Muted Read online

  She just doesn’t wanna talk to you.

  Or me. You gotta let her go.”

  Letting go

  was never an option.

  How could he not see that?

  “Denver, you’re gonna cry

  yourself into a fever.

  Here take these.”

  “What are they?”

  “They’ll take the edge off.”

  I thought back

  to the night Dali took that pill

  Merc offered.

  Strange as it sounds,

  I wanted to take them

  if for nothing else,

  to transport me back to that night

  of her, me, together in my bed.

  I popped two pills in my mouth,

  gulped down the large glass

  of water he handed me,

  praying it’d be enough to do enough.

  “That’s my girl.”

  Merc tucked me in,

  just like Ma used to do

  when me and Gwen were little.

  He pulled the curtains open

  so a patch of moonlight

  poured through the window

  and down on my face.

  “How am I supposed

  to do this without Dali?”

  “That’s easy,” Merc said.

  “Like every other solo artist.

  One song,

  one lyric at a time.”

  Solo

  never

  fit the image

  I dreamed

  for myself.

  How was I supposed to be hopeful

  when I felt

  SO

  LOW?

  times

  the

  very

  best

  dreams

  take

  root

  with

  your

  eyes

  wide

  O

  P

  E

  N …

  First day of third grade

  backs pressed against

  the playground wall.

  Two new students

  silently watched,

  children playing,

  world moving,

  barely existing.

  Took in the wonders

  of a world that was new to us:

  Shohola, Pennsylvania.

  Transported from different places:

  me from Brooklyn,

  and Dali,

  from Dominican Republic.

  Two boys—one scrawny, one tall

  ran up to Dali.

  “Say something in Mexican!”

  Dali twisted her face, in classic WTF.

  “Like tacos!”

  the other one laughed.

  “I’m not Mexican. I’m from Santo Domingo.”

  Dali’s words barely

  broke through the playground noise.

  “What’d she say? Burrito and finito?”

  Skinny ass teased.

  Tall one laughed,

  like it was the greatest

  joke ever told.

  Little did they know,

  when you were from Brooklyn,

  iron knuckles cracked easily on loose lips,

  induced racist white boy tears,

  made feet scatter like roaches.

  Some friendships

  are born from

  coincidence,

  knuckle sandwiches,

  and

  school suspension.

  (with a side of música)

  That was the beginning

  of the story of

  us.

  October 19, 1:02 p.m.

  Me: I know you’re coming back here, so stop overreacting. I’m waiting.

  Dali:

  October 22, 4:29 p.m.

  Me: I’m sorry. Can you forgive me? I’m still here, waiting for you.

  Dali:

  October 26, 2:36 a.m.

  Me: I can’t stay here any longer. Not without you. I’m coming home.

  October 26, 2:37 a.m.

  Dali: Don’t.

  I dialed

  and dialed

  and dialed

  breath paused.

  It rang

  and rang

  and rang

  calls ignored.

  I paced

  and paced

  and paced

  until she left me

  no choice.

  Packed my bags,

  under the cover of darkness.

  Told myself,

  Tomorrow, I’m going home.

  First, the smell

  woke me up.

  A mixture of

  meat, heat, and mildew.

  Then it was the sound,

  heavy, constant

  panting.

  I opened my eyes,

  and staring back at me?

  A little,

  happy

  bundle of fur,

  licking,

  slurping

  my face

  like an ice cream cone.

  “You got a puppy?”

  I wasn’t sure who was

  smiling more,

  Merc or the dog.

  “You mean YOU got a puppy.

  I couldn’t watch you moping

  around here another day.

  Thought this little guy

  would cheer you up.”

  “Omg, thank you! What is he?”

  “An Otterhound,

  rare British breed,

  can get up to 125 pounds.

  Sucka cost a grip, too,

  so you better like him.”

  I wrapped my arms

  around that ball of fluff so tight,

  it almost made me forget about my plan.

  “Oh, I love him! I think I’ll call him …

  Fluffy!”

  “Nah, too fairy-tale.

  How ’bout Chance?

  Something to describe the journey,

  ya know?”

  Merc stayed dropping wisdom.

  “Yeah, Chance.

  That’s perfect.”

  Merc placed Chance’s leash

  on my nightstand,

  started for the bedroom door.

  “Get dressed and meet me in the studio.

  I got another surprise for you.”

  “Merc, we should talk

  about Dali …

  I need to go—”

  “Trust me, baby gurl.”

