by S. Ann Cole
“It’s okay to see and want. But sometimes you have to know when to take. For you, now is not the time to take. Make something of yourself first. Give yourself a name. Make yourself recognizable and respected. So when anyone hears the name Saskia Day, they’ll know who Saskia is, and won’t dare mispronounce it.”
I wanted to die a million deaths at that reminder, but Lydia patted my arm and continued as we moved down the hall, “In other words, career first—success, respect, financial stability. Men later. By the time you start recording, traveling, touring, you’ll come across tons of fellas who look just like him. Even better than him. You’ll have your pick of them, vying for your attention, and you’ll long forget there was some chap named Jahleel who once made you fall flat on your face.”
I thought she was right. Because Lydia was always right.
But after focusing and achieving it all, after I blew up, got a name, became recognizable and respected, after all those hard earned successes, I realized she was dead, dead wrong.
About both things.
One: I never forgot Jahleel. Ever.
And two: becoming famously rotten rich with number one hits slamming the music charts still wasn’t enough for Jahleel Kingston to notice me.
Chapter Two
What was life like before Jahleel?
Well I mean, before I knew such a striking fucking creature called Jahleel existed.
Life was crap. Stressful. Lame. Difficult.
You’d never believe how exciting being obsessed with another human being could make your life!
It could also be sad and depressing.
Anyway, I’d always been a loner, a struggler, a caretaker, a mother. Not to my own children, but to my siblings.
Sad to admit, both my parents were delinquent drunkards. As in, they both left us at home during the evenings to gamble and drank until they were piss-drunk and broke. Until one night their own sins inevitably consumed them in a car accident. They ran themselves off the road. Died instantly.
Did I miss them?
What was there to miss?
We impecuniously grew up on a small farm with my little sister Timberly and my older brother Ferburt—oh Jesus, that name! No idea what Mum and Dad were thinking when they named us. For short, I called him Ferbie.
Ferbie, he was kind of a dolt. A dumb-dumb. An imbecile.
Not being malevolent here, he was my brother, after all, and I loved him dearly. Plus I was the only person allowed to refer to him as such. But, he was naturally slow. Three years older than me, but had the brain of a toddler.
Ferbie was twenty when our parents died, Timberly fourteen and me, seventeen. The only family left was our Aunt Lizzie, a thirty-five year old self-centred lesbian, the girlfriend of Lydia.
Aunt Lizzie sold the farm, kept the money for herself and jacked us up in her claustrophobic one bedroom flat, from which she was almost always absent. She didn’t care two craps about us, so just as I’d always done since I knew how to spell my name, I assumed the mother role, taking care of my brother and sister.
The role was nothing I wasn’t used to since my parents were never at home once the clock struck 5pm. It was always all left on me. But being the mother became far more cumbersome after they died. I was forced to quit school and take on two jobs: a waitress by day, a flirtatious bartender by night. Some said it was a waste of time and money to send Ferbie to classes, but I did it nevertheless, because I had hopes for him. Timberly, on the other hand, was a nerd. A smarty pants. A know-it-all. Talked a hell of a lot and never shut up. Eyeglasses, cardigan, pleated skirt, but outrageously beautiful—that kind of girl.
And I, I was fucking stressed.
One night, Lydia, in search of Aunt Lizzie, popped up at the flat. When I told her we hardly ever saw Aunt Lizzie, Lydia was appalled. She explained that Lizzie sort of lived with her and disappeared from time to time, but she didn’t realize Lizzie had us three crammed in her flat, surviving on our own. After inspecting the apartment, she placed her hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes and told me, “You’ve been incredibly strong, Kia. But you need help. You need your own life. Let me help you.”
Distressed and close to losing all sanity, I wasted no time being prideful by refusing help when I clearly needed it; I accepted. Aunt Lizzie reluctantly agreed to us moving out of her apartment and in with Lydia.
