by Tami Charles
Next thing I knew,
I was up on my feet
swerving to the beat,
hardly believing that that was me.
Bryan busted a move, too,
dreads swinging,
beatboxing!
Even Meat
couldn’t resist a two-step,
awkward as his giant self looked.
“Oh, your voice is sick, Denver!”
Bryan yelled over the bass.
“I’m going to the Bottle-O downstairs
for a pack of ciggies.
Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good,” I said.
“I’m just ready for Dali
and Merc to hear this joint!”
Bryan nodded
and shortly after he bounced,
the song began to fade out,
and I wanted to hear it
again and again
until every note sank to my bones.
I took a seat in Bryan’s chair,
the wide computer screen
drinking me in,
ran my fingers over the mouse.
“Tsk tsk, Denver.
You know not to touch the equipment.”
I swiveled in Meat’s direction,
put on my best Dali
bat-my-lashes, smile-like-the-devil voice:
“I just want a copy of my song.
Not a sample. Come on! You know it’s a hit!”
Arms pretzeled tight.
“You tryna get me fired?
Merc and the girls went to grab food.
They’ll probably be back any minute.”
I did that blink-and-pout thing on repeat.
“Don’t you look at me with those eyes!”
Hit him with that combo once more.
Then he started laughing.
“I got a cousin with heterochromia, too,
’cept she got one gray, one green eye.
But the answer is still no.”
“Would you kill your cousin’s hopes like that?”
Meat dragged his hand
across his bearded face,
shifted on his feet,
cracked the door open
and looked down the empty hall.
“You got like two and a half minutes, girl.”
I jumped out the chair
hands in the air,
ready to hug that teddy bear,
dressed in muscle disguise,
but he hit me with the Wakanda arms
hella quick.
“You betta not tell Merc about this.”
(contrary to popular belief)
A true artist never
leaves the house
without her tools.
Which is why
in my pink AliExpress bag,
behind the song journals
and
pens
and
pads
and
packs of gum,
there lie a tiny
SanDisk flash drive,
hidden in the
small zipper compartment.
64 GB,
to be exact,
large enough to hold
the MP3 file of
the song
that was gonna
change our lives—
my life
forever.
One click,
5 megs,
a hurried download
of epic proportions,
Supermanned my ass
back to the couch,
SanDisk tucked away,
just in time
for that door to swing open …
“We’ve got ourselves a piss-up now!”
Bryan walked in, cigarette dangling
from his thin lips,
a six-pack of Dos Equis in each hand,
Merc and Marissa
trailing behind him,
hands full of McDonald’s bags.
That cheesy, salty,
oniony smell filling the space,
throwing my senses all off balance.
I locked eyes with Meat
for a split second,
the look we shared,
a reciprocal whisper
of shutyodamnmouth.
“I thought Dali was with you?” I asked.
Merc plopped next to me on the couch.
“Nah, she’s done for the night.
Asked to take a nap
before y’all bounce.
Ay yo, Bryan, run the track.”
Bryan clicked play,
volume on simmer mode this time,
while we bopped our heads,
cracked open the beers
and those McDonald’s bags.
Merc handed me mine,
I ripped that thing open
ready to dive in to a Big Mac
only to realize he ordered me
a Supersize McNope …
As in a damn garden salad.
I could feel the
color of my skin shift
light brown to crimson.
“Just tryna get you
ready for prime time, baby gurl.”
Merc quick-tapped my belly,
making it jiggle right along
with my bottom lip.
I tugged at my T-shirt,
pushing it deeper into my belt.
Marissa giggled a toothy laugh,
but no one else did.
And suddenly I was no longer hangry.
In fact, everybody
was hella silent as the track
played and played until it
faded into nothingness.
“Well, thanks for the burgers,
but it’s time for me to
head back to my hotel.
Early flight tomorrow.
Catch you later, mate?”
Bryan started gathering
his things.
“Meat can drive you back.” Merc stood,
dapping Bryan up. “Marissa, you can head out, too.”
