Muted Read online

  Readers should be aware that this book explores issues including abuse, eating disorders, divorce, manipulation, and rape.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PART ONE: CHECK-IN

  PART TWO: SECURITY

  PART THREE: TAKEOFF

  PART FOUR: LANDING

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  are the worst—

  ’specially during holidays.

  But that’s not the case for us,

  right, Captain Lafleur?

  We hustle past the bustle,

  sight unseen,

  straight to the holding room,

  where we’ll wait … and wait some more,

  before being escorted to the plane … first.

  Pilot perks.

  Also: boss moves!

  This leaves plenty of time

  —one hour, forty-four minutes—

  for me to explain how it all went down.

  I’m gonna say some stuff

  you ain’t gonna like.

  But you’ve done some stuff

  I didn’t like either.

  So maybe you’ll get it.

  And I’m sorry, Papi.

  For lying. For leaving.

  But not for the music.

  Even though it took some time

  to open my eyes,

  I fixed everything, you’ll see.

  I muted the monster once and for all.

  And now …

  I get to go home.

  With you.

  Just like you, and Gwen,

  and Ma wanted.

  But first, I gotta start

  from the beginning.

  Inside the great white tent

  in the community center parking lot,

  an emcee tapped and screeched

  into the microphone …

  “Singing India Arie’s

  ‘Beautiful Surprise,’

  give it up for our next

  Corn Festival talent finalists …

  Angelic Voices!”

  Slow claps simmered

  from the small audience

  as three brown girls

  took their place in the spotlight.

  Fingers plucked F#m chords

  three voices, three harmonies

  powered through verse and chorus,

  as onlookers looked on,

  and over,

  and at

  anything else

  but the magic unfolding on the stage.

  It wasn’t the first time

  we sang and dreamed

  and wished upon a star,

  every wish, every prayer unanswered.

  But for me,

  I longed for the day

  when hustle

  turned to gold.

  Show it to my family.

  Show them who I really am.

  That night, as we celebrated our win

  —fifty bucks and a bushel of corn—

  three amigas lay on a blanket

  in the grassy meadow of Shohola Falls.

  “We rich rich now, y’all!”

  I fanned my sweaty face

  with my cut … a whole seventeen dollars.

  “Even Black Jesus knows

  that ain’t enough to do enough.”

  Shak half laughed, half groaned.

  And she and I high-fived

  our measly-ass thirty-four dollars

  beneath a silver moon.

  “I’m so done with

  this small-time mierda,”

  Dali cursed at the blue-gray skies.

  “We need a stroke of luck.

  Like … if y’all could sing for anyone

  in the universe, who would it be?”

  “Kirk Franklin.” Shak didn’t hesitate.

  “Queen Yeli, J. Lo, but most of all …”

  Dali and I locked eyes and belted

  “Sean ‘Mercury’ Ellis!!!” in perfect harmony.

  We’d been stanning homeboy since third grade.

  “The King of R&B?

  Wouldn’t that be something?” Shak smiled.

  And on that night,

  three brown girls,

  three heartbeats colliding,

  laughed and laughed

  at that dumbass dream.

  But as the sky grew darker,

  the stars undressed themselves,

  and the universe whispered ever-so-softly,

  Some wishes are granted

  only to the bold …

  YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS THIS!

  Sean “Mercury” Ellis at the Prudential Center in Newark, NJ!

  Grammy Award winner, hit maker, pop-R&B superstar!

  You comin’ or nah?

  It’s going down Friday, June 14 at 7 p.m.!

  Top fan comments:

  denverlee01: Calling @dalisaybabe @ballershak, behold … A SIGN!

  Samiam24: #nah Merc is #sketchyAF #ImGood

  Cutierock14: We bow down to #MercEllis all day, errrday!

  dalisaybabe: Damn @denverlee01, what kinda brujería did you do? You literally conjured this man up! Right @ballershak?

  ballershak: Word. Black Jesus came through on the prayer front! Hallelujerrr! This is gonna be fun!

  lyrically known as Whew, those girls can SAAANG,

  locally known as But, who really gives a damn?

  Talent dripped through our pores,

  dreams of fame as real

  as starlight,

  but none of it mattered in

  that town,

  that school,

  those mountains,

  my family.

  In Shohola,

  nobody won Grammys

  or Billboards

  or VMAs.

  That’s why soon as I saw

  that my favorite artist of all time

  was gonna be just two hours away,

  it was obvious this was meant to be,

  so my goals were hella clear:

  Be bold. Get seen. Be heard.