Lydia, a sturdy, muscled butch, was from an affluent upbringing. She had glossy black hair perpetually pulled back in a tight ponytail, Stygian dark eyes, and a hard, masculine face: squared jaw, prominent cheekbones, crooked nose. Ninety percent of the time, she dressed in black three piece suits. Lydia was one of those people who, upon seeing her, even if you didn’t know her, you felt compelled to tilt your chin in respect, because her very presence declared she was someone.
Her surname was Henry—’Henry’s was one of the bestselling tea brands in London, black tea, green tea, mixed tea, the works. Her father’s death left her with a large share in the business, so she had a staggering net worth.
She moved us into her grandiloquent, old English country manor in Manchester. Quite a responsibility to take on; three people with no relation to her whatsoever: one lummox, one smarty pants, and one confused, wild-haired, pierced-up young adult.
However, I was grateful for the reprieve, which gave me time to pay attention to who I was, what I liked, and what I was good at. Lydia’s takeover didn’t stop my two siblings from calling me “Ma”, though. Lydia thought it endearing, but I wanted to punch them in the eye each time they called me that. But they never stopped, it was automatic for them. They considered me their mother because I was the one who always took care of them.
Even when we moved into Lydia’s home, Aunt Lizzie’s presence was still rare. But Lydia didn’t seem to care. She became like the mother I never had—in a fatherly kind of way.
After I started taking classes again, I began discovering me, noting my profound love for music and my jaw-dropping ability to effortlessly hold notes as long, loud and flawlessly as Whitney Houston.
Lydia thought I had something special. But I thought—I didn’t know what the fuck I thought. All I knew was I wanted to be someone better than who I was, better than my background, before I died. I wanted to take care of my siblings so they’d never want for anything, anything at all for the rest of their lives. I especially wanted to make life easier for Ferbie so people would never take advantage of him because of his slowness. I had an all-consuming desire for something better, and I had the most amazing person in my corner spurring me on and propelling me in the right direction.
So, when Lydia promised me she would make sure I became something, someone of significance, with a better, easier life…I believed her and held on to that belief. Because I had nothing and no one else to believe in.
With a Davidoff cigarette burning to weightless grey ashes between the slim crease of my index and middle finger, I stood on top of the world.
Alright, alright, a slight exaggeration, but I won’t apologize for feeling like Scarface while he sat in his bubbling Jacuzzi in the middle of his mansion.
My ‘on top of the world’ meant me standing at the edge of the all-glass balcony of my 10,125 square feet San Francisco home, sucking down the enriching taste of a Davidoff cigarette, staring off at the spectacular vista as the infinity pool below me ran off to nowhere.
From where my hilltop house was pitched in a tortuously exclusive neighbourhood, jutting out its balconies over absolutely nothing and creating the illusion of being suspended in the air, the view was priceless.
At 5:28 in the morning, the sky was a kaleidoscope of soft colours blending uniquely to make a creative artistic statement before the sun turned up its dominating hot heat and melted the sky’s beauty, stealing the blend of colours with its blinding shine.
On the norm, I wouldn’t be up this early to appreciate the beauteous effects of sunrise, but at 4am I’d slipped out of bed and came out on the balcony to smoke my nerves away because
I wasn’t able to sleep much.
Throughout the night, I’d tossed and turned from excitement and trepidation, stomach in tight knots, knowing that today, this day, I would see Jahleel Kingston. Face to face. For the first time since I’d last glimpsed him back in Manchester five years ago.
When I moved to the U.S. four years back, I tried with repetitive failure to get near Jahleel, in his vicinity, anywhere I could run into him, but that proved to be as difficult as Trigonometry.
For one, Jahleel lived in San Francisco, and I in Los Angeles. Of course, I flew the short one hour journey to SF numerous times for interviews, shows, everything connected to my career. But I was never spared the time to investigate Jahleel. Life had been too busy, too hectic.
Had I not been the victim, I would never believe someone could dominate one’s mind, thoughts and entire being to such an intense degree even while living life in the fast lane.
