Muted Read online

  like it was nothing.

  Just us,

  #TeamMerc,

  in our own little galaxy.

  That night

  my brain was

  a place

  where memories

  went to

  die.

  Wanna know why?

  Because what good

  was a night of fun

  if you could remember

  all of it?

  Memory morphed

  into a repetitious

  play of

  hide-and-seek,

  flashes of my greedy ass

  trying every food passed my way.

  Every drink color poured

  red, brown, clear

  equal parts burning

  and delicious.

  The dance floor

  where me and Dali

  and Merc and

  even tight-faced Marissa let loose.

  Hands on shoulders

  Waist

  Back

  Ass

  A smiling Dali—damn, she looked so good that night—

  that gleam that’s stayed

  with me since the day we first met.

  The clicking of a clock,

  vibrations of more texts

  I didn’t know existed.

  3:11 a.m.

  Shak: I can’t sleep. You’re not returning my calls. Something ain’t right.

  4:28 a.m.

  Shak: Y’all leave me with no choice.

  8:21 a.m.

  Here’s what I also didn’t remember …

  How I got back to the studio

  and woke up in …

  that   bed

  that   blood

  that   sun.

  I didn’t need it.

  Sipped in one breath,

  held it there,

  deep,

  deep,

  deep,

  let it swell,

  blocked out the noise

  of New York City streets

  ten floors beneath cracked windows.

  Begged my feet,

  to find the floor,

  knees vs. gravity,

  a battle of epic proportions.

  Thoughts replaced breath.

  Why were my …

  pants gone,

  shirt off,

  bra still on,

  panties … with a pad inside?

  Fingers gripped on satin sheets,

   cocooned my exposed parts,

  Door thrown open,

  feet flew beneath

  the buzzzzz of flickering lights.

  Hands frantically

  pulled at each door,

  locked-locked-locked some more

  winding cracks in the concrete floor,

  led the way

  until I reached the studio,

  busted through,

  my last piece of strength

  dried out

  soon after I screamed in F sharp.

  Dali caught me

  midfall, pulled me close,

  sat me on the leather couch.

  “Tranquila, Denver! Calm down!”

  Her fingers navigated

  swollen coils of my hair.

  “SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ME!”

  My voice, soprano-heavy.

  up.

  Chills.          up,

  Ran    up,

  Heat.

  Descended down,

             down,

                   down …

  (there.)

  Merc, Marissa,

  ran in the studio.

  Water bottle in his hand,

  pill bottle in hers.

  “You okay, baby gurl?”

  Merc touched my forehead,

  skull like thunder rumbling in dark skies.

  I pulled away, head spinning,

  raised my voice once more.

  “Why did I wake up like this?”

  “You drank too much last night, Denver,” Marissa said,

  pressing two pills against my dry, cracked lips.

  “And you got your period, like really bad,” Dali whispered.

  That quiets me … freezes me.

  Still.

  Technically, it was that time of the month.

  but … BUT never before

  had my period felt like

  someone took a drill,

  pushed it through my insides,

  all the way up to my esophagus,

  clicked the ON button …

  And forgot to turn it      O  F  F.

  Merc sat on the edge of the couch,

  his eyes meeting mine.

  But I couldn’t look at him,

  looking at me … looking

  like that.

  But then he grabbed my hand,

  warmth pulsing through,

  and I did.

  “I found you crying, bleeding, drunk as hell.

  So I woke Say Say and Marissa up to help.”

  Merc’s eyes turned glossy. Were those tears?

  “I was so scared for you, baby gurl.”

  “You were out of it, muchacha.

  I’m the one who got you undressed.

  (I even put a pad on for you.)”

  Marissa chimed in.

  “And I washed your clothes.

  You got a real one right there, Denver.

  That’s a ride-or-die if I ever seen one.”

  A single tear welled,

  swelled in my left eye, ocean blue,

  fell down the earth of my cheek,

  until it reached the corner of my lips

  where it disappeared,

  taking the foggy memory

  of the night with it.

   “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

   I grew up with four sisters. Trust me. I seen worse.

   Maybe next time a little less turn-up?”

  I wanted to believe Merc,

  the doubt fading

  because of his words

  and Marissa’s.

  But more importantly, Dali’s.

  “We gotta get outta here, Denver.

  Give me your keys.

