Muted Read online

  Next thing I knew,

  I was up on my feet

  swerving to the beat,

  hardly believing that that was me.

  Bryan busted a move, too,

  dreads swinging,

  beatboxing!

  Even Meat

  couldn’t resist a two-step,

  awkward as his giant self looked.

  “Oh, your voice is sick, Denver!”

  Bryan yelled over the bass.

  “I’m going to the Bottle-O downstairs

  for a pack of ciggies.

  Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “I’m just ready for Dali

  and Merc to hear this joint!”

  Bryan nodded

  and shortly after he bounced,

  the song began to fade out,

  and I wanted to hear it

  again and again

  until every note sank to my bones.

  I took a seat in Bryan’s chair,

  the wide computer screen

  drinking me in,

  ran my fingers over the mouse.

  “Tsk tsk, Denver.

  You know not to touch the equipment.”

  I swiveled in Meat’s direction,

  put on my best Dali

  bat-my-lashes, smile-like-the-devil voice:

  “I just want a copy of my song.

  Not a sample. Come on! You know it’s a hit!”

  Arms pretzeled tight.

  “You tryna get me fired?

  Merc and the girls went to grab food.

  They’ll probably be back any minute.”

  I did that blink-and-pout thing on repeat.

  “Don’t you look at me with those eyes!”

  Hit him with that combo once more.

  Then he started laughing.

  “I got a cousin with heterochromia, too,

  ’cept she got one gray, one green eye.

  But the answer is still no.”

  “Would you kill your cousin’s hopes like that?”

  Meat dragged his hand

  across his bearded face,

  shifted on his feet,

  cracked the door open

  and looked down the empty hall.

  “You got like two and a half minutes, girl.”

  I jumped out the chair

  hands in the air,

  ready to hug that teddy bear,

  dressed in muscle disguise,

  but he hit me with the Wakanda arms

  hella quick.

  “You betta not tell Merc about this.”

  (contrary to popular belief)

  A true artist never

  leaves the house

  without her tools.

  Which is why

  in my pink AliExpress bag,

  behind the song journals

  and

  pens

  and

  pads

  and

  packs of gum,

  there lie a tiny

  SanDisk flash drive,

  hidden in the

  small zipper compartment.

  64 GB,

  to be exact,

  large enough to hold

  the MP3 file of

  the song

  that was gonna

  change our lives—

  my life

  forever.

  One click,

  5 megs,

  a hurried download

  of epic proportions,

  Supermanned my ass

  back to the couch,

  SanDisk tucked away,

  just in time

  for that door to swing open …

  “We’ve got ourselves a piss-up now!”

  Bryan walked in, cigarette dangling

  from his thin lips,

  a six-pack of Dos Equis in each hand,

  Merc and Marissa

  trailing behind him,

  hands full of McDonald’s bags.

  That cheesy, salty,

  oniony smell filling the space,

  throwing my senses all off balance.

  I locked eyes with Meat

  for a split second,

  the look we shared,

  a reciprocal whisper

  of shutyodamnmouth.

  “I thought Dali was with you?” I asked.

  Merc plopped next to me on the couch.

  “Nah, she’s done for the night.

  Asked to take a nap

  before y’all bounce.

  Ay yo, Bryan, run the track.”

  Bryan clicked play,

  volume on simmer mode this time,

  while we bopped our heads,

  cracked open the beers

  and those McDonald’s bags.

  Merc handed me mine,

  I ripped that thing open

  ready to dive in to a Big Mac

  only to realize he ordered me

  a Supersize McNope …

  As in a damn garden salad.

  I could feel the

  color of my skin shift

  light brown to crimson.

  “Just tryna get you

  ready for prime time, baby gurl.”

  Merc quick-tapped my belly,

  making it jiggle right along

  with my bottom lip.

  I tugged at my T-shirt,

  pushing it deeper into my belt.

  Marissa giggled a toothy laugh,

  but no one else did.

  And suddenly I was no longer hangry.

  In fact, everybody

  was hella silent as the track

  played and played until it

  faded into nothingness.

  “Well, thanks for the burgers,

  but it’s time for me to

  head back to my hotel.

  Early flight tomorrow.

  Catch you later, mate?”

  Bryan started gathering

  his things.

  “Meat can drive you back.” Merc stood,

  dapping Bryan up. “Marissa, you can head out, too.”

  I felt myself

  fold further

  into myself on the couch

  as I painted on a weak smile,

  said my thank-yous and goodbyes,

  until all that was left behind

  was just me and Merc

  and that insult.

  “You didn’t have to play me like that,”

  I whispered, eyes glued to the floor,

  trying my hardest not to cry.

  “Oh, baby gurl,

  don’t get so caught up.

  You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

  I sat straighter,

  only a little though.

  “But you see, this music thing

  ain’t just about the music.

  “It’s equal parts discipline,

  eating right,

  waist snatched,

  wardrobe on point,

  leveling up your game,

  musically,

  lyrically,

  physically …

  “Least, that’s what all the big stars

  do. Every day, Denver.”

  I thought about

  every magazine cover,

  red carpet,

  every music video

  I’d ever seen.

  Beyoncé,

  Cardi,

  Queen Yeli,

  all of them,

  flesh and curves,

  beat to the gods.

  A silhouette of perfection

  that would never be meant for me.

  And I was always fine with that …

  until recently.

  “Now come on, eat, baby gurl.

  You need your strength.”

  Slowly, I lifted the

  fork to my lips,

  swallowed that bland-ass salad down

  and pretended like it was

  the juiciest burger I ever had.

  Merc stuffed a wad of fries in his mouth,


  replayed our songs on low

  all over again.