But, he did. Not a single day started or expired without me thinking about that guy. Imagining what it would be like to be his. To be touched by him. To be kissed by him. To have him whisper sweet words in my ear.
See, ever since that night back in Manchester, I’ve been obsessed. All of a sudden, Lion T’mar’s music landed on my favourites list. Not because I cared for his crappy music, but because he was connected to Jahleel. I listened to his music daily, trying to feel Jahleel through them. I stalked Lion on YouTube to watch all his stage performances—well, not him. But him, the guy with the perfect brown hair dancing in the background—Jahleel.
Each new music video that came out for Lion T’mar, I watched a hundred times over, replaying the parts showing the fierce, gold-eyed dancer—Jahleel. Even if it lasted only for two seconds, I played his parts over and over again or paused the video and just stared at the pixelated version of him.
Before long, I had no more YouTube videos to watch and torture myself with because he quit working with Lion, opened a dance studio, and started his own choreography business, and I had no other means of stealing glimpses of him.
Lion hounded Lydia after our meet at his concert in Manchester, trying to convince her to convince me to move to the U.S. and cross over. He assured her he would endorse me, take me under his wing and make me a star in no time. Lydia stayed on the fence about it, and I was flat-out against it, so Lion gave up.
Or, at least, I thought he’d given up. Turns out he decided, almost a year later, to try one last tactic. Why?
Maybe because I, not so stealthily, asked him about Jahleel each time we spoke, or maybe Lydia divulged that I never got over the gold-eyed man who made me fall flat. Obviously, he put all those pieces together, grabbed that knowledge and ran with it.
Lydia handed me her cellphone one evening, a smirk on her face as she told me someone wanted to talk to me. No, it wasn’t him. It was Lion, of course. When I answered the phone, all he said was, “Move here, to L.A, and you’ll only be an hour away from JK. He’s still single so you just might have a chance with him. Think about it.”
Then hung up.
Did I ‘think about it’? Nope. The thought of being just an hour away from Jahleel had me packing my siblings in my suitcase and wheeling them behind me to Los Angles.
How had I not thought about this before? Stupid, stupid, I thought, so much time wasted.
Lydia moved with me, but stayed only for about a year before moving back home when Aunt Lizzie landed on her death bed from pneumonia, thrusting me in the trusting care of Lion T’mar.
However, being an hour away from Jahleel didn’t mean I got to see him. What Lion didn’t prepare me for was the insurmountable amount of work I’d have to invest into ‘making it big’.
A heck of a lot. It was never easy. There was no rest. Just work, work, work, day and night, with me surviving on the rush of unwholesome consumptions of energy drinks and adrenaline.
As soon as I hit U.S. soil, he had me doing a reality show, as apparently that was the new and most effective method of building a loyal fan base.
“Hook the world on your raw beauty and down-to-earth personality,” he told me. “Buy fans with true reality.”
Despite my doubts, I went along with it. See, I went along with most of what Lion and Lydia suggested, mainly because they knew the ropes. Also: they never, ever tried to change me, or told me to sing, act or dress like anyone else but myself.
Lion believed in the real me, my real voice, my real attitude and that’s who he allowed me to be. Unlike the songs he sang, I later learned the real Lion T’mar was a man of morals. He’d never once hit on me. His love for me was genuine, only wanting the best for me and taking pride in watching as I succeeded.
He had a woman, and he worshipped the very ground she walked on. With an über-ghetto name, Twana, she had a bum so big, one saw it before seeing her, along with thick, meaty thighs and perfect perky D-cups. The sceptical side of me inquired, and yep, she was authentic: no silicon, anywhere. That bum, that rack, that tiny waist, all real.
I’d been to tons of parties and events with Lion. Where he went, I went, and I could testify on a stack of Holy Catholic Bibles that I’d never seen him so much as flirt with another woman. Everything was all about Twana. Twana was his Queen.
