by Tami Charles
on the pullout couch.
Eyes closed,
mine moving wildly underneath
at the thought,
the hope,
the dream
that our lives were about to change.
For the better.
As 4:00 a.m. hit,
sleep was still not an option,
especially under the symphony
of Shak’s snoring in C sharp.
I tossed and turned,
replaying the memory of the night,
all the times I prayed
for a moment like that.
To be seen, really seen.
The touch of Dali’s hand on my shoulder
electrified me out of my thoughts.
I turned to face her,
praying Shak would remain asleep.
A patch of streetlight
glittered the brown of Dali’s eyes,
as we lay there, wordless,
for a moment, our knees like magnets,
the fullness of us
existing only
in shadows and solitude.
“Promise me something,” Dali whispered.
She laced her fingers
through the coils of my hair …
“Anything.”
And I swear right there
her hand
could’ve stayed forever.
“Promise we’ll do whatever Merc tells us to.
Because I ain’t college material,
not with all them Cs and Ds on my report card.
Only other choice I got
is to help Mami run her business,
and that ain’t the life I want.
I need this, Denver. As bad as you.”
My mouth held
the weight of two worlds.
One that wished
we could exist in the sun.
And the other that just …
knew.
But all I could muster up was
“I will never let you down.”
Me: Yo, big sis!!! What up?
Gwen: Good morning my little Shasou, Denny-wenny! Sup?
Me: Something amazing happened last night!
Gwen: OMG! You got your first college acceptance letter?
Me: Too early. But me, Shak & Dali went to a concert.
Gwen: A concert? That’s it? Girl, Ma is looking for you! Better hurry dat ass home. Gotta run. Interning at the hospital today. Check ya lata.
Me: Yeah. Lata.
were made for family
in the Lafleur household.
Least that’s how Ma wanted it.
Even though
once we moved to Shohola,
you stopped
touchinglovingbreathing
the same air that she we
shared, Papi.
Nine years ago, when I was eight,
we left Brooklyn,
like some great Black migration,
new jobs, new life, new school,
same problems.
(Spoiler alert: me.)
Back in Brooklyn,
the Lafleurs were inseparable.
Me, Ma, Gwen, and you, Papi.
We had a big family,
tons of friends,
music in every bodega,
every corner,
ya know,
actual civilization.
But then y’all got scared …
of them city streets,
of the cost of living.
But the cost of living
was much higher here.
For me.
In those mountains,
with the three of you always gone,
Ma piling on shifts,
you flying round the world,
and Gwen, swallowed up by college,
all I had in Shohola were Shak and Dali.
And music. Always the music.
Saturdays meant
breaking out the bottles
of Fabuloso—lavender-scented,
of course,
because if you didn’t use that,
were you even cleaning?
Ma and I would wipe down
every square inch of that
big-for-no-reason house,
propped on two acres of land.
A home that no one
from Brooklyn ever visited,
because gas was too expensive
and who picks up and
moves to the sticks anyway?
Still, we cooked and cleaned
so when you walked through that door,
familiarity greeted you like an old friend:
te jenjanm,
the warmth of ginger tea spicing the air,
A sweet, hot bowl of labouyi,
made just the way Gran taught Ma,
and kompa music,
stirring through the walls,
out the windows,
and into the forest
surrounding that faraway place
that never
ever
felt like
H
O
M
E.
it didn’t go down like that
because I was late
because I lied
and covered it up.
Soon as I walked through the door,
there y’all were,
marinating in the smells,
three bowls of sweet porridge
set at the table,
untouched,
cooled down.
Faces all scrunched up,
my final report card in your hand,
mouths ready to fire off with …
Questions!!!
be
some
earplugs!
Haitian papis be like …
“What kind of grades are these?
One C, five Ds, and an F?
A little less music, and a lot more studying … like your big sister!!!
How can you be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer like this?”
Black mamas be like …
“You sure that’s all y’all did was make music?
And why would you wanna sleep
in a trailer when you got all the space in the world here?
Girl, you betta look at me when I’m talkin’ to you!”
On the outside I …
promised I’d enroll
in online summer school,
and raise that negative one-point-nothing GPA.