I felt myself
fold further
into myself on the couch
as I painted on a weak smile,
said my thank-yous and goodbyes,
until all that was left behind
was just me and Merc
and that insult.
“You didn’t have to play me like that,”
I whispered, eyes glued to the floor,
trying my hardest not to cry.
“Oh, baby gurl,
don’t get so caught up.
You’re beautiful just the way you are.”
I sat straighter,
only a little though.
“But you see, this music thing
ain’t just about the music.
“It’s equal parts discipline,
eating right,
waist snatched,
wardrobe on point,
leveling up your game,
musically,
lyrically,
physically …
“Least, that’s what all the big stars
do. Every day, Denver.”
I thought about
every magazine cover,
red carpet,
every music video
I’d ever seen.
Beyoncé,
Cardi,
Queen Yeli,
all of them,
flesh and curves,
beat to the gods.
A silhouette of perfection
that would never be meant for me.
And I was always fine with that …
until recently.
“Now come on, eat, baby gurl.
You need your strength.”
Slowly, I lifted the
fork to my lips,
swallowed that bland-ass salad down
and pretended like it was
the juiciest burger I ever had.
Merc stuffed a wad of fries in his mouth,
replayed our songs on low
all over again.
The air shifted
warmth replaced chill,
like a whole mood
filling the space.
And then …
Merc transformed into
an open book
on full display, just for me.
A subtle reminder of
our connection from that first day
at the studio,
And I don’t mean in the way
Ma thought—
That whole grown-ass-man-
hanging-with-teenage-girls thing.
It wasn’t like that with Merc.
I’m talking ’bout
the night when gravity
disappeared beneath my feet
and he guided me through
every missed note,
every off-key melody.
It was then
that I knew
what we had
was on another level.
“Back in the day,
I was the shy kid
living in the projects,
apartment crawling with roaches.”
Merc popped another fry in his mouth.
“I never was a good student,”
he admitted,
and I nodded,
’cause I felt that deep in my soul.
“I hate math the most.” I laughed.
“Nah. Reading was the worst.”
And I felt that one, too.
’Specially with summer school.
“See, me and you?”
Merc touched his temple.
“Only reading we
care about
is notes on bars.”
If you looked up the word
twin
in the dictionary,
I was convinced
there’d be a pic of Merc and me.
“I wasn’t like them
other kids, Denver.”
Instead of going out to play,
Merc stayed in the house
creating songs,
melodies,
a way OUT.
For some folks
OUT meant …
you made it big-time
too good-for-the-hood:
Money,
Fame,
Cars,
Clothes,
Paparazzi,
sniffing up your ass.
“That’s why you gotta
just do what I say & trust my intentions.
People will talk about you,
make up lies,
anything to cop a dollar
off what you built
with your bare hands.
“And that’s why
I’m so protective of
y’all.”
His voice, mad sincere.
Every part of me
digested that convo.
(right along with them slimy-ass tomatoes)
And I got it.
All of it.
I wished you and Ma could get it, too.
Dali finally came in the studio,
eyes barely open,
yawning on repeat.
“We should get going,” I said,
grabbing my pink backpack,
pupils widening at the memory
of what I’d done behind Merc’s back.
The voice inside whispering,
That song was yours to take.
“You guys are welcome to stay,” he said.
“Got plenty of rooms.”
But with two hours to get back to Shohola,
slip in the house before Tía Esme,
staying was not an option.
Always the gentleman,
Merc rode the elevator with us downstairs.
In the tightness of the space,
I could feel him staring down at me,
and then he touched my backpack.
Heartbeat in full 8-count mode
I tried my best to smile and pretend
like that flash drive didn’t exist.
“I’ma have to get you a new purse, baby gurl.
Where’d you get this? Walmart?”
“Close enough!” Dali giggled.
And I didn’t know if
I shoulda laughed or swallowed
that ball building in my throat.