So because of his echt quality, dedication, and commitment to me, I trusted him with my career and rarely disagreed with his suggestions. As a result, most things were smooth sailing because I never put up a fight, followed orders and performed each show, sang each song, delivered each appearance to the best of my ability.
In my mind, I wanted to get ‘there’ as expeditiously as possible so I could resume my Jahleel chase. And what better way to do that than to push brattiness aside and listen to your mentors who’ve been in this business since the age of Adam?
By God’s good grace, America received me well. Exceptionally well. Everything happened so fast. At such velocity, I hardly had time to realize my life was changing, climbing, growing, as was my net worth.
For a whole year, I had no time to stop and appreciate, because it was all work, no sleep and no play. Until my first album, Notice Me, went platinum. An album mostly permeated with songs I wrote while in the throes of Jahleel-craving.
Since then, Saskia Day has been a sensation.
One would think I’d feel different, grow a pride pimple somewhere, knowing I could get whomever and whatever I wanted and to hell with that Jahleel dude. But I didn’t. I was, of course, proud of myself. I got what I dreamed of. Ferbie and Timberly lacked nothing, were contented. And because they were contented, I was…somewhat.
‘Somewhat’, because I still felt incomplete. The one thing—person—I wanted, I didn’t have.
It wasn’t as though I didn’t date other men, attempting to kill my undying and obsessive crush. I had. But no one, no one, has ever managed to make me feel how I felt in those few short minutes when I first saw Jahleel under that red hoodie. He stole something from me, a huge chunk, and I would never again feel whole, until I saw him again, even if it’s just once, so I could recover that piece of me back from his grasp.
So, I sold my Hollywood mansion and moved to San Francisco. A move Lion was flat-out against. Residing in Los Angles was more convenient and accessible, he’d told me, why remove myself an hour away from the star capital to make things that much more hectic?
Because I no longer wanted to be an hour away from Jahleel Kingston, I wanted to be where he was.
And not even Lion could stop that move. Now, I was near. So close I could almost smell him.
Getting him to take me on as a client was nothing short of difficult.
Jahleel had transcended into one of the most acclaimed dance choreographers in this hemisphere. Lion endorsed him like he was his first born, while Jahleel let his talent speak for itself, and as a result, he was highly demanded. People went to him, not the other way around. And he picked and chose who to work with. That’s what made getting to work with him so hard.
He’d accepted me as a client twice last year, and
ended up cancelling both times at last minute. Of course, people who truly needed a choreographer would’ve moved on to the next best person. This was their career, after all.
I, however, didn’t need a choreographer. My performances consisted of running around on stage in wild bursts of energy or standing/sitting with a microphone as I pour my heart into a soulful, high note song. But pretending I needed a dance routine was the only route to seeing Jahleel face to face.
Earlier this year, he agreed again to take me on but cancelled that meet as well. Frustrating, yeah. But refusing to give up, I tried again, and so far, all was good. Today, Friday April 2nd, I would meet the man who’d owned me, body and soul, for the past 1,826 days.
Unwittingly so.
As the sun rose up in its coruscating glory, burning away the cotton candy colours from the cirrus clouds, I grew more and more anxious. I glanced down and saw over four cigarette butts at my feet. Jesus, I needed to kick this habit before things got bad. Sometime between my parents’ death and me quitting school to take on two jobs, I’d picked up smoking and have not been able to quit since.
Outing the current cigarette in my hand, I turned to go back inside the house, snatched up my wireless phone, hiked myself up on a barstool in the kitchen and dialled.
Lion answered in a groggy voice, probably frustrated with me as usual, but he never neglected me. “You callin’ me this hour means you freakin’ out ‘bout somethin’. Wassup, Kia?”
Making a meal of my thumbnail, I whispered down the line, “I’m seeing him today…”
For a passing minute he remained silent, then sighed. “I thought you were over that, Kia.”
“I’ve never been over him!” I exploded, more exasperated with my stupid self than with him. Sometimes I believed I had a dose of Ferburt-ism in my blood. In a calmer voice, I explained, “I don’t know how to…”