Muted Page 4

  “And rainbows and frickin’ fairy dust?”

  Merc cut her off so quick it stung,

  and everyone could feel it.

  I took in a sip of breath,

  slicing the silence of the room.

  “No disrespect, Denver.

  The theme? Dope.

  The melody? Hot.

  I kept all that.

  But you guys need an image.”

  His eyes shifted to Shak.

  “Time to drop the church girl act.

  ‘Angelic Voices’ ain’t gonna crack

  the Billboard Hot 100.

  But ‘Untouched’ will …

  Now, y’all ready to cut this track, or what?”

  Shak’s jaw completely unhinged,

  lips temporarily frozen in the key of WTF.

  Mine, too.

  My mouth rejected air,

  thoughts, words.

  One piece of me

  wanted to scream,

  That’s not how I wrote it!

  But the other?

  Well, that part knew who knew

  better.

  “Denver,” Merc softened his tone,

  “being a leader means

  making tough decisions. You in?”

  And right then, Dali touched me.

  Three fingertips pressed into

  the deepest curve of my back.

  The ice to my fire.

  Pupils, wide and black,

  aimed straight at my own.

  Code for Remember what you promised.

  And so I did it. For her.

  Untouched meant

  Un harmed

  Un spoiled

  Un bothered

  But according to Merc,

  it meant

  no one else could

  compete with,

  match up to

  what was given to us

  by birthright.

  And just like that

  we had a new sound,

  new attitude,

  new name.

  gripped against our ears,

  like skin on bone.

  One mic,

  suspended from the ceiling,

  walls padded in black foam,

  thick glass separated us from Merc.

  Three girls, excitement building,

  huddled in a sound booth

  so drastically different

  from the fake-ass studio

  set up in my basement back home.

  “I’m so going to hell for this song,” Shak whispered.

  “Take a number, chica,” Dali giggled.

  And I wanted to tell them both

  to quit it

  so I could shake off the nerves,

  savor the flavor of the moment.

  We made it.

  I made it.

  “Let’s go from the top, Denver,”

  Merc’s honey-dipped voice

  filtered through our headphones.

  The opening tick-tick-tick

  of the high hats

  swirled through the booth,

  so loud, so piercing,

  scaring the living daylights

  outta me.

  Merc hunched over the sound board,

  his back pulsing with the beat.

  I cleared my throat,

  readied my voice for

  the opening lyrics:

  Boy, don’t take this wrong …

  Ever seen a hound dog

  cock his head to the moon

  and howl?

  Well, that’s exactly what I looked like,

  sounded like.

  Three cuts. Each time.

  WTF was wrong with me?

  Merc paused the track

  hella quick,

  and I knew right there

  we were finished

  before we even began.

  I held back the tears

  as he rushed into the booth,

  feet like wings.

  “Let her try it again!” Dali’s voice,

  covered in pleaseMercplease.

  “She’s just nervous.”

  “We all are,” Shak added,

  wrapping her arms around me tight.

  But Merc smiled, soft as dawn,

  reached his hand out for mine.

  “Denver, baby gurl,

  let’s take a walk.”

  disappeared

  beneath

  my

  feet

  as we slow-strolled

  down the hall.

  “I remember my first time recording.

  I was a little younger than you.”

  “… Bet you didn’t mess up as bad as I did just now!”

  “Worse.” Merc laughed. “A whole hot mess!”

  But I couldn’t imagine,

  not even for a second,

  the King of R&B

  sounding anything other than

  blessed by the gods.

  We stopped short

  in front of a picture

  of the King and Queen herself.

  “I miss Whitney terribly.”

  Merc touched the frame

  as if he hoped the image would come to life.

  “I never thought there’d be another like her.”

  But then I met you, Denver.”

  His words set my lungs ablaze.

  “But I’m not like—”

  “Denver, you are.

  Everything and more.

  All you have to do is believe.

  And if you do, your girls will, too.”

  The sweet taste of

  hope

  lingered on my tongue.

  He wrapped his hands

  around my bare arms.

  I looked down,

  saw my flesh swell

  between his fingers.

  “You see that?

  You’re strong, Denver.”

  He called me strong.

  Not big.

  Or thick.

  But strong.

  I liked that way better than pretty.

  And something inside me just …

  bloomed.

  Merc led me back to the booth,

  where Shak and Dali waited,

  eyes swimming with wonder.

