by Tami Charles
“And rainbows and frickin’ fairy dust?”
Merc cut her off so quick it stung,
and everyone could feel it.
I took in a sip of breath,
slicing the silence of the room.
“No disrespect, Denver.
The theme? Dope.
The melody? Hot.
I kept all that.
But you guys need an image.”
His eyes shifted to Shak.
“Time to drop the church girl act.
‘Angelic Voices’ ain’t gonna crack
the Billboard Hot 100.
But ‘Untouched’ will …
Now, y’all ready to cut this track, or what?”
Shak’s jaw completely unhinged,
lips temporarily frozen in the key of WTF.
Mine, too.
My mouth rejected air,
thoughts, words.
One piece of me
wanted to scream,
That’s not how I wrote it!
But the other?
Well, that part knew who knew
better.
“Denver,” Merc softened his tone,
“being a leader means
making tough decisions. You in?”
And right then, Dali touched me.
Three fingertips pressed into
the deepest curve of my back.
The ice to my fire.
Pupils, wide and black,
aimed straight at my own.
Code for Remember what you promised.
And so I did it. For her.
Untouched meant
Un harmed
Un spoiled
Un bothered
But according to Merc,
it meant
no one else could
compete with,
match up to
what was given to us
by birthright.
And just like that
we had a new sound,
new attitude,
new name.
gripped against our ears,
like skin on bone.
One mic,
suspended from the ceiling,
walls padded in black foam,
thick glass separated us from Merc.
Three girls, excitement building,
huddled in a sound booth
so drastically different
from the fake-ass studio
set up in my basement back home.
“I’m so going to hell for this song,” Shak whispered.
“Take a number, chica,” Dali giggled.
And I wanted to tell them both
to quit it
so I could shake off the nerves,
savor the flavor of the moment.
We made it.
I made it.
“Let’s go from the top, Denver,”
Merc’s honey-dipped voice
filtered through our headphones.
The opening tick-tick-tick
of the high hats
swirled through the booth,
so loud, so piercing,
scaring the living daylights
outta me.
Merc hunched over the sound board,
his back pulsing with the beat.
I cleared my throat,
readied my voice for
the opening lyrics:
Boy, don’t take this wrong …
Ever seen a hound dog
cock his head to the moon
and howl?
Well, that’s exactly what I looked like,
sounded like.
Three cuts. Each time.
WTF was wrong with me?
Merc paused the track
hella quick,
and I knew right there
we were finished
before we even began.
I held back the tears
as he rushed into the booth,
feet like wings.
“Let her try it again!” Dali’s voice,
covered in pleaseMercplease.
“She’s just nervous.”
“We all are,” Shak added,
wrapping her arms around me tight.
But Merc smiled, soft as dawn,
reached his hand out for mine.
“Denver, baby gurl,
let’s take a walk.”
disappeared
beneath
my
feet
as we slow-strolled
down the hall.
“I remember my first time recording.
I was a little younger than you.”
“… Bet you didn’t mess up as bad as I did just now!”
“Worse.” Merc laughed. “A whole hot mess!”
But I couldn’t imagine,
not even for a second,
the King of R&B
sounding anything other than
blessed by the gods.
We stopped short
in front of a picture
of the King and Queen herself.
“I miss Whitney terribly.”
Merc touched the frame
as if he hoped the image would come to life.
“I never thought there’d be another like her.”
But then I met you, Denver.”
His words set my lungs ablaze.
“But I’m not like—”
“Denver, you are.
Everything and more.
All you have to do is believe.
And if you do, your girls will, too.”
The sweet taste of
hope
lingered on my tongue.
He wrapped his hands
around my bare arms.
I looked down,
saw my flesh swell
between his fingers.
“You see that?
You’re strong, Denver.”
He called me strong.
Not big.
Or thick.
But strong.
I liked that way better than pretty.
And something inside me just …
bloomed.