  Go back to the room and change.

  I’ll drive us home.”

  It took me

  a second or ten to

  ground myself in the space

  of the room I slept in.

  Bed in the middle,

  pillows, comforter

  a visual definition of chaos at best.

  Equipment lined the walls

  microphones,

  keyboards,

  guitars,

  tripod,

  and on the floor,

  a dusty, old-school

  Panasonic camcorder.

  I put my clothes on,

  as fast as my hands would allow.

  A tap at the door.

  Marissa.

  My phone in her hand.

  “Didn’t want you to forget this.”

  Soon as I turned it on,

  I saw it.

  A new text from Shak.

  July 8, 9:13 a.m.

  Two words, no explanation:

  I’m sorry.

  But I didn’t even have

  the energy to respond.

  as Dali navigated

  New York City streets

  and tree-covered Pocono Mountains,

  every now and again

  grazing the palm of her hand

  against the highways of

  my cheek-neck-chest.

  “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  Her words, a whispered stitch,

  healing, weaving

  from toes to follicle

  (and hidden parts in between).

  Behind closed eyes,

  I replayed the night in my head,

  Dali’s promise of

  nothinghappenednothinghappened


  on repeat.

  Maybe it was the music,

  a sample of the new song we recorded

  last night that blocked it out,

  made it real …

  A low and slow ballad,

  equal parts

  Whitney and Mariah.

  Just me and Dali,

  battling it out,

  singing as if

  tomorrow the world would end.

  It almost hurt to

  not hear Shak’s

  soul-filled tenor on the track.

  A broken, empty,

  missing piece of the puzzle.

  That hollow feeling that

  something

  I wasn’t right.

  On any given day

  I could almost always find

  the curve of our driveway empty.

  Your car eternally parked in the garage

  since you were rarely home, Papi.

  Ma was always at work

  and my black Civic

  propped right in front of the red double doors.

  That morning though

  it wasn’t empty.

  Four cars

  lined up

  and I recognized them all.

  when I unlocked the front door?

  Y’all.

  Propped on the couch,

  equal distances

  of personal space

  in between.

  You.

  Ma.

  Tía Esme.

  Pastor Brown.

  Grandma Brown.

  Shak.

  Shit.

  The first thing we heard?

  Ma’s voice, like a dragon

  unleashing fire.

  I could always count

  on that woman to get the party started.

  “Where have you been?” Arms crossed, left foot tapping.

  “At the Falls,” I said, “then brunch.”

  “Walmart after that,” Dali added.

  “And last night?”

  Ma’s question hovered in the air.

  “¡Y dinos la verdad!” Tía Esme’s finger pointed straight at Dali.

  Boy, when Dali’s mom sided with mine,

  it was a WRAP!

  They wanted the truth?

  Well, the truth about a lie is

  once planted,

  the seed—

  stubborn as the day is long—

  will grow

  whether you watered it or not.

  Red veins piercing through

  brown cheeks,

  Shak spoke before

  Dali or I could get the words out.

  “When you guys didn’t return my texts or calls,

  I got nervous that something happened to you.”

  (Something did.)

  I wanted to say that,

  but the words tasted like lies

  on my tongue.

  I felt the heat steamroll off Dali

  as she leaned forward,

  and spat out,

  “You’re being paranoid!”

  I inhaled,

  Dali did the opposite.

  “We went out,” I said,

  legs struggling against gravity.

  “With that there famous singer

  who asked Shakira for neked photos?” Pastor Brown said.

  Something about hearing

  Shak’s grandfather utter the word naked

  made me want

  to fling myself in boiling water.

  Dali sucked her teeth.

  “Shak, maybe you heard wrong.

  Merc wouldn’t do that.”

  “Who is this Merc anyway?”

  Papi, your voice was

  equal parts mad and oblivious.

  “A musician, Papi.

  People say he’s a genius.”

  But you shut me down

  with a wave of the hand

  and that same old eye roll.

  Pastor Brown pulled Shak’s cell phone

  out his blazer pocket,

  swiped up, and clicked

  P

  L

  A

  Y

  “Once in Your Life”

  filtered in,

  in all of its

  bass-thumping

  booty-poppin’

  thot glory.

  If Dali’s eyes

  were lasers,

  Shak woulda been

  laid out

  flat on the floor.

