Muted Read online

  suitcase trailing behind.

  Didn’t hear me hearing you

  dial the digits,

  shift your tone from

  stone to honey,

  words whisper-soft …

  I’m on my way.

  See you in a few hours.

  But I did, Papi.

  And I wanted to raise my voice,

  scream that I wanted to escape,

  get the hell outta Shohola, too.

  But most of all,

  I wanted to demand

  you tell me who,

  of all people in the world,

  held the power to pull you away

  when I needed you most.

  Because you knew I was hurting

  the second Shak

  ripped the music

  clean off my skin.

  Merc woulda never left me like that.

  But you did.

  Left me crying,

  once again,

  as tires rolled

  against gravel-covered road.

  I cried for you,

  up there on the roof,

  for me,

  for us.

  The us we once were,

  the us we were slowly

  becoming.

  Me: I can’t sleep. Hurts so much.

  Dali: Me too.

  Me: I keep replaying everything in my head. We gotta fix things with Shak.

  Dali: Facts. I know just the place we should meet. I’ma text her.

  Me: Think she’ll come?

  Dali: She’d be dumb if she didn’t.

  spent at Shohola Falls,

  we watched the sun

  hover above the mountains,

  acoustic guitar in hand,

  Shak and Dali harmonizing by my side

  as if that waterfall,

  and that sun, was made just for us.

  Like an earthly gift,

  a Magic Eraser of

  the bad (like that time me and Dali almost flunked freshman year)

  and

  the sad (like when Shak’s parents got deployed)

  Dali and I waited for Shak

  to show up at our spot,

  so we could apologize,

  explain the how, the why,

  the what’s next???

  But as sun turned to moon

  and blue skies turned pink,

  she never arrived,

  even though she promised.

  But we sure got that text though:

  Guys, I’m done. For real.

  We don’t lose friends.

  We just learn who the real ones are.

  And right there up on that rock,

  beneath a glowing white moon,

  Dali’s head nestled in the crest of my shoulder

  I realized one thing:

  Shak wasn’t there from the beginning.

  Elementary all the way to high school.

  But the girl next to me?

  Always was,

  always would be.

  And that

  was not a “phase.”

  At all.

  01905554506: How’s my star? Feeling better?

  Me: Much better. Sorry I overreacted. I just never got that messed up b4.

  01905554506: I woulda lost my shit too if I woke up like dat.

  Me: We got some drama going here. Shak said you called and asked her for bikini pics?

  01905554506: Nah, chill. I don’t get down wit lil girls. We did ask for measurements tho. The wardrobe team needed it.

  Me: Ahh, k.

  Me: Our parents found out we been sneaking out. And they flipped. Now they wanna meet you.

  01905554506: Bet. We’ll make it happen. Lunch in the city soon.

  Me: Annnnnd Shak dropped out the group.

  01905554506: Good.

  Me: WHAT?!?

  01905554506: Denver, ain’t no room for liars n my crew. If there’s nuthin else you’ll learn ’bout this business, remember this:

  Every

  body

  is

  replaceable.

  Five years old,

  Teterboro Airport.

  Me on the left

  Gwen on the right

  You nestled in between

  hands held tight.

  Inside the hangar,

  our steps toward the Cessna 210

  slow, deliberate.

  Gwen was afraid to fly,

  but I wasn’t.

  You said I was born with wings.

  In the pit,

  you placed me on your lap

  while Gwen sat,

  eyes glued

  to the ground below.

  You let me press every button

  on the control panel,            up!

  told me to close my eyes       up,

  and picture myself going   up,

  Together, we soared above magical, distant lands,

  powered through turbulent clouds,

  never losing our stride,

  not even for a second.

  The memory of it all

  follows me to this runway now,

  in the heart of Atlanta,

  as the ramp agent runs

  our belongings through security.

  And for some reason,

  I know I’m safe, Papi.

  Just as safe as I was

  all those suns ago.

  July 17, 10:34 a.m.

  I hate you.

  I hate you.

  I hate you.

  I hate you.

  I hate you.

  I hate you for leaving us.

  I hit the delete button.

  Fast.

  A text for Shak

  (part deux)

  July 17, 10:37 a.m.

  I miss you.

  I miss you.

  I miss you.

  I miss you.

  I miss you.

  I miss us.

