Muted

by Tami Charles

  That’s when I knew I wasn’t dreaming at all.

  there was

  cake (red velvet)

  and candles (ages 1−9)

  and

  family

  and

  kompa music

  and careers on pause

  least for that day,

  sometimes longer.

  But that all stopped

  many moons ago,

  leaving me

  to start traditions of my own,

  with my girls.

  Tonight brought me back

  to the memory

  of forgotten birthdays.

  No need

  for codes to

  unlock phones,

  to check for texts, calls,

  a message or two,

  because

  time told the real truth

  Pretty sure I stopped mattering

  to y’all

  a long time ago.

  Yet, other thoughts

  arose, unshakable:

  Was this the surprise Merc had for me?

  Birthday turnup with a side of isolation?

  Did Dali forget about me, too?

  I undressed myself in the bathroom,

  tried to rinse it all off

  but there wasn’t enough

  soap in the world

  to wash away

  the questions

  that remained

  three layers deep

  beneath my skin.

  Day Three: Makeover

  Before the sun

  kissed the sky,

  Marissa tapped on

  my bedroom door.

  “Rise and shine, Denver.”

  Her voice,

  surprisingly syrupy sweet.

  “Is Merc back yet? I need to talk to him!

  What’s with Meat locking my door? And where’s Dali?”

  I hated how desperate I sounded.

  “You’ll see everyone soon enough.

  Merc really wants you working hard

  on yourself. Even if that means staying in your room.

  Separation breeds focus, remember?

  Now get up, let’s get you all the way

  together. Starting with this tragedy …”

  Marissa grabbed a thick chunk

  of my hair,

  grimacing when her fingers got stuck

  halfway through.

  “This needs work, sis! Get dressed and meet

  me in the salon in ten.”

  And then she bounced.

  Two hours later …

  Every hair follicle,

  from the crown to the kitchen,

  Marissa braided into submission

  hella-long extensions,

  all silky-n-smooth,

  stared at my reflection,

  like

  New hair,

  who dis?

  When she was all done,

  Marissa snapped her fingers.

  “Yas! Now this, honey, is a lewk!”

  I liked it and all.

  Woulda liked it better if Dali was there to see it.

  August 14, 3:01 a.m.

  Gwen: Ma and Papi called on your birthday and the next night, too. What’s our next move?

  Gwen: Denny, you there?

  Day Four: still no Dali

  But there was this …

  A six a.m.,

  Listerine-spiced

  SHOUT:

  “Wake up, superstar!”

  Merc hovered over me,

  jolting me outta my sleep

  and I just about tackled him to the floor.

  “Looks like somebody missed me,” he said.

  And I hit him with questions, rapid fire.

  “How come I haven’t seen Dali?

  Or much of you, for that matter?

  Why aren’t we recording music?”

  “Whoa, slow down! Say Say’s fine.

  I just took her on a little trip is all.”

  And something about that felt like,

  I don’t know … a threat? A game.

  “Without me? Where? Why?”

  Each question a siren, sounding off

  inside of me.

  Merc threw some extra honey in his voice.

  “I’ll let you see her soon, but first, put this on.”

  Then he handed me a pair of Nikes, some yoga pants,

  and a T-shirt.

  “Come downstairs. I got somebody I want you to meet.”

  cut-up,

  ripped-up,

  veined-up,

  muscle of a man,

  aka personal trainer to the stars.

  Hired by

  Merc

  to mold me

  into someone

  I wouldn’t recognize

  come the dawn

  of the New Year.

  His words,

  not mine.

  stretched to

  the end of

  God-knows-where.

  Trees hovered.

  Sun hid.

  Nikes laced tight.

  I hadn’t been outside in days.

  “It’s so quiet out here,” I said

  to Ahmed.

  “Better be.

  Merc’s nearest neighbor

  is over a mile away.”

  Geez.

  And I thought our crib

  in Shohola was bad!

  Ahmed blew his whistle.

  “Buckle up, Denver.

  Time to put in that work.”

  Merc winked at me

  and then disappeared

  inside the house.

  Pain is …

  running the entirety

  of Merc’s campus-sized

  grounds,

  not once,

  but twice

  while Ahmed drill-sergeant-yelled,

  and Meat hung in the shadows,

  half watching,

  half glued to his phone.