Merc led me back to the booth,
where Shak and Dali waited,
eyes swimming with wonder.
“You okay, muchacha?”
Dali patted my shoulders,
elbows,
hands,
Mama Bear style.
“She’s ready now, right, Denver?” Merc said.
“Let’s do this, bro.” I puffed my chest
sky-high, smiled wide as a crescent moon.
Shak squealed and clapped
in that praise the Lordt way.
Lightning flared in Merc’s feet
as he returned to the control board,
beats ready to launch.
“Now, let’s take it from the top.”
From the very first note,
Untouched transformed,
artists lulled
beneath a master’s spell.
Up-up-up
my voice climbed
past the roof,
beyond summer clouds,
soared to distant planets,
rhythm flowed through my veins—
Shak’s and Dali’s, too.
I could tell
as verse gave way to chorus
the way our harmonies unfolded,
an audible feast of sorts.
Eyes closed tight,
my mind drifted back
to the place
where this music thing all began …
Eighth-period bell on blast
lying low,
back of the class.
Chorus,
better known as,
boring-ass,
bubblegum
wannabe opera
taught by Delaware Valley High’s
finest,
Mrs. Billick.
In walked the new kid, two months too late.
Tall,
lanky,
bronze colored,
cornrowed,
four-eyed girl, straight outta Alabama.
“You must be Shakira,” Mrs. Billick said.
“Perhaps you’d be comfortable …
in the back?”
Code for:
with the only other two brown folks.
Shakira did that southern “Yes, ma’am” thing,
sandwiched herself in the empty seat
between me and Dali.
Mrs. Billick plucked the notes from
My Fair Lady,
asked each student to sing.
“How lovely,” she said to everyone,
till she got to us,
and heard the soul in our voices
set fire to the room.
“Your sound is quite … urban.”
Code for: too big, too Black, too MUCH.
And from that moment
we gave chorus—and Mrs. Billick—
the middle finger and started our own thing.
1. A promise
We’ll hook up again after my next show, k?
2. A question
Y’all ever thought about moving to Atlanta?
That’s the music capital of the world!
3. A request
Let’s keep our arrangement on the low.
I’ll hit y’all up in a couple weeks.
And finally, the strangest of them all …
4. A tape.
Panasonic
VHS-C
tiny holder
of
a night
filled with
magic,
music,
Merc,
us … but …
“What in the Flintstone
hunk-a-junk is this?”
Shak laughed, soon as Merc placed it in her hand.
“I was wondering what the deal was
with that old-school camcorder.”
I laughed, too, tapping Dali,
but she didn’t crack a smile.
“Girls, I don’t live my life on the cloud.
I keep video archives of all my special moments.
Ain’t nobody trying to hack a VCR, nah mean?
I’m guessing y’all don’t have one.”
That made me and Shak
laugh even harder.
Dali snatched that tape outta Shak’s hand
and handed it back to Merc.
“Can we get a download at least?”
She did that bat-her-lashes,
smile-like-the-devil thing.
Always worked on me, but …
“Ah, Say Say, I can’t have
my music leaking out.
Not that y’all would play a brotha, but still.
How ’bout this? Since you don’t
want the tape, I’ll send y’all a sample
of what we recorded to your phones.”
I ain’t gonna lie,
I wanted my song,
the whole damn thing.
Not some grainy video.
I wanted to roll down the windows
of my Honda Civic,
connect the Bluetooth,
volume hella loud,
and sing “Once in Your Life”
all the way home.
But those were Merc’s rules,
so we had to be happy
with the gift we got …
all forty-five seconds of it.
called for a celebration
with the finest food
Milford, PA,
had to offer at midnight:
Taco Bell.
We sat in the farthest booth
in the back,
killing a twelve-pack
of greasy-ass
untacos
filling that empty restaurant
with the sounds
of three girls giggling,
reminiscing,
dreaming …
“Y’all! We gonna be MAD famous!”
“First thing I’m buying is a house for Mami.”