  This was our chance.

  How’d I know?

  Because the universe told me so.

  Last day of junior year

  and Mr. Andrade had the NERVE

  to be at the board … teaching!

  Dead smack in the middle of

  THE most boring discussion

  about …

  “What was he saying again, Shak?”

  Shak started to tell me,

  always the good girl I’d never be.

  But I didn’t hear a damn thing,

  cuz right on time

  Dali appeared outside

  the science lab door.

  Pretty as an angel,

  a smile like the devil himself,

  no one ever suspects Dali.

  Left eye winking,

  lips puckered up,

  Dali mouthed, “It’s go time, muchachas!”

  But before we could get a word in—

  RIIIIIIIIIING!!!

  Fire alarms blazed,

  crowds gathered,

  feet scattered

  students

  teachers

  principals

  huddled outside

  in beautiful

  utter chaos …

  a perfect melody

  in the key of

  distRacti0n.

  was in full effect!

  Sunroof open,

  AC on full blast

  school clothes tossed

  an in-the-car makeover

  of epic proportions

  for two, not three:

  lip gloss

  midriffs

  cutoffs

  For them … not me.

  Wasn’t
catching my stomach

  hanging out like that

  I dressed myself

  in the usual:

  too-big jeans,

  too-big tee,

  chest

  skin

  island hips

  dipped invisibly

  Yeah, my body was big

  but my voice was even bigger.

  All I had to do was get to the concert

  to prove my point.

  Ma: DENNY, I GOT A FIRE DRILL ALERT FROM YOUR SCHOOL.

  Me: It’s over now. Headed to calculus. Then hanging out at the Falls. Dali’s after. I’m sleeping over, k?

  Ma: HANGING OUT? GWEN WOULD BE DOING SOMETHING MORE PRODUCTIVE. LIKE FINDING A SUMMER JOB!

  Me: It’s the last day of school, Ma.

  Ma: YOU CALL ME AND CHECK IN, OK? PICKING UP ANOTHER SHIFT IN THE ER. PAPI COMES HOME TOMORROW MORNING. DON’T BE LATE.

  Me: Turn the caps lock off.

  Ma: HUH?

  Me: Never mind. See you in the morning.

  Ma: BRIGHT AND EARLY FOR PAPI. DON’T TEXT AND DRIVE!!!

  Me: K, Ma. Got it.

  turned the music up,

  let the sound

  drown the anxiety rising

  bone-to-skin,

  laughed,

  and sang

  in the key of

  IDGAF!

  Because right then,

  right there

  I had zero fucs to give.

  Not when …

  summers were made for music.

  (not annoying parents)

  Mini concerts in the park,

  jam sessions in the basement,

  hitting up the Apple Valley on Route 6,

  to enter the talent contest,

  where we’d sing our hearts out,

  and pray to win that hundred dollars.

  Not each though—

  that was a three-way split.

  Not enough to do enough,

  Shak would say.

  But every summer,

  we did that (& more) anyway.

  Hoping, praying, dreaming

  of seeing a talent scout

  a record exec,

  or get THIS …

  our parents in the crowd.

  But I we were never enough, I guess.

  That’s why I had to

  make it happen,

  nervous as I was.

  So we sped off in my Honda Civic,

  three tickets in hand,

  didn’t care ’bout those nosebleed seats,

  ’cause I had a plan.

  And there I was

  driving-driving-driving,

  while Shak and Dali sang the roof off

  as I begged the universe

  to make my wish come true.

  Because deep down I knew

  that moment

  that highway

  that summer was made

  just for me.

  (us)

  summers were made for?

  Dreams.

  Intergalactic,

  out-of-this-world,

  to M

  me    E

  fly         R

              C

                U

                  R

                    Y

  and back

  kinda dreams.

  “What if our folks find out we dipped off?”

  “What if we get lost?”

  “What if …”

  “What if …”

  “What if …”

  Songs in the key of doubt,

  by Shakira Brown

  “Do you think this lip stain makes me look older?”

  “Do you think my booty looks good in these shorts?”

  “Do you?”

  A lullaby in the key of diva,

  by Dalisay Gómez

  Dali’s ass looked perfect

  in those jeans,

  and I woulda told her that …

  had Shak not been around.

  But!!!

  … that wasn’t the point.

  The point was

  brains outweighed beauty,

  which meant

  my plan was

  absolutely,

  positively,

  g-e-n-i-u-s …

  right?

  (of course!)

  Metadata.