  My fingers tapped

  out the words,

  erased them

  before I clicked send,

  before I could tell her

  it wasn’t supposed to

  go down like that.

  This text was better instead:

  July 17, 10:37 a.m.

  I wish you were here.

  Because for three years,

  we made magic with our voices.

  I brought the funk.

  Dali brought the sauce.

  Shak brought the soul.

  And on that day,

  it shoulda been the three of us

  in the van

  with our parents

  on the way to New York to meet Merc.

  Instead, I spent the whole ride

  staring at the two empty seats

  in the back row.

  One for Shak.

  And one for you, Papi.

  You gave me the wings of music

  and you couldn’t even take

  ONE day to sit back and watch me fly …

  A day off

  for Ma and Tía Esme

  was like

  Halley’s Comet.

  That sacred,

  special,

  unheard-of event

  that only came around

  once in a blue moon.

  “Reservations, compliments of Mr. Ellis?”

  Ma had her Bad & Boujee voice on.

  “Right this way, ladies.”

  The hostess led us

  through the ground floor

  of the Lobster Club

  to a private room

  where Merc stood

  with a bunch of folks I didn’t recognize.

  Except Meat and Marissa.

  The whole time Dali’s mom

  was oohing and aahing

  at how nice the restaurant was.

  But Ma was unbothered,

  unimpressed,

  untouched.

  Meanwhile, Merc was ready to

  wine us,

  di
ne us,

  feed us

  with hope,

  promises,

  security.

  “That’s Dr. Lafleur to you,”

  Ma said

  soon as Merc

  dared call her MRS.,

  but Ma wasn’t done yet.

  “Honestly, I never heard of you until recently.

  My husband and I don’t really listen to, what’s

  it called? Trap music?”

  If lightning could have

  bolted through the roof

  and turned me to ash,

  that would’ve been a good time.

  “That’s not his only genre, Ma!”

  The words slithered between clenched teeth.

  But Merc was cool AF in his Armani suit.

  Didn’t even flinch at Ma’s verbal lashing.

  “Dr. Lafleur, my artistry is quite versatile.

  Not so much, as you call it, trap music.”

  And then he flashed

  that fly-me-to-the-moon

  smile.

  All the other times we’d linked up,

  it was singing hooks,

  tossing back shots,

  laughter with no expiration date.

  That day?

  Merc was all business.

  “I’m Esmeralda, but please call me Esme.”

  Merc went to shake Tía’s hand,

  but instead, she stood on her

  tippy-toes, hugged him,

  and said,

  “Ay, so tall!”

  Marissa invited us

  to take our seats

  at the large table.

  A team of waiters filed in

  with our first courses in hand:

  miso soup and crispy squid.

  No sooner than those

  plates hit the table,

  Ma popped off at the mouth.

  “So let’s get right to it, shall we?

  What thirty-nine-year-old man

  records music with teenagers—”

  “And doesn’t talk to

  their parents first?”

  Tía Esme came in with her two cents.

  Merc swallowed before responding.

  “I assure you, Dr. Lafleur and Ms. Gómez,

  eh-hem, Esme,

  that I was under the impression

  everything was copacetic.”

  “Well, it’s not.

  They’re only seventeen.

  Not even done with school.”

  Typical Ma,

  forever bringing up the s-word,

  steady forgetting

  I was ’bout to be a WHOLE adult!

  Another round of waiters.

  Next course?

  ALL the sushi!

  “What are your intentions with our girls?”

  Tía Esme,

  shoulders out,

  back straighter,

  Ma’s juju

  rubbing off on her

  like sweet jam on toast.

  “Oh, I have the best of intentions

  for their future and their career.

  This is why I wanted to have a

  meeting today with you and my whole team.”

  “Go ahead.” Ma separated her chopsticks. “We’re listening …”

  Producer

  Vocal coach

  Music instructor

  Security guards

  (led by aikido-trained Miguel “Meat” Parker)

  Personal assistant (Marissa)

  TUTOR

  Merc started running down

  all their credentials:

  Award-winning this …

  Professionally trained,

  college-educated that …

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  Homeboy said the magic word.

  Or so I thought!

  You’d think that

  whole college/tutor bit

  would be enough for Ma?

  Negative!

  “This is all impressive,

  and we appreciate the offer,

  but how about this?”

