Muted Read online

  Detroit, Michigan

  The tour bus pulled behind

  Little Caesars Arena.

  My nerves?

  a bubbling-hot mess

  That feeling never got old.

  Lines wrapped around the whole building

  crowds huddled in epic proportions

  I scanned the faces upon faces as we entered,

  heard the chants,

  the fans screaming Merc’s name.

  But then in the distance,

  I saw a small

  cluster of signs

  held high in the air.

  Venom spewing through

  every painted red word:

  Merc is a monster!

  Merc is a predator!

  #MuteMercNow

  Merc wasn’t perfect,

  I knew that.

  The isolation,

  the separation,

  of me,

  Dali,

  Us.

  I hated how he

  had me spoonfeed lies

  about my own parents

  on Instagram.

  But y’all lied first.

  We weren’t prey.

  And he wasn’t a monster.

  Wasn’t no hero either,

  but who said we needed one?

  There was a huddle

  in front of the double steel doors

  Flashing lights

  a whole chorus of voices

  calling out Merc’s name

  Meat and a large security team

  sandwiched us all in

  singers, dancers, musicians,

  claustrophobia settling in my bones

  “Sha …”

  A familiar voice,

  drowned deep within the noise.

  “Shashou?” I whipped myself around.

  Heartbeat quickened,

  I jumped up

  scanning the crowd,

  searching for hair,

  thick and always piled

  to the heavens.

  When we were little

  Gwen and I

  would call each other

  Shashou,

  Haitian Creole for

  my baby,

  my sweetheart,

  Sha for short.

  The huddle grew tighter

  moved faster

  among a sea of faces,

  black, brown, and everything

  in between,

  double doors slammed fast

  behind #TeamMerc.

  I ran to them,

  dropping the bags in my hand,

  Meat blocked my path.

  “Gonna need you to

  head to the dressing rooms, Denver.”

  “I think my sister’s here.

  Let me out,” I begged.

  But Meat just stood there

  scrunching up his face.

  “Does she work for Billboard magazine?”

  “No.” My eyes began to sting.

  “Hollywood Edition? Vogue?”

  “No.” Sting turned to water.

  “Then I doubt that was your sister.

  Those people have media passes.

  Now Merc needs you down in hair and makeup.

  Show’s starting soon.”

  Was I losing my mind?

  I know what I heard.

  Sha …

  If it was Gwen,

  she would

  have tackled

  herself through the crowd.

  Yeah, that felt about right.

  Plus, it couldn’t have been my perfect sis.

  She was studying abroad in Paris,

  going on with her life, her dreams.

  I grabbed my things,

  and made my way downstairs,

  told myself I had my

  own dreams to chase.

  Like Meat said,

  we had a show to do.

  back in June?

  At the Prudential in Newark?

  Three girls with

  starlight in their eyes,

  swooned

  and swayed

  and prayed

  that they could

  be up there

  singing with Merc?

  And remember that moment

  he pulled Dali

  from the stage,

  serenaded her with

  his signature song?

  Fast-forward

  four months.

  As the bass thumped,

  Merc jumped off the stage,

  landing directly in front

  of a girl,

  cornrowed,

  Merc’s face plastered

  on her red T-shirt,

  faced stained with omg tears.

  “What’s your name and age?” Merc sang into the mic.

  “Isabel Fadden! Old enough, ha!”

  “Wanna sing with me?”

  “OMGOMGOMG!!”

  Merc grabbed

  homegirl by the hand,

  pulled her center stage,

  and together they sang “Do Me”

  while her friends went apeshit!

  Homegirl sounded a HAWT MESS

  as her body folded into Merc’s,

  lights dimmed low, curtains closed.

  End of the show.

  In our dressing room,

  Dali paced the floor

  like she missed an appointment or something.

  “You okay, girl?”

  “What’s taking him so long?”

  “Who, Merc? Beats me.”

  “Did you hear that girl? Wack-ass vocals!

  Teeth all jacked up? Toe’-up braids? Dancing with Merc?”

  I laughed hard

  ’cause Lord knew

  Dali was telling the truth.

  “Who cares?

  It’s just an act anyway.

  No different than

  what he did with you the first night.”

  Dali stopped pacing.

  Then she just busted out crying.

  Thick tears,

  rapid succession.

  “Dali, what did I say?”

  “Just STOP!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  “Stop what?”

  Back pressed against the dressing room wall,

  Dali slid down to the floor.

  “You don’t get it.