“First thing I’m buying is some
holy water—cuz we ALL gonna
need it after that booty-call
anthem hits the radio!”
Laughter erupted
all up and through
Taco Bell,
followed us
all the way down Route 209,
past Shak’s spot in Dingman,
Dali’s crib in Trails End,
and around the bend
to my empty, empty
driveway
on Winding Brook Road.
No family within
those walls to share my night with,
even though I wouldn’ta
told y’all jack.
Well, ’cept maybe
one of y’all was worth a shot …
1:12 a.m.
The dying art of voice mail …
One ring
Two rings
Three rings
“You have reached Gwen Lafleur,
resident assistant for the East Wheelock House
at Dartmouth College. I am not available at this time
to take your call. Please leave a detailed message
and I will respond at my earliest convenience.
Have a great day and remember
to always reach for the stars!”
Beep!
“Hey, sis. It’s me.
I know it’s late.
But I did something tonight,
something real special.
I reached for the stars
and landed somewhere you’d never imagine.
But I wanna tell you about it,
over the phone.
So call me back.
Okay?”
Spoiler alert:
She never did does.
I went to sleep
that night, alone,
windows wide open,
high AF on the music,
on my girls,
on long-ago memories …
Summer, Ten Years Ago
Children skipped up and down
the tree-lined street.
Singing, laughing,
lips stained,
with cherry ices, fresh from the truck,
in hand.
Ma sat on the stoop with Gwen,
hands intertwined
in the thickness of my sister’s perfect hair,
scalp glistening with coconut oil,
braids patterned in intricate mazes.
Inside,
summer breeze poured
through open windows
Me and you, Papi,
seated at the piano bench,
lost in musical bliss.
Prelude in E Minor by Chopin.
Your ebony fingers
struck keys, black and white,
each chord filling you,
me,
with something that felt,
I don’t know …
Incurable?
You held the next-to-last chord
long enough to tell
the story behind the song …
Trapped in Valldemossa,
island of silent nothingness,
secluded from the capital,
where life was vibrant, poppin’.
Hella lonely,
ink bleeding through
staff on sheet music,
Chopin legit banged out
the saddest song anyone had ever heard.
Remember that dramatic pause,
the one right at the end,
where the silence was
long enough
to fill you with the unshakable fear
that it was over?
Yeah, I didn’t get that then—
seven-year-old me.
But after one magical night
in the concrete jungle
with the biggest star in the universe,
I understood it.
; All.
days passed with no word
from Merc.
Suddenly life in Shohola
morphed into my own
Prelude in E Minor,
a bottomless pit
of nothingness,
as I tried to do right,
keep the parental units
happy.
But all I could do
was wonder … worry.
Were Merc’s promises real,
and if not …
what waited for me then?
Days and nights
melted into one another
as we waited to hear from him again.
I spent the mornings,
eyes glued to the screen:
Delaware Valley High’s
online summer school.
Tried my best to soak in
every essay,
poem,
play
by every dead white author
I “forgot” to read
in American Lit.
Three lessons a day,
thirty minutes apiece,
followed by a quiz.
I zipped through each,
passed with flying colors.
Thank you, CliffsNotes,
thank you, Alexa.
were made for Dali and me.
She’d show up
unannounced
carrying those
special things
with her,
invisibly tucked
in each pocket.
Two flags.
One white—my favorite.
The metaphorical
definition of surrender.
Waved it high,
proud,
with
abandon
as we melted
into a rapture
of touchinglovingbreathing
So long as the walls
within
kept the story of us
untold, kept
Away from Shak
who was busy
workingchurchingballing
And then,
the other flag.
Red cloth
ripped,
dipped
in alert.
Only to be raised
when sun bid moon
farewell,
as the sound of Shak’s tires
slow-rolled up
my unpaved driveway.
And for as much
as afternoons were bliss
the nights were equally so
Shak
Dali
Me
Gathered around