  “You okay, muchacha?”

  Dali patted my shoulders,

  elbows,

  hands,

  Mama Bear style.

  “She’s ready now, right, Denver?” Merc said.

  “Let’s do this, bro.” I puffed my chest

  sky-high, smiled wide as a crescent moon.

  Shak squealed and clapped

  in that praise the Lordt way.

  Lightning flared in Merc’s feet

  as he returned to the control board,

  beats ready to launch.

  “Now, let’s take it from the top.”

  From the very first note,

  Untouched transformed,

  artists lulled

  beneath a master’s spell.

  Up-up-up

  my voice climbed

  past the roof,

  beyond summer clouds,

  soared to distant planets,

  rhythm flowed through my veins—

  Shak’s and Dali’s, too.

  I could tell

  as verse gave way to chorus

  the way our harmonies unfolded,

  an audible feast of sorts.

  Eyes closed tight,

  my mind drifted back

  to the place

  where this music thing all began …

  Eighth-period bell on blast

  lying low,

  back of the class.

  Chorus,

  better known as,

  boring-ass,

  bubblegum

  wannabe opera

  taught by Delaware Valley High’s

  finest,

  Mrs. Billick.

  In walked the new kid, two months too late.

  Tall,

  lanky,r />
  bronze colored,

  cornrowed,

  four-eyed girl, straight outta Alabama.

  “You must be Shakira,” Mrs. Billick said.

  “Perhaps you’d be comfortable …

  in the back?”

  Code for:

  with the only other two brown folks.

  Shakira did that southern “Yes, ma’am” thing,

  sandwiched herself in the empty seat

  between me and Dali.

  Mrs. Billick plucked the notes from

  My Fair Lady,

  asked each student to sing.

  “How lovely,” she said to everyone,

  till she got to us,

  and heard the soul in our voices

  set fire to the room.

  “Your sound is quite … urban.”

  Code for: too big, too Black, too MUCH.

  And from that moment

  we gave chorus—and Mrs. Billick—

  the middle finger and started our own thing.

  1. A promise

  We’ll hook up again after my next show, k?

  2. A question

  Y’all ever thought about moving to Atlanta?

  That’s the music capital of the world!

  3. A request

  Let’s keep our arrangement on the low.

  I’ll hit y’all up in a couple weeks.

  And finally, the strangest of them all …

  4. A tape.

  Panasonic

  VHS-C

  tiny holder

  of

  a night

  filled with

  magic,

  music,

  Merc,

  us … but …

  “What in the Flintstone

  hunk-a-junk is this?”

  Shak laughed, soon as Merc placed it in her hand.

  “I was wondering what the deal was

  with that old-school camcorder.”

  I laughed, too, tapping Dali,

  but she didn’t crack a smile.

  “Girls, I don’t live my life on the cloud.

  I keep video archives of all my special moments.

  Ain’t nobody trying to hack a VCR, nah mean?

  I’m guessing y’all don’t have one.”

  That made me and Shak

  laugh even harder.

  Dali snatched that tape outta Shak’s hand

  and handed it back to Merc.

  “Can we get a download at least?”

  She did that bat-her-lashes,

  smile-like-the-devil thing.

  Always worked on me, but …

  “Ah, Say Say, I can’t have

  my music leaking out.

  Not that y’all would play a brotha, but still.

  How ’bout this? Since you don’t

  want the tape, I’ll send y’all a sample

  of what we recorded to your phones.”

  I ain’t gonna lie,

  I wanted my song,

  the whole damn thing.

  Not some grainy video.

  I wanted to roll down the windows

  of my Honda Civic,

  connect the Bluetooth,

  volume hella loud,

  and sing “Once in Your Life”

  all the way home.

  But those were Merc’s rules,

  so we had to be happy

  with the gift we got …

  all forty-five seconds of it.

  called for a celebration

  with the finest food

  Milford, PA,

  had to offer at midnight:

  Taco Bell.

  We sat in the farthest booth

  in the back,

  killing a twelve-pack

  of greasy-ass

  untacos

  filling that empty restaurant

  with the sounds

  of three girls giggling,

  reminiscing,

  dreaming …

  “Y’all! We gonna be MAD famous!”

  “First thing I’m buying is a house for Mami.”