  Everything works out for you, Denver.

  You write the songs, you perform background,

  and I just sit and watch. And I’m trying to be happy

  for you, I swear, but it’s hard. And I hate myself

  for feeling this way.”

  I knelt down beside her.

  Grazed my fingers through her spiky hair.

  “He’s gonna put you in the next show.

  I can feel it, Dali.”

  “Is that all you feel about Merc?”

  My mouth twisted,

  brain fogged up hella fast.

  “I mean, he’s kind to you, right?

  He’s never tried to …”

  Silence took precedence

  over unfinished sentences.

  “Tried what?

  Something fresh?”

  —I could feel bile catch in my throat—

  “Um, no. Why? Did he try

  something with you?

  Like that time he took

  you to that resort …”

  “No, no, no.” Dali wiped the last of her tears,

  nestled her head against my chest.

  “I thought I saw Gwen tonight … well, heard her,”

  I said, a hint of disappointment settling.

  “Ain’t she at some fancy French school?” Dali asked.

  “Yeah.” I choked out my response. “I was just tripping.”

  “I think I miss home, Denver.”

  “Me too.”

  The weight of those words

  lived, breathed, grew

  inside of me.

  Saying it loud,

  like Dali did,

  split me o
pen,

  made me feel everything

  I’d been trying not to.

  I missed Brooklyn

  I missed Ma

  I missed YOU, Papi

  I missed Gwen

  I missed Shak

  And Shohola—

  a little bit.

  “We’ll visit soon,” I said.

  “First thing I’ma have Mami do

  is make you some Dominican food.

  Getting too flaca on me, girl.”

  Dali tapped my stomach,

  only it didn’t jiggle like it used to.

  The thought of

  Tía Esme’s sancocho

  with a side of avocado awakened my

  whole spirit.

  “You sure we’ll go home again?” Dali asked.

  “All celebrities visit

  their old stomping grounds. Right?”

  I winked.

  But she didn’t answer back.

  Just stared at me

  hella hypnotic

  trapped me into

  a push and pull

  of yes and no

  Lips touched,

  tongues intertwined,

  memories sparked,

  drowning deep,

  hands folded,

  melting,

  blending,

  into that thing

  I (she? we?) always did,

  but never spoke of

  again

  and

  again

  But …

  a loud tap

  rattled the door,

  pulled us straight out.

  “Time to roll!” Marissa yelled through

  the crack, then slammed it.

  Dali jumped up,

  started grabbing her things fast.

  “I can’t do this anymore!”

  I sat on the floor,

  stunned for a second,

  wanting to remind her

  of who-kissed-who

  And that all those other times

  it wasn’t me, Dali, it was …

  you.

  Even though

  I never stopped her.

  Was she ashamed of us?

  Was I?

  I think the answer was both

  no and yes

  Me and Dali

  were the visual representation of

  a question mark, in human form.

  But the real question was …

  Did I care?

  I liked

  the perfectly

  imperfect

  broken

  hidden pieces of us.

  And for me,

  that was enough.

  “I’m out!”

  Dali bolted through the door.

  Running after her,

  I saw Merc walking past the buses,

  Panasonic in hand,

  Isabel with the fuc’d-up braids

  diva strutting for the camera.

  I swear groupies stayed thirsty.

  Ready at a moment’s notice to give it up to Merc

  or anyone in his entourage.

  Glad me and Dali weren’t like that.

  Meat told everybody to keep walking,

  but Dali slowed her stride

  once she saw Merc,

  cursed “I hate you, pendejo,”

  clutched her stomach

  and just let …

  G

  O

  !!!

  I started rubbing my hands

  against her back, like mad.

  “What’s wrong with you, Dali?”

  “Get off me, yo!”

  She yanked away,

  as if my touch was a disease.

  Then she hunched over again

  and kept going-going-going.

  Merc’s ass didn’t even stop to help.

  Instead he and that girl

  made their way to the limo waiting.

  “Ay yo, Marissa, make sure you clean that shit up!”

  Limo doors slammed.

  Merc sped off beneath a full moon.

  Meat poured a glass

  of ginger ale

  laid out saltine crackers

  and a steaming Cup of Noodles.

  “You gotta stay hydrated.”

  Meat tried to feed her,

  but she didn’t even flinch.

  I ran cold water

  over washcloths,

  whispered olive juice

  as I wiped her sweaty face,

  but she wasn’t having that either.

  “I ate something bad.

  I’ll be better tomorrow.

