. I do know that I need to thank God, my mama, and everybody in the Reign Records crew, Evan, Big D, Drama, Dilly, and Bethany. All of y’all. I want to thank all of my friends at Spelman for keeping me grounded. Of course, I can’t forget my mentor, Mystique. And I have the best songwriting partner on the planet!”
I move out of the way and let Sam step to the microphone. “Um, I’m shocked at this award too, but Grammy committee, thank you very much. I’d like to thank my mother, and um . . . I want to thank you, Sunday. You are my muse.”
Except for the rapid blinking of my eyes, my body is frozen in place with shock. Is he serious with this? I’m his muse? He is so being Captain Uncomfortable right now, because I don’t even know how I should react to this.
So, I give him a half smile and rush off the stage, holding the Grammy. I hear Sam’s steps behind me, and I hear him whispering my name, but I don’t want to stop. But of course, I have to stop and do the press room interviews that you do after winning an award. This halts my escape from Sam and his unchecked, embarrassing emotions.
“Sunday’s your muse?” I could choke this reporter right now. Why would that be the first question she asked?
Sam smiles and nods. “She is. Before I met her, my songs were just okay, but the day she walked into our studio and told Truth his song wasn’t tight, I was taken by her. We’ve created some beautiful music together.”
“How do you feel about that, Sunday? Is Sam your
muse too?”
Grrr! I clench and unclench my fists at my sides and give her the fakest smile ever. “Sam is the best songwriting partner I could’ve dreamed of having. He totally rocks.”
“What’s next for the two of you? Any projects in the works?”
Sam says, “We’ve got several Reign Records projects. Bethany’s album drops in the spring, and we’re currently in the studio with Drama on her sophomore release. Then, we’ll get to work on another Sunday Tolliver album.”
“Wow, that’s a lot,” the reporter says. “How in the world do you have time for school work?”
“It’s challenging,” I say. “Right now I have a paper I need to write by Tuesday, so ask me when I get my grades if I’m handling it well.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” the reporter says. She nods to the cameraman, signaling that she’s done.
When I see Sam opening his mouth to say something to me, I make a mad dash toward the exit. I need to get back over to DeShawn before Sam tries to declare his love for me again. I’m not trying to hear that tonight.
“You aren’t even gonna congratulate me?” Sam asks.
I stop and turn toward Sam. His jaw hangs open, giving him a surprised look. “Congratulations.”
“You said that like you meant it,” Sam replies sarcastically.
“What do you want me to do, Sam? Jump up and down and give you a hug? It’s not going down like that.”
I spin on one very high and pointy heel, and this time I make it to the exit with no further interruptions. I don’t know if Sam is in shock or if he’s given up, but it doesn’t matter which, as long as he leaves me alone with my thoughts.
I emerge from the press room to another backstage area. Mystique is back here—waiting to present an award with Zac. She holds out both arms and squeezes her hands in a hugging gesture. I walk into her embrace and return it with one of my own.
“You should’ve gotten Best New Artist too, but I think they frown upon giving multiple Grammy wins to someone so freshly in the business. It’s almost like someone doesn’t think you’ve finished paying your dues.” Mystique says this in such a nonchalant manner that you’d think she just said, “I made you some grilled cheese.”
“It’s all right. I’ll take the one win! I’m thrilled about it, dues or no dues.”
Zac smiles and hugs me too. “You and Sam are brilliant. It was only a matter of time before someone recognized it.”
“I saw it from day one!” Mystique says. “They’re going to be in the business for a long time, Zac, probably even after we retire.”
“I’m never retiring. I’ll be a hundred years old, wearing some jeans and sneakers and holding a mic in my hand. And I’ll take out every emcee in my path, just like I was twenty-five years old.” Zac throws his head back and cackles at his own comment, like the very thought of his retirement tickles him.
Mystique shakes her head. “Anyway. Congratulations, girl. Are you going to the Epsilon Records after-party?”
I nod my head. “Of course.”
“Good. Then, we’ll toast your success later on.”
Unfortunately, I’ve been made to feel that the Epsilon Records after-Grammy party is mandatory, and that I really don’t have any other choice but to attend. I’d much rather be back on campus finishing my paper!
Zac says, “You and Sam looked good together on stage. You need to go ahead and drop that lame and get back with my homeboy.”
“DeShawn is not a lame.”
“Dude is a male video vixen. Do you see any rappers bringing the chicks from their videos on the red carpet? That’s not a good look for you, Sunday. Step your game up.”
And by stepping my game up does he mean that I should ham it up on the red carpet with my cheating, weed smoking ex-boyfriend? That’s a good look?
“DeShawn is cool people, but I expect you to defend your homeboy,” I say. “Maybe next time you’ll pull his collar before he cheats on his girlfriend.”
“Sam’s his own man.”
And obviously, I’m my own woman. At some point, these men trying to run my life are going to recognize it.
“See y’all at the party!” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand.
12
The Epsilon Records Grammy after-party is crunk as what! So crunk that I stop wishing I was back at the dorm doing homework as soon as I step inside. They really pulled out all the stops on this one. It makes their American Music Awards party look like a straight-up fail.