  A compromise …

  Ma:

  “They can record with you

  but Esme, myself, or my husband must be there.”

  Tía Esme:

  “Pero not too much. Because I run a business

  and I’m working all the time.”

  Ma:

  “We need a proper arrangement …

  in writing.

  Also, come September,

  they can’t be missing school for this,

  because senior year is not a game.”

  Tía Esme:

  “Got that, Señor Mercury?”

  “Definitely.” Merc flashed that million-dollar grill.

  “In fact, I thought you’d bring that up,

  which is why I brought these …”

  Contracts—

  the basis

  for any business relationship.

  “For security—

  for you ladies.”

  Merc had nothing to lose.

  He was gonna make bank,

  whether we made it big or not.

  That contract locked in

  every promise he made

  to Ma and Tía Esme

  and us.

  Made every

  single

  what-if fade into the Milky Way.

  Merc made two copies for

  Ma and Tía Esme to review.

  And when he passed it to Ma,

  I moved in close,

  chin propped on her shoulder.

  She kissed my forehead,

  and it was everything I’d hoped for.

  Me, Ma

  silently reading

  the map to my dreams.

  Every word,

  every letter crashed

  into the next.

  A black hole, of sorts,

  bursting with flashes of starlight …

  Reference is made to exhibits A, B, and C attached hereto aterms incorporated

  Whereas ARTIST is a professional entertainer

  Merc World Productions will hold all master recordings

  Demo to be produced within six months

  If Nondisclosure this N to be executed upon signatu acceptance of saontract.

  Artist

  Album

  acceptance

  need four

  Signature:___________

  could see

  my unraveling,

  heartbeat bursting

  through

  shell of skin.

  No one could see,

  feel

  that but me.

  Because that contract meant

  it was legit,

  not just some pipe dream.

  A real chance

  at a real future.

  And just like Cardi B,

  I was like,

  WHERE’S MY PEN?

  ’Cause I was ready to

  sign that joint!

  Looked like I wasn’t

  the only one who thought that.

  Specs slapped on tight,

  Tía Esme

  oohed and aahed

  through each word,

  Dali nestled in her mother’s embrace.

  “My Dalisay is gonna be a star!”

  Next thing I knew,

  she whipped out a pen from her purse,

  and Ma whispered

  something in her ear.

  And in my mind,

  I knew Ma

  was asking to borrow a pen.

  Tía Esme signed with a quickness,

  asked Merc for a selfie with her and Dali

  so she could WhatsApp

  this moment to all her peeps

  back home.

  The waiters served up

  the final course: dessert.

  Ma folded up that contract,

  tossed it right in her Chanel purse,

  and plopped a

  green tea mochi in her mouth,

  like that co
ntract

  and that moment

  never,

  ever,

  mattered.

  “I gotta talk to my

  husband and lawyer first.”

  with a yes

  a sorry-not-right-now,

  and my

  loud-ass sighs

  the whole ride home.

  But still I felt frigg’n amazing.

  Because …

  If that night of overdrinking with #TeamMerc,

  and that morning of Family Feud after

  broke me,

  and filled me with doubt,

  then that day with our moms meeting

  Merc in the city

  put me back together again.

  For real.

  Now Ma just needed

  to sign the damn contract!

  01905554848: How was that?

  Dali: You were perfect, corazoncito.

  Me: Yeah, YOU were. My mom? Not so much.

  Dali: See you when you get back from LA?

  01905554848: Sure thing. And Denver, get mama dukes n check, aight? Can’t have Say Say goin solo.

  there lived a mom

  and a dad

  and a sister

  and an other.

  The mom

  and dad

  and Gwen

  fit into a perfect box.

  Each line straight,

  each angle perfectly

  perpendicular.

  But an other was just that.

  The other.

  Crooked.

  Bent.

  Jagged.

  One day the mom

  and the dad

  packed the sister

  and the Other.

  Big city left behind,

  whisked away

  to mountain-covered

  country,

  better schools (& brand-new jobs).

  Full of hope that

  the Other would

  learn and mold

  and fit

  into this new box

  they squeezed her in.

  Little did they know,

  the Other

  would go on

  to build her own.

  sat on the kitchen counter

  collecting cereal crumbs

  for what felt like

  two thousand

  seventy-leven

  days.

  Un  bothered

  Un  impressed

  Un  touched

  Dali shoved a spoonful