  Just leave me alone, both of you.

  I don’t need your fuc’n help!”

  She sprang up from the chair,

  led us to the door,

  and slammed that shit

  in both of our faces.

  October 17, 11:57 p.m.

  Gwen: I get it. You’re upset with me for ratting you out. But I’m not sorry for worrying about you. You didn’t have to sic four bodyguards on me tonight. I just wanted to see you again. Make sure you’re okay. We’re falling apart without you, Denny. Please, just call me back.

  The rising of the sun

  brought a morning

  I wasn’t prepared for.

  Three buses lined up

  all set to head back to Atlanta

  each crew with their own.

  I recognized every face,

  except the one I needed

  to see the most.

  “Let me talk to Dali,”

  I told Merc.

  “She left. You’ll ride with me.”

  “What do you mean left?

  Like to use the bathroom inside the hotel?

  I can wait.”

  “Nah, more like adiós.”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” I said.

  Though the memory

  of her words

  still rang fresh in my ear.

  “But she’s coming back, right?”

  Merc shrugged.

  “Doubt it.

  She left you this note though.”

  Denver,

  Do you. You were always the most talented one anyway.

  I’m out.

  Dali

  Not everyone is built for this.

  But you? You’re a real one.”

  But I didn’t hear him hear him,

  because I was too busy

  trying to form thoughts

  into words.

  Dali woulda never up and left.

  Not without me.

  Not without a real goodbye.

  And definitely

  not with that trash-ass note.

  Right?

  …….

  (right.)

  promises a safe landing,

  but not a calm passage.

  You used to always say that, Papi.

  I thought it was your fancy pilot talk.

  But now?

  The message is like a stain I can’t wash out.

  I am home. (almost)

  I am safe. (finally)

  (thankyouthankyouthankyou)

  the temperature in Lehigh Valley, Pennsylvania,

  will be a high of forty-seven degrees,

  with a low of thirty-four degrees,

  and partly cloudy skies.

  We will arrive

  in approximately

  forty-five minutes.

  We here at Spirit Airlines

  would like to thank you

  for flying with us today

  and wish you and yours

  happy holidays.

  Flight attendants,

  please prepare the cabin for landing.

  that when a white-browed

  sparrow weaver

  begins to sing,

  its partner joins in—

  their duet in perfect tune.

  I know you can’t

  hear me singing

  from where you’re seated, Papi,

  but soon as we land,
>
  I’ll raise my voice

  loud enough to harmonize

  with yours.

  And when we

  get to our destination,

  can you play

  Prelude in E Minor

  for me …

  for old times’ sake?

  How Merc reacted to Dali dipping off:

  A shrug

  a hug

  Silent ride

  walk inside

  The house

  lights out

  Like

  she

  never,

  ever

  mattered.

  Two a.m.

  I lay in bed

  tears rolling,

  biting down

  on the pillow

  to muffle words,

  curses,

  screams,

  apologies.

  I imagined her

  next to me in the mass

  of that lonely room.

  Olive juice, Dali.

  I’m glad I said it last night,

  and I meant every word.

  Even though she

  didn’t say it back

  that time.

  I’m sorry it wasn’t enough

  to keep her.

  Maybe I was the one

  who was never enough for Dali.

  Was she with her family?

  With mine?

  Did they miss me?

  Did she?

  And Merc,

  I know he never really saw Dali.

  Not the way I did.

  I should have

  spoken up,

  said something,

  anything

  to make Merc see

  that her voice

  that gift

  was just as good,

  if not better,

  than

  (mine.)

  A tap on my door

  before he opened it

  and walked in.

  “I can hear you all the way downstairs, Denver.”

  “I just need to talk to her.

  You have to let me call her!

  She’s more important to me

  than your stupid boot camp rules!”

  I cried out.

  Those last words,

  a roundhouse kick to Merc’s gut.

  His face hardened, but his words

  did the opposite.

  “Okay, baby gurl.

  You win.”

  Merc pulled out my phone,

  and through my tearstained fingers,

  I did everything I could to

  catch a glimpse

  of the digits

  Merc typed

  before he handed it to me.

  0-2-2-7

  Got it.

  Dali’s number rang …

  and rang …

  into nothingness.

  “Why won’t she answer?” I sobbed and sobbed.

  “Maybe she left her phone at the hotel?”

  I was uncontrollable now.

  Back convulsing,

  tears and snot merging as one.

  “No, baby gurl, she’s got her phone.