  “TURN THAT DEVIL MUSIC OFF!”

  Grandma Brown yelled,

  hands clutched on white pearls.

  I saw the tears build up

  before they fell down Shak’s face.

  Felt the sting of my own rising, too.

  “It’s a good thing Shak told us,

  lest we never woulda

  found out what you girls been hidin’ for weeks.”

  Pastor Brown passed Shak’s phone

  to Ma, Papi, Tía Esme.

  The truth on full display,

  a trail of texts

  going back to the

  very day I plotted this whole

  get-famous-or-die-trying

  thing.

  if the second I tried

  to use them to explain,

  you and Ma told me to SHUT UP?

  What good were ears

  if the only words

  that came from your mouths

  were sung in the key of:

  NO

  CAN’T

  & FORBIDDEN?

  What good were tears

  if they weren’t enough

  to stop what came next?

  Accusations:

  “Your daughters are bad influences

  for our Shakira!”

  And then, a battle

  of epic proportions

  old-school vs. new-school

  churchgoing, Bible-thumping pastors

  vs.

  three overworked parents

  who hadn’t seen the inside of a church

  since …

  Dang, when was the last time?

  glued on wooden floors

  a scratch of the throat

  followed by a truth bomb,

  loud enough to slice through raised voices:

  “Dali, Denver, I’m sorry, but

  I can’t sing with you anymore.”

  And just like that

  Shak’s grandparents

  rose up from the couch

  each hand

  locked in hers,

  Bibles gripped

  firm in the other.

  Noses pointed to the heavens,

  they ignored our

  PleaseShakPlease

  sobbing,

  wilting,

  broken

  cries,

  And then …

  they dragged her ass straight out the front door.

  Which left

  me and Dali with

  YOU GUYS.

  “I’d like a meeting with this so-called singer.

  TUH-DAY!”

  Ma didn’t care about those tears,

  my swollen-up eyes.

  Neither did you, Papi.

  “That’s not how Merc operates.

  We need to trust him and his process.

  He’s the professional after all!”

  (NOT Y’ALL!)

  I didn’t say that last bit though.

  Tía Esme came in,

  like soft rain

  after a violent storm.

  “¿Y cuánto saben de este hombre, Dalisay?”

  “We know enough that he could change our lives.

  We could make albums …

  have enough money to get a house.

  Not live like we do. Get our papers in order.

  Bring abuela and Tío here with us.”

  That last bit shifted Tía Esme’s whole spirit.

  She hadn’t been home in eight years—

  We had become her family.

  It wasn�
��t that she didn’t want to go to Santo Domingo.

  It was just the risk of never being allowed back was too great.

  And the money?

  Never enough to do enough.

  1. Driving privileges temporarily suspended

  (because punishments were still a thing even though I was turning eighteen soon)

  2. A promise that me and Dali would never mess up like that again

  3. A special meeting with Merc … ASAP!

  Why?

  Because

  according to Ma …

  Teenagers ain’t

  got no

  business doing

  business with

  a grown

  ass MAN

  !!! !!!

  It didn’t matter

  that I, myself,

  was almost grown.

  Almost.

  got no better,

  long after Dali

  and Tía Esme left.

  Behind the closed double doors

  of your master suite,

  television volume on full blast,

  but not enough to mask

  the crashing of objects,

  name calling,

  screaming voices

  hungry with blame.

  And behind my own,

  there simply

  weren’t enough

  scalding showers,

  maxi pads,

  and Midol

  in the world

  to empty

  that feeling that rose up

  inside of me.

  All over again.

  there lived a girl

  racked with pain,

  drilled down to the bone

  who suddenly felt

  her body was no longer her own.

  A hymn in the key of what-da-fuq-was-wrong-with-me

  by Denver Lee Lafleur

  On the bi-leveled roof

  of the big, big house

  on Winding Brook Road,

  I sat beneath a black sky

  full of gleaming stars.

  A freshly rolled blunt

  placed between my lips,

  I made a promise

  I’d never drink that much again.

  I inhaled the earthy, smoky,

  herbal essence,

  let it glide

  lowwww

  slowwwwww

  all up and through

  whatever shards of me

  the night before left behind.

  You didn’t see me

  on the roof that night, Papi.

  Didn’t see me seeing you

  barrel out the front door,