I’d put on the mask that said I cared,
covered up the fact I was crumbling
something bad.
But on the inside I was like …
IDGAF about going to Dartmouth with Gwen.
Better yet, I ain’t going to college. PeriodT.
So just back up off me, okurrr?
I figured y’all would change your minds,
soon as y’all saw what I had cooking.
Papi, you had some nerve.
All those years,
teaching me,
molding me,
filling my veins with music,
like a hurricane brewing.
As if the memory
of such an act
was one to be locked away,
golden key thrown to the fire.
I mean, seriously.
Why did you bless me with this gift,
something that truly made me me,
imperfectly perfect outside of Gwen,
only to make it feel like a curse in the end?
But, I didn’t say none of that though.
I kinda liked having teeth in my mouth.
were for goodbyes.
The kind where Ma and I
stood at the edge of the driveway,
after holding you two seconds too long.
Sundays were for watching
the driver slowly roll
down Winding Brook Road,
to take you to the airport.
Sundays were for pilot’s hats,
fitted tight, as you took to cobalt skies,
carrying people and their dreams
across oceans, mountains, borders,
until you returned to us
one forever-long week weeks later
when we played that same, sad-ass song
on repeat-repeat-repeat.
was no better.
Long hours at the hospital,
because the letters D and R
before her name
meant the old,
the sick,
the new to this world,
almost always
took precedence over
us. Me.
She prolly couldn’t stand
the silence of home either.
Which left me alone.
Music to fill the empty spaces.
Ever-revolving trips
to Dali’s.
For years it was like this.
Our parents on the grind,
working far from home
because Shohola equaled
population negative zero,
which equaled no good jobs nearby.
Exhibit B of why moving made
no goddamned sense.
Dali’s mom,
running her own cleaning business,
retail stores by day,
office buildings till dawn.
Shak’s grandparents,
leading the megachurch
up in West New York,
her own parents deployed
in two separate lands,
fighting for freedom
right here on our own.
And speaking of freedom …
My, oh my,
what was I supposed to do
with all that FREE time
on my hands that summer?
So maybe some of this
was y’all’s fault, too.
Maybe?
(k, maybe not)
01905557486: Good morning, my favorite singer-songwriter. Up for a studio sesh on Wednesday? Talk to your girls and hit a brotha up.
Me: Merc? That’s a weird number. Is that you?
01905557486: Sure is, baby gurl. Private phone. Aka paparazzi blocker.
Me: Ha! I get it. We’ll be there.
10:09 a.m.
Me: SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!!! Sean “Mercury” Ellis just texted me. He wants to see us Wednesday. Somebody call me an ambulance!
Dali: YASSS! I knew he’d reach out! We in there, y’all!
Shak: Guys, I got basketball camp in Milford that day, Bible study at 5.
Me: And?
Dali: Yo Shak, STOPPPPPPP!
Shak: What if we reschedule?
Me: Pick you up from camp, girl.
Shak: Did you even read what I wrote?
Me: I said what I said.
Dali: PeriodT!
Shak: Grrrrr … y’all so aggy! ’Specially you, SAY SAY! lol
Alicia Keys
wasn’t lying
when she crooned
out those lyrics
about New York:
concrete city where dreams were made,
and stars were born.
I felt it all driving.
Me in my songwriter chic—
boho dress, leggings, Converse.
Dali: crop top, cutoffs.
And Shak,
in her sweaty basketball finest.
The three of us,
a visual definition of opposite
brought to life,
harmonizing as
Shohola country roads
transformed into New Jersey highways,
filtered into New York City streets.
We parked in the Hudson lot,
pushed through crowds,
hustled down West 42nd,
skyscrapers kissing summer clouds,
the music of the streets
reminding me of the Brooklyn
that was near, yet still
so far away.
As we landed at the door
of Hitmaker Studios,
I pushed the buzzer for suite 3,
felt Alicia’s lyrics
all up and through my bones.
Right then, right there,
there was literally
nothing
I couldn’t do.
“Thank you for visiting Merc World Productions.
This is Marissa Avent,
personal assistant for Mr. Ellis.