  All-knowing magic,

  hidden in pictures,

  that showed me where,

  out of all the planets in the universe,

  Mercury was positioned.

  First, at home in Atlanta.

  Concert in Richmond.

  Cavs game in Cleveland.

  Video shoot in Philly.

  And then his final destination:

  40.7335° N, -74.1710° W

  In other words …

  25 Lafayette St., Newark, NJ.

  His arrival time? 10:17 a.m.

  Ours?

  Noon-thirty.

  Fifty-leven girls

  thought to do the same shit.

  fireball in blue sky,

  aimed at your body

  like lasers.

  Heat-hugging,

  sweat-building

  air,

  we inhaled,

  exhaled

  like fiends searching for our next fix.

  Steel double doors ahead,

  too far to touch,

  barricaded by

  girls,

  skintight clothes wearing,

  lollipop sucking,

  video-vixen wannabes.

  And me.

  In my basic-ass outfit

  standing beside

  Dali (Miss Universe)

  and Shak (legs for days)

  Waiting …

  Waiting …

  Waiting …

  Sean “Mercury” Ellis was inside the Prudential.

  Mic check done, ready to hit the streets,

  grab a bite, before the concert began.

  And so we all stood

  beneath the sun.

  Hope filling up,

  fingers crossed that he’d float out,

  like Black Jesus,

  invite someone, anyone

  onto that tour bus parked at the corner.

  And I tell you, just like in the movies,

  those doors flew open,

  pupils combusted.

  Stares turned to whispers,

  whispers bubbled up

  to loud chants.

  “Merc is here!”

  “Merc is here!”

  Hella pissed

  ’cause I couldn’t see nothing.

  Just heard the claps echoing,

  up, down, and all around

  Lafayette like a parade.

  Felt the huddle grow tighter.

  A stampede of epic proportions

  swallowed me, Shak, and Dali

  whole.

  “Can I get a selfie, Merc?”

  voices cried out.

  My eyes found a clearing,

  zoomed in on a giant

  hovering above the crowd.

  Security.

  Big head stacked on big shoulders,

  stacked on even bigger arms,

  swatting video thots

  like gnats in summer.

  I grabbed hold of Shak and Dali,

  forced our bodies away from the crowd,

  inched closer toward the tour bus.

  “It’s no use,” Dali said.

  But I didn’t hear her hear her

  because my eyes studied

  the sea of red-bottom shoes

  and Timberland boots,

  and finally,

  I saw the only pair that mattered—

  diamond encrusted Air Force 1s.

  “He’s coming this way. Shak, connect the speaker!

  Pull up the track!” I yelled.<
br />
  And so began Mrs. Doubtfire with the questions.

  “Right here? Right now? On the street?”

  I snatched my phone from her,

  clicked play,

  and let that C minor 7th chord

  do what it do.

  And by do,

  I mean SAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!

  Dali came in with that

  soprano note,

  high enough to crack a hole

  in the sky.

  Me and Shak

  swerved in beneath her,

  the perfect alto-tenor blend.

  If music were a color,

  ours woulda been blue-red-green

  ocean meets fire meets earth,

  and I’m not just saying that

  ’cause those were my lyrics,

  my chords, my literal heartbeat … in a beat.

  I say it because

  the minute we unleashed our voices,

  noise canceled,

  Air Force 1s emerged,

  each diamond

  bringing more sunshine with it.

  Sean “Mercury” Ellis.

  Shades slid

  to the tip of his nose.

  Gray eyes sparkling

  beneath the midday sun.

  Homeboy was snapping,

  swerving,

  grooving to “Shoot Your Shot,”

  our song—

  my song.

  Time stood still as

  verse blended into chorus,

  into the final,

  belting, universe-breaking

  note.

  Applause, thunderously loud.

  Eyes upon eyes

  stared us down.

  But there was only one set I cared about.

  “That was dope,” Merc said. “Y’all wrote that?”

  “Denver did.” Dali giggled,

  then covered her braces

  with her left hand.

  There was no time to be shy,

  not when the chance to fly

  was right in our faces.

  “We’re Angelic Voices,

  an R&B group, from PA.

  Looking to score a record deal.”

  I handed Merc the business card I printed at home …

  like a freaking BOSS!

  Whispers from the crowd spread like disease.

  “Ain’t getting no record deal looking like that.

  ’Specially McThickums.”

  But I didn’t hear them hear them,

  ’cause I was too busy

  breathing in the same air as Merc.

  He leaned in and I knew what was coming next:

  “Yooooo, what’s up with your eyes?”