  “First thing I’m buying is some

  holy water—cuz we ALL gonna

  need it after that booty-call

  anthem hits the radio!”

  Laughter erupted

  all up and through

  Taco Bell,

  followed us

  all the way down Route 209,

  past Shak’s spot in Dingman,

  Dali’s crib in Trails End,

  and around the bend

  to my empty, empty

  driveway

  on Winding Brook Road.

  No family within

  those walls to share my night with,

  even though I wouldn’ta

  told y’all jack.

  Well, ’cept maybe

  one of y’all was worth a shot …

  1:12 a.m.

  The dying art of voice mail …

  One ring

  Two rings

  Three rings

  “You have reached Gwen Lafleur,

  resident assistant for the East Wheelock House

  at Dartmouth College. I am not available at this time

  to take your call. Please leave a detailed message

  and I will respond at my earliest convenience.

  Have a great day and remember

  to always reach for the stars!”

  Beep!

  “Hey, sis. It’s me.

  I know it’s late.

  But I did something tonight,

  something real special.

  I reached for the stars

  and landed somewhere you’d never imagine.

  But I wanna tell you about it,

  over the phone.

  So call me back.

  Okay?”

  Spoiler alert:

  She never did does.

  I went to sleep

  that night, alone,

  windows wide open,

  high AF on the music,

  on my girls,

  on long-ago memories …

  Summer, Ten Years Ago

  Children skipped up and down

  the tree-lined street.

  Singing, laughing,

  lips stained,

  with cherry ices, fresh from the truck,

  in hand.

  Ma sat on the stoop with Gwen,

  hands intertwined

  in the thickness of my sister’s perfect hair,

  scalp glistening with coconut oil,

  braids patterned in intricate mazes.

  Inside,

  summer breeze poured

  through open windows

  Me and you, Papi,

  seated at the piano bench,

  lost in musical bliss.

  Prelude in E Minor by Chopin.

  Your ebony fingers

  struck keys, black and white,

  each chord filling you,

  me,

  with something that felt,

  I don’t know …

  Incurable?

  You held the next-to-last chord

  long enough to tell

  the story behind the song …

  Trapped in Valldemossa,

  island of silent nothingness,

  secluded from the capital,

  where life was vibrant, poppin’.

  Hella lonely,

  ink bleeding through

  staff on sheet music,

  Chopin legit banged out

  the saddest song anyone had ever heard.

  Remember that dramatic pause,

  the one right at the end,

  where the silence was

  long enough

  to fill you with the unshakable fear

  that it was over?

  Yeah, I didn’t get that then—

  seven-year-old me.

  But after one magical night

  in the concrete jungle

  with the biggest star in the universe,

  I understood it.

 
; All.

  days passed with no word

  from Merc.

  Suddenly life in Shohola

  morphed into my own

  Prelude in E Minor,

  a bottomless pit

  of nothingness,

  as I tried to do right,

  keep the parental units

  happy.

  But all I could do

  was wonder … worry.

  Were Merc’s promises real,

  and if not …

  what waited for me then?

  Days and nights

  melted into one another

  as we waited to hear from him again.

  I spent the mornings,

  eyes glued to the screen:

  Delaware Valley High’s

  online summer school.

  Tried my best to soak in

  every essay,

  poem,

  play

  by every dead white author

  I “forgot” to read

  in American Lit.

  Three lessons a day,

  thirty minutes apiece,

  followed by a quiz.

  I zipped through each,

  passed with flying colors.

  Thank you, CliffsNotes,

  thank you, Alexa.

  were made for Dali and me.

  She’d show up

  unannounced

  carrying those

  special things

  with her,

  invisibly tucked

  in each pocket.

  Two flags.

  One white—my favorite.

  The metaphorical

  definition of surrender.

  Waved it high,

  proud,

  with

  abandon

  as we melted

  into a rapture

  of touchinglovingbreathing

  So long as the walls

  within

  kept the story of us

  untold, kept

  Away from Shak

  who was busy

  workingchurchingballing

  And then,

  the other flag.

  Red cloth

  ripped,

  dipped

  in alert.

  Only to be raised

  when sun bid moon

  farewell,

  as the sound of Shak’s tires

  slow-rolled up

  my unpaved driveway.

  And for as much

  as afternoons were bliss

  the nights were equally so

  Shak

  Dali

  Me

  Gathered around