  Merc hit me with a

  wink-smile-nod three piece.

  “You wanna see this.”

  1. Dali came back.

  2. Dali came back.

  3. Dali came back.

  4. FOR ME!

  I washed my face.

  I brushed my teeth.

  I combed my hair.

  I got dressed.

  I

  never

  ran

  so

  fast

  in

  my

  life

  !!!

  Down the steps,

  past the kitchen,

  past the library,

  past the

  gym

  spa

  salon

  the music boomed

  LOUDER

  stronger.

  Our songs,

  Untouched,

  masterfully retouched,

  trumpets blazing,

  harmonies grazing

  the inner pieces of me.

  I heard that

  classic Denver-Dali

  blend

  as I turned the doorknob,

  swung open the studio door,

  screamed over the bass,

  “I knew you’d bring dat ass back, chiiii … ca!”

  Two leather chairs

  swiveled around,

  Merc on the left, camcorder in hand,

  and NOT DALI on the right.

  Instead,

  a candy-lip-coated,

&
nbsp; Timberland-wearing,

  finger snapping

  Nayeli Terron.

  Aka

  Queen Yeli

  Aka

  female rapper

  who knocked

  Cardi B off

  the #1 Billboard spot

  not once,

  but four times …

  this year!

  I don’t remember

  who spoke first

  but that smile

  and that hug

  sucked up

  every word

  that raced through my mind.

  Merc recorded that whole moment,

  my reaction, that squeal,

  Queen Yeli laying it on

  hella thick …

  “So nice to meet you, Denver!

  Your vocals are crazy dope!

  We definitely gonna have to collabo!

  When I get back from my European tour fo’ sho!

  I got the perfect song for us!

  You’ll still be here in December, right?”

  Two hours spent

  chilling in the studio

  with the hottest artist

  on the charts,

  she took selfies of the two of us

  making kissy faces, tagged my name

  and posted on Instagram for

  the WHOLE world to see us flexin’!

  Every passing second

  felt like

  freedom

  amnesia

  bliss

  a middle finger to the one

  who called this dream of mine little.

  After Queen Yeli left,

  Merc and I took a walk around

  the grounds of his massive property,

  the Atlanta sun

  playing coy behind thick clouds.

  At the pond,

  we tossed food at the fish

  as autumn leaves

  drifted in the breeze.

  “You believe in fate, baby gurl?” Merc pointed to

  the heavens.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Denver, what we got, our music, this empire

  we’re building? That’s just for us. Nobody else. Time

  to start cutting folks off, you feel me.”

  I felt something, all right.

  Equal parts

  Yes-and-no-and-maybe.

  “Now, where’d you wanna go again, Denver?”

  I tipped my face to the sky,

  surrendered my voice to the wind.

  “Nowhere, Merc.”

  (I wasn’t going nowhere at all.)

  I tucked away my exit strategy,

  remembering Dali’s text.

  She didn’t want me around, no how.

  So why leave,

  when the chance to fly

  was right there in Atlanta?

  (and beyond)

  (Almost) back to normal,

  Merc ramped up my schedule again,

  minus the workouts with Ahmed,

  —Homeboy don’t match our vision, Merc said—

  We recorded music on repeat,

  hit up the hottest clubs

  and hookah lounges at night.

  An added bonus,

  taking Chance for walks

  around the property,

  just nowhere near

  the hole in the fence

  by the peach trees.

  Merc cautioned me

  to keep away from the front gates, too.

  Why?

  Because on the

  other side,

  paparazzi monsters

  lurked in the shadows.

  October 31, 11:10 p.m.

  Papi: Pitit mwen, my little one, how I miss you. Please return to us.

  November 1, 12:01 a.m.

  Ma: WE WON’T GIVE UP ON YOU. WE LOVE YOU, DENNY.

  sun turned to moon,

  sky filled with stars,

  vocals laid over

  thumping beats,

  Marissa headed to sleep

  and Meat finally off the clock,

  which left me

  and Merc

  and that duffel bag on the floor

  in the studio …

  a

  l

  o

  n

  e.

  “Let me hit the head

  before we call it a night,”

  Merc said.

  He walked down the hall

  and that bag,

  half zipped open,

  and for a moment

  I wondered …

  Was the video of me and Queen Yeli in there?

  And if it was, maybe I could send it to Dali,

  with a love note, maybe even a new song.

  Would it be enough to bring her back?