“It’s my favorite,” I said.
“It’s precious, kinda like that camera of yours.”
That made Merc smile
wide enough to cover his whole face.
The elevator doors opened,
Dali and I rushing out.
“Hey, Denver!” Merc growled.
My feet screeched,
whole body jolted.
“Forgetting something?”
I turned around
to Merc’s dimply smirk,
and me and Dali’s cell phones
dangling from his hands.
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
We grabbed those phones
and booked it outta there.
Fast as feet could fly,
we zoomed to the Hudson parking lot.
“Why you acting all jumpy?”
Dali huffed beside me.
“Gurrrrrl, you’ll never believe what I did!”
“Oh, DO tell, amiga …”
Soon as I did,
there wasn’t enough horsepower
to get us through the Lincoln Tunnel,
down 287,
up Route 6,
all the way to Trails End,
where Dali’s laptop waited
for my flash drive,
fully loaded with a
little,
stolen,
musical treasure.
A crime of petty proportions
that we both agreed I’d never
commit again.
the Shohola air
reeked of the worst
odor in the world:
SCHOOL.
Any other year,
y’all woulda spent
the summer
up my ass
telling me to study,
read,
hired private tutors
to get my whole life together.
But that summer
was when both of y’all
took the lazy route,
checked in for like five seconds,
then checked all the way
O
U
T
Focus shifted to
trying to seal up the cracks,
Krazy Glue your faces
into a permanent
“Everything is all right” smile.
When it wasn’t.
’Cause for y’all
the world—aka the folks back home—
was watching,
waiting
for the too-good-for-the-hood
Lafleurs
to go tumbling
d
o
w
n .
Soon as we wrapped up a session,
Merc hit us with this piece of gold:
“Y’all should come on the road with me.”
“You mean like to your concerts and stuff?”
Dali couldn’t hold in the excitement.
“Concerts, video shoots, all of it.
And you could stay in Atlanta
—that’s the hot spot for artists.
I’d set y’all up real nice,
with your own space in the crib.”
Sneaking out
all summer
turned out to
be easy enough.
(epic showdown with the Browns aside)
In bed before the sun rose,
before anyone noticed or cared
that we had been out all night.
But this?
This was different.
As in,
let’s-run-away-from-home
and-pray-y’all
-won’t-kill-us
different.
Then again,
you knew a lil’ sumthin-sumthin
’bout running away, too,
didn’t you, Papi?
1. The music—three songs down, two more to go, to finish our demo before he’d shop it to record labels
2. The education—better than anything I’d ever get at school
3. The gifts—dude kept us stacked with the freshest kicks, jewelry, and clothes
4. The dream—that I got to live out with Dali at my side
Four things I hated:
1.
2.
3.
4.
(nothing)
Written by Denver Lafleur Sean “Mercury” Ellis
Verse:
Been wanting this for a long time
Gonna take my chance
I’m done with pretending,
it’s time to start mending
the heart
you tore apart
All good, ’cause I’m secure now
I gotta go …
Chorus:
It’s time to leave
I know it’s hard to believe
Don’t be scared for me
’Cause I got security
A place to go that’s all mine
cash money on flow
Ya little girl will be fine
Day & night
’cause I got security (security)
wrapped up recording my new song.
Once again, Merc didn’t change the lyrics.
Just slapped his name on the credits,
’cause according to our contract,
that was “standard practice.”
“In this industry,
new peeps get no love,
until they get a stamp of approval
from someone big like me.”
Soon enough though
Merc promised my name would be on
ev-er-ee-thang we put out!
And I wouldn’t have to sneak
to download my work,
and live with the guilt of doing so.
All I had to do was prove myself
as an artist,
worthy and true.
I knew my time was coming.
For real, for real.
In a perfect world
I would have controlled time.
It moved too fast,
raced parallel to my thoughts,
crashing into decisions,
scenarios,
the endless
what-if?
Like …
What if me and Dali could convince y’all to let us go?