  Pain is …

  pushing,

  grunting,

  while picturing yourself

  singing for thousands of fans

  Pain is …

  squatting

  through muscles

  hidden beneath

  cushions of the flesh

  that needed

  smoothing out …

  a few pounds

  here,

  a few inches there

  to snatch the

  lady lumps

  to a size

  suitable

  for TV,

  magazines,

  the

  WORLD.

  Did I like it?

  Negative.

  I call bullshit on the whole

  notion that less is best.

  But if having a certain type of body

  was gonna make my voice heard,

  then I had to make it do what it do.

  I’d been told a

  thing or two

  ’bout this body—

  too thick for Shohola guys,

  just right for Caribbean eyes—

  See ’cause where

  my people came from,

  big bodies

  on small islands

  were a stamp of wealth,

  prosperity,

  success

  But to level up to that grand stage

  it’s funny how I had to shed

  parts of myself,

  school,

  family,

  friends,

  and now this body.

  A loss for a win,

  of sorts,

  the cost of fame

  was expensive AF.

  And I’d only just begun

  paying off my debts.

  became a endless

  repetitive

  necessary routine

  of six a.m. workouts

  nasty-ass,

  bland-ass

  egg whites,

  turkey burgers,

  spinach

  s
erved by silent employees

  —a new one, each time—

  who wouldn’t even look me in the eye

  Me eating meals by my damn self,

  or worse, with Marissa hovering

  And sometimes …

  No food at all.

  No songs recorded,

  no beats swimming through

  headphoned ears.

  Only new lyrics written,

  guitar chords played

  in the corner of my room.

  And still NO DALI.

  “Are you playing some sick game

  that I can’t see Dali or record

  until I fit some kinda model image?

  “When can I call my sister?

  My parents?

  “Because

  when they figure out

  I’m gone gone,

  they gonna beat my ass.

  Twice.”

  Responses

  “It’s important that we’re careful how

  we reach out to your folks.

  And you’ve done so good, baby gurl,

  being patient and disciplined.

  How ’bout tonight we

  finally make some magic?”

  Those words tumbled

  off Merc’s lips like sap

  slow-rolling

  down the bark of a tree.

  August 20, 8:48 p.m.

  Gwen: Denny, call me ASAP. THEY KNOW.

  Finally!

  Merc brought Dali to my suite.

  A reunion that

  started with

  a laugh, a hug,

  a lift, a burst

  of home.

  “Don’t ever leave me like that again!”

  And I said that with one eye on Dali, the other

  aimed at Merc. “Where have you been?”

  “Château Élan.”

  Dali spoke in a fake-ass

  French accent.

  Fireworks sprang in my chest.

  “You left the country?” I tried to rein it in,

  but damn.

  Merc laughed.

  “Nah, baby gurl, it’s a resort,

  with a state-of-the-art spa,

  here in Georgia.”

  But that didn’t help. One bit.

  Especially since I was here

  all this time. Alone.

  “I got a makeover, like you.

  If you think my hair is short here,

  you should see the rest of me.

  I have, like, zero body hair now.” She giggled.

  “Oh, and I got my teeth done.

  See? Ta dah!” Dali flashed

  a braceless grill.

  Dali’s hair,

  once cascading

  like dark waterfalls down her back,

  now barely touched

  the tips of her ears

  A spiky,

  choppy,

  badass

  blond of a girl,

  complete

  with a silver ball

  pierced through

  a swollen tongue—

  that had never

  existed before.

  “You stayed there? At the resort?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “Together?”

  “Whoa!” Merc cut in

  before she could answer.

  “Slow down, baby gurl.

  No, not at all.”

  Dali and I stood,

  eyes locked on each other,

  pieces of us both

  slowly drifting,

  changing.

  “Look at your hair.”

  Dali ran her fingers through it.

  “So pretty!”

  Merc coughed.

  “Should I leave or something?”

  And I swear, right there,

  I wanted to kick Merc out my room

  and lock the door.

  Instead, Dali laughed it off,

  like that look and that touch

  didn’t even matter.

  This is the spell Dali cast on me:

  the ability to drink me in,

  and spill me out at will.

  I’d played her game

  for years,

  but a tiny voice inside wondered

  Is she the only one playing me?

  A look …

  Unforgettable

  “I’m just trying to get you two to look like a unit.”

  Merc grazed his hand across my waist.

  “See, baby gurl, you’re getting there. Keep it up!”

  A sound …

  Iconic

  “When I’m done with you, folks will be calling

  Untouched living LEGENDS!”