“Dance with me!” Dreya squeals as she pulls me away from DeShawn. She’s in a good mood, and clearly that mood is induced by whatever alcoholic beverage she has in her hand.
I follow Dreya to the middle of the packed dance floor. The song playing is a rock track off of one of Epsilon’s Grammy winners. Dreya closes her eyes and sways to the music, and I do the same except I keep my eyes open and scan the room.
Everyone from the Reign Records crew is in the house. It looks like DeShawn and I were the last to arrive, but I stayed after the show and signed autographs outside the Shrine Auditorium with Mystique. She said that loyal fans were made by doing things like that and not by showing up at parties.
I check out Big D and Shelly as they sit at a booth in the corner. Big D looks uncomfortable squeezing his massive belly into the small space, but Shelly looks downright evil. Her arms are folded across her chest and her lips are poked out.
“What’s wrong with Shelly?” I ask Dreya over the loud, bumping music.
“I don’t know,” Dreya says in a slur. “Big D prolly did what he always does—holla at some random chick. Shelly’s stupid for staying with him.”
“I have no idea why she puts up with him.”
Dreya laughs. “Really, you have no idea. Girl, bye. It’s about the dollar bills.”
“I guess you would know, huh.”
“I ain’t even in that category, playa. Evan is fine, he’s rich, and he works out.”
Dreya takes another swig off her beverage, closes her eyes again, and goes back to dancing. She looks like she’s having a good time, but I wonder how many girls Evan has hit on this evening.
The song finishes and another one starts, this time one of Zac the Zillionaire’s cuts. Since Dreya’s eyes are still closed as she drops down low and sweeps the floor with her behind, I leave her to her dancing.
I narrow my eyes and look around the room at the small clusters of people next to the bar, and then at the larger groups seated at and on tables. Finally, I see who I’m looking for—DeShawn.
He’s holding up the wall and gazing in my direction. When he sees me looking at him he smiles and waves. He’s still wearing his tuxedo, but he’s taken off his bow tie, and has unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. He looks like the cover of a magazine, but then he always does. He’s perfect. Too perfect. But tonight, he’s all that I’m working with. I start to walk toward him, but he rushes to meet me.
“You a’ight?” DeShawn asks as he leads me to the dance floor.
I nod. “Dreya is intoxicated. She was getting on my nerves.”
“No one told her that underage drinking is bad?”
I laugh. “No, DeShawn. She was absent that day of school. Or maybe she was cutting class.”
“At least she isn’t driving.”
“You sure know how to look on the bright side, DeShawn. I soooo love that about you.”
He takes one of my hands and spins me around. “Dance with me, Sunday! Stop being so serious.”
“Can we go?” I ask DeShawn.
“Yeah, but where are we going?”
I shrug. “Let’s catch a cab to Roscoe’s and get some chicken and waffles. I’m so over this.”
“You want to tell anyone we’re leaving?” DeShawn asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’m grown. I don’t answer to any of them.”
DeShawn bites his lip in thought. “I think it would be better if we mention it to someone. Big D, maybe? Just in case something happens. . . .�
�
“Tell whoever you want. I’ll be by the door and ready to go.”
I storm off the dance floor and for a split second I think of leaving DeShawn too. I don’t want to tell Big D anything.
Right before my escape, DeShawn jogs back over to me. “Okay, girl, let’s go get our grub on.”
I say nothing as I let DeShawn open the door to the club, and talk to a limo driver out front.
“I said let’s get a cab,” I fuss.
DeShawn says, “This is easier and free.”
“Yeah, and as soon as we pull up, the paparazzi are gonna start snapping pictures. Let’s be a little bit more low key than that.”
DeShawn sighs, and talks to the limo driver again. Then he turns back to me and says, “The limo driver says that the paparazzi are out tonight anyway because of the Grammys. He says you don’t want to get snapped stepping out of a cab.”
I shake my head and climb into the limo, since apparently DeShawn is gonna run this into the ground. I just want some fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and a waffle. Maybe some greens too. I keep hearing about this Roscoe’s place, so I need to stack it up against Busy Bee’s in Atlanta.
“Let’s go!” I yell out the window while DeShawn is still talking to the driver. “I’m hungry!”
DeShawn climbs into the limo and slides over so that he’s next to me. “You are sure impatient tonight, Sunday. You up here barking orders and stuff like you’re a diva or something.”
“I just have to get away from them, DeShawn! They are driving me bonkers, and I haven’t had anything good to eat lately. Mystique has had me eating nasty little sour pieces of lettuce, and I need some soul food.”
“My mother says you can fix the world’s problems with good food.”
I nod emphatically. “Your mother is right.”
“What are you tripping on?” DeShawn asks.
“I don’t know. Well, Sam got on my nerves tonight at the show. That ‘she’s my muse’ crap was so played out, and not even fair. Now, to the world, he looks like the sweet and romantic boyfriend that I totally dissed. When I know the truth! He’s the wretched and lying ex-boyfriend. He’s the cheating and weed-smoking ex-boyfriend.”