Please state your name
and purpose.”
I cleared my throat.
“Denver Lee Lafleur.
Dalisay Gómez.
Shakira Brown.
Here for a recording session
with Merc.”
The door buzzed,
soon as we pushed through the corridor,
I saw her:
pixie cut of fire,
eyes like lasers.
“IDs and phones, please.”
Homegirl from the Prudential
stepped from behind thick glass,
collected our stuff,
did that whole-body
search thing again,
under our arms,
down the space between our chests,
over the curves of our backs.
Then finished off with:
“Elevator’s on the right, tenth floor,
get your stuff back when the session’s over.”
that yogurt commercial
where the girl
with the sun in her hair
and ocean in her eyes,
ate a spoonful of yogurt?
And as soon as she did,
she was suddenly flying up to heaven?
Surrounded by fluffy white clouds,
angelic music,
and the pearly gates opened
and there stood the Man himself,
all grinning and stuff, saying:
Welcome to heaven?
Well,
that elevator ride to the tenth floor
was just like that.
With a side of nails
—two sets—
damn near breaking
skin in each of my wrists.
Compliments of Shak and Dali.
First
thing we saw were walls.
Long, winding,
covered with
gold albums,
platinum albums,
Grammy Awards,
lined on shelves like soldiers,
pictures of Merc with the best in the industry:
Whitney, Gaga, Celine, Mary J—
I stopped counting after Beyoncé.
“I can’t believe homegirl took our phones!”
Shak threw her braids in a messy bun.
I’d have given anything to capture it all
in more than just a memory.
A permanent reminder that one day,
if we really pushed,
if we really soaked in what Merc had to offer,
we, too, could have all of that.
Maybe more.
Meat stuck his head
out of the final door.
“Right this way, ladies.”
Seemed a mile away,
the hall lined with closed doors,
three on each side,
a patch of light trapped beneath.
A beat came on,
vibrating through the space,
sinking down to the concrete floor.
A blend of R&B and hip-hop
and everything that was right in this world.
When we got to The Door,
Merc danced around the room,
camcorder in hand.
Shouted out an A-YOOOOOOOO!
clicked record,
soon as he saw us.
“There’s my stars!
Come bust a move with me.”
Dali wasted no time,
twerking all four foot eleven of herself,
hips dropping through
each thump of the bass.
I couldn’t leave my girl hanging
not when that beat sizzled my skin, too.
But Shak just stood there,
hands locked, half smiling.
Church girls didn’t twerk.
“Check this out, Denver!”
Next words outta Merc’s mouth.
“I modified the key for the bridge,
took some of the lyrics of your song,
“Flipped it …
Slipped it …
Dipped it …
in D
O
P
E!!!
Tell me what you think …”
The second Merc
opened his mouth,
that syrupy-thick voice of his
took us on a journey
to church,
to hell,
to Earth
and back again …
By Denver Lee Lafleur
By Sean “Mercury” Ellis
Verse: Verse:
Have you ever had a dream Boy, don’t take this wrong
so big, so unreal it didn’t seem but I been staring all night long
possible for you? I’m feeling you, do you feel me, too?
And you didn’t know what to do? ’Cause I got something to show you.
Today’s the day, it’s now or never It’s now or never,
You can do whatever we can do whatever.
(ya put your mind to) (ya body wants to)
Chorus: Chorus:
Pull yourself up off the floor Let’s bounce up off this dance floor.
Don’t cha know you deserve more Meet me at the back door.
Take a chance For once in my life, I’ll take my chance
Life’s short, take a stand Life’s short, forget the romance.
Sometimes you’ll lose, Let me take you for a ride.
Sometimes you’ll win, Give it up,
But in the end Live it up,
You’ll know you tried for On the wild side
Once in your life. For once in your life.
I. Ki caca sa ye??? (It wasn’t garbage, I swear!)
II. How could I let Merc take my song and turn it into a ho anthem?
but … BUT …
I promise
the way he sang it,
finding that je ne sais quoi
it was missing,
felt like flowers
sprouting through
unruly soil.
“Why can’t we keep the original lyrics?
Denver wrote about dreams and goals …”