  And speaking of sound …

  The time had come to work on ours.

  “Say Say, Baby Gurl,

  I wrote a new joint for y’all.

  Now let’s put in that work!”

  Relief

  washed over me.

  She was back.

  So was he.

  And together, that felt like

  H

  O

  M

  E

  I think.

  Really, I couldn’t think

  of any other way

  to describe Merc’s studio.

  You would’ve loved it, Papi!

  State-of-the-art

  keyboards,

  mics,

  soundproof walls,

  digital converters,

  amps …

  a secret,

  hidden

  paradise

  to sing …

  “Alone.”

  I felt the whole planet

  pause on its axis when he said that.

  “If Denver records by herself,

  then where do I come in?”

  But Merc ignored Dali’s question.

  Just pointed a wordless finger

  at the black leather couch.

  Handed me a sheet of lyrics,

  had Meat lead me to the booth

  empty,

  confused …

  solo.

  of a voice

  muted

  far too long?

  I’ll tell you what …

  mine turned into spiced air.

  A welcome blend

  of hushed tones,

  belted riffs

  over C minor chords,

  blasting through

  glass enclosures

  soaring,

  floating,

  landing

  next to

  two brown eyes

  that refused

  to connect with my own.

  Two takes

  was all it took

  to record “Just Breathe.”

  And Dali refused

  to look at me the entire time.

  “That’s a wrap!

  Did you hear that, Say Say?

  That sound that came out

  of Denver?

  New?

  Fresh?

  Hungry?

  You ain’t hungry enough.

  Yet.”

  I left the booth,

  joined Dali on the couch,

  whispering, “Olive juice. Next time.”

  She pulled away and whispered back,

  “It’s all good.”

  (Was it though?)

  Our (my?) session ended

  in a reward—for both of us—

  though I’m not sure you could call it that.

  Because we both knew what was waiting

  on the other end of the receiver

  was anything but a prize.

  Subject: Tía Esme

  Dominican aunties be like:

  “¡Muchacha de mierda!

  Tú te estás volviendo loca, eh?!

  ¡Coño!”

  With a side of:

  “Cuídate.

  Te quiero.

  Mi amor, I don’t want to stop you from your dreams.”

  And a promise from Dali to put out the fir
e:

  “I’ll be careful. I love you, too, Mami.”

  Subject: Ma and Papi

  (yelled in the key of WTF)

  “Where the HELL are you, Denver?

  And don’t lie because we already

  spoke to Shak and Gwen!”

  UGH!

  Traitors, número uno and dos.

  But was it wrong that I smiled through the threats?

  Was it wrong I was happy that …

  Y’all were home.

  Together.

  For once.

  Missing ME?

  You didn’t see it yet,

  but my leaving,

  my journey,

  had already started to fix us.

  But my words meant nothing, apparently.

  You:

  “If you’re not home by tomorrow night,

  I’m calling the cops on that sick pervert

  for kidnapping you.”

  Ma:

  “It’s gonna get ugly real fast, Denver.”

  Me:

  “Kidnapping? Dramatic much?

  He’s a musician, Papi, like—”

  But YOU hung up,

  leaving my words

  harmonizing with the dial tone.

  “Can they do that?” I asked.

  According to Merc, y’all could try.

  But it wouldn’t do much.

  Because

  his lawyer told him that

  WE chose to leave home.

  Merc didn’t force us (true)

  And he didn’t threaten us (also true)

  Plus, we were FINE!

  So, it was all good.

  Not everyone needed to be

  close to their family …

  or their friends.

  Success came with sacrifice,

  just like Merc said.

  Weight: 8 lbs down

  Breakfast: Roasted oxygen

  Today’s workout with Ahmed: Cardio (aka hell)

  Around the big brick house

  on Pristine Road,

  Ahmed and I jogged

  and I thought about Dali,

  like always

  Same house and yet

  two different corners

  of the world

  I ran past

  a pond

  with some ducks,

  a green forest

  full of blood flowers,

  a row of trees bearing

  red-cheeked fruit,

  and behind it,

  a metal gate

  with a big ole hole …

  begging for repair.

  And for a split second,

  I pictured myself

  running through it,

  if for nothing else

  to see what existed outside

  La Casa de Merc,

  the place I’d been trapped in all month.

  But who was I kidding?

  Everything one I needed

  was right in that house.

  Ahmed thought otherwise though.

  “There’s a whole world of opportunities

  outside of this place,