  The duffel bag was filled with VHS-C tapes,

  but no camcorder.

  I quietly ran my fingers across them,

  sloppily tossed around the bag,

  no organization whatsoever.

  Each was labeled with a name

  the first was Marissa

  the rest were some names I didn’t recognize.

  Until I saw two

  at the bottom of the pile:

  Dalisay

  Denver

  I was sure

  those were all

  the homemade tapes he’d made,

  over the years of working with different singers.

  Studio sessions,

  life on the road,

  clubbing,

  all the good times

  on repeat.

  I could send her ours,

  a peace offering of sorts,

  a reminder that it wasn’t all bad here

  when we were together.

  I looked around the studio

  for a VCR and saw nothing

  that remotely looked like one.

  I was sure he had one at least,

  somewhere in that

  castle of a home.

  I was also sure he wouldn’t miss

  the two tapes, if I borrowed them

  for a little while.

  I just wanted to see Dali again,

  even if it was through the screen.

  I tossed the tapes in my AliExpress bag.

  The bathroom door clicked open,

  and I Supermanned it to the couch

  hella quick,

  put on my best show.

  Merc dried his hands

  on his tee,

  stopped short,

  looked at his bag

  and then back at me,

  dozing-dozing-dozing,

  and then he shrugged.

  “Somebody’s tired,” he whispered.

  “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

  I yawned

  and stretched

  my arms like wings.

  Merc grabbed his duffel bag,

  swung it around his shoulder,

  then grabbed mine, too.

  And that right there

  pressed fast forward

  on my whole universe,

  mind racing

  dontopenit

  dontopenit

  He walked me to my

  bedroom door, those tapes

  hidden in my backpack

  pressed against his back.

  “Good night,” Merc said, walking away,

  “Oh, almost forgot to give you this.”

  He handed me my backpack

  and closed the door softly behind him,

  as I clutched it to my chest,

  exhaling,

  finally.

  Those tapes weren’t

  the first thing I stole from Merc.

  Something told me they wouldn’t be my last.

  At night

  when I lay in bed,

  next to Chance,

  I pretended it was Dali,

  which I knew was stupid

  given the way she played me,

  but it was enough to

  chase away the
lonelies.

  Another random confession:

  In the big brick house

  on Pristine Road,

  there lived a girl

  in a big black room

  with a loose floorboard.

  The perfect hiding place

  for bags of plantain chips

  stolen from the pantry

  (because celery dinners were boring AF),

  a police officer’s contact card,

  a SanDisk with my song I stole downloaded,

  and

  two tiny VHS-C tapes.

  TheBuzz* Follow

  Buzz STAFF: Bella D! @belladblock_

  CONCERT CANCELED AMID ALLEGATIONS

  Crossover R&B star Sean “Mercury” Ellis was scheduled to perform at Pepperdine University this Saturday; however, after a petition from students and faculty, the Los Angeles school has decided to cancel the concert. Link in bio for more details.

  Liked by IamJessie and 298,512 others

  View all 7,703 comments

  GwennieLafleur: My sister @denverlee01 went missing after @kingmerc kidnapped her. Denny, if you can see this, PLEASE reach out to your family! We went to the @kingmerc Detroit concert to find you. His squad shut us down. We are #hurting so bad sis.

  Damnboi23: Dumb move Pepperdine. Nobody turns down the KING!

  GoneFlying: @gwennielafleur I just saw her w Merc @HaloLounge downtown Atlanta. She ain’t missing. She just don’t miss YO ASS! #drama

  MommaBear: @gwennielafleur can you DM me? My daughter @IsabelFaddenBae went to Merc’s concert in Detroit too and never came home. I called the cops, the news, no one cares cuz #BlackGirlsDontMatter

  WeStillMatterOrg: DM for details on the next #MuteMerc protest, coming to a city near you.

  that post on Instagram,

  never saw the comments,

  only heard the aftermath

  of Marissa telling Merc

  about the concert being

  canceled.

  And I thought:

  Mannnnn …

  cancel culture was

  alive and well!

  Dumb folks

  sure loved

  getting

  trapped

  By rumors

  By hearsay

  By lies

  By FAKE NEWS!

  Canceled shows meant

  hours-long meetings

  in the studio,

  with lawyers,

  executives,

  every single important

  #TeamMerc decision maker.

  An epic scramble to

  clean up traces of dirt,

  the residue of lies

  spread online.