  The air shifted

  warmth replaced chill,

  like a whole mood

  filling the space.

  And then …

  Merc transformed into

  an open book

  on full display, just for me.

  A subtle reminder of

  our connection from that first day

  at the studio,

  And I don’t mean in the way

  Ma thought—

  That whole grown-ass-man-

  hanging-with-teenage-girls thing.

  It wasn’t like that with Merc.

  I’m talking ’bout

  the night when gravity

  disappeared beneath my feet

  and he guided me through

  every missed note,

  every off-key melody.

  It was then

  that I knew

  what we had

  was on another level.

  “Back in the day,

  I was the shy kid

  living in the projects,

  apartment crawling with roaches.”

  Merc popped another fry in his mouth.

  “I never was a good student,”

  he admitted,

  and I nodded,

  ’cause I felt that deep in my soul.

  “I hate math the most.” I laughed.

  “Nah. Reading was the worst.”

  And I felt that one, too.

  ’Specially with summer school.

  “See, me and you?”

  Merc touched his temple.

  “Only reading we

  care about

  is notes on bars.”

  If you looked up the word

  twin

  in the dictionary,

  I was convinced

  there’d be a pic of Merc and me.

  “I wasn’t like them

  other kids, Denver.”

  Instead of going out to play,

  Merc stayed in the house

  creating songs,

  melodies,

  a way OUT.

  For some folks

  OUT meant …

  you made it big-time

  too good-for-the-hood:

  Money,

  Fame,

  Cars,

  Clothes,

  Paparazzi,

  sniffing up your ass.

  “That’s why you gotta

  just do what I say & trust my intentions.

  People will talk about you,

  make up lies,

  anything to cop a dollar

  off what you built

  with your bare hands.

  “And that’s why

  I’m so protective of

  y’all.”

  His voice, mad sincere.

  Every part of me

  digested that convo.

  (right along with them slimy-ass tomatoes)

  And I got it.

  All of it.

  I wished you and Ma could get it, too.

  Dali finally came in the studio,

  eyes barely open,

  yawning on repeat.

  “We should get going,” I said,

  grabbing my pink backpack,

  pupils widening at the memory

  of what I’d done behind Merc’s back.

  The voice inside whispering,

  That song was yours to take.

  “You guys are welcome to stay,” he said.

  “Got plenty of rooms.”

  But with two hours to get back to Shohola,

  slip in the house before Tía Esme,

  staying was not an option.

  Always the gentleman,

  Merc rode the elevator with us downstairs.

  In the tightness of the space,

  I could feel him staring down at me,

  and then he touched my backpack.

  Heartbeat in full 8-count mode

  I tried my best to smile and pretend

  like that flash drive didn’t exist.

  “I’ma have to get you a new purse, baby gurl.

  Where’d you get this? Walmart?”

  “Close enough!” Dali giggled.

  And I didn’t know if

  I shoulda laughed or swallowed

  that ball building in my throat.

  “It’s my favorite,” I said.

  “It’s precious, kinda like that camera of yours.”

  That made Merc smile

  wide enough to cover his whole face.

  The elevator doors opened,

  Dali and I rushing out.

  “Hey, Denver!” Merc growled.

  My feet screeched,

  whole body jolted.

  “Forgetting something?”

  I turned around

  to Merc’s dimply smirk,

  and me and Dali’s cell phones

  dangling from his hands.

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

  We grabbed those phones

  and booked it outta there.

  Fast as feet could fly,

  we zoomed to the Hudson parking lot.

  “Why you acting all jumpy?”

  Dali huffed beside me.

  “Gurrrrrl, you’ll never believe what I did!”

  “Oh, DO tell, amiga …”

  Soon as I did,

  there wasn’t enough horsepower

  to get us through the Lincoln Tunnel,

  down 287,

  up Route 6,

  all the way to Trails End,

  where Dali’s laptop waited

  for my flash drive,

  fully loaded with a

  little,

  stolen,

  musical treasure.

  A crime of petty proportions

  that we both agreed I’d never

  commit again.

  the Shohola air

  reeked of the worst

  odor in the world:

  SCHOOL.

  Any other year,

  y’all woulda spent

  the summer

  up my ass

  telling me to study,

  read,

  hired private tutors

  to get my whole life together.

  But that summer

  was when both of y’all

  took the lazy route,

  checked in for like five seconds,

  then checked all the way

  O

  U

  T

  Focus shifted to

  trying to seal up the cracks,

  Krazy Glue your faces

  into a permanent

  “Everything is all right” smile.

  When it wasn’t.

  ’Cause for y’all

  the world—aka the folks back home—

  was watching,

  waiting

  for the too-good-for-the-hood

  Lafleurs

  to go tumbling

  d

  o

  w

  n .

  Soon as we wrapped up a session,

  Merc hit us with this piece of gold:

  “Y’all should come on the road with me.”

  “You mean like to your concerts and stuff?”

  Dali couldn’t hold in the excitement.

  “Concerts, video shoots, all of it.

  And you could stay in Atlanta

  —that’s the hot spot for artists.

  I’d set y’all up real nice,

  with your own space in the crib.”

  Sneaking out

  all summer

  turned out to

  be easy enough.

  (epic showdown with the Browns aside)

  In bed before the sun rose,

  before anyone noticed or cared

  that we had been out all night.

  But this?

  This was different.

  As in,

  let’s-run-away-from-home

  and-pray-y’all
-won’t-kill-us

  different.

  Then again,

  you knew a lil’ sumthin-sumthin

  ’bout running away, too,

  didn’t you, Papi?

  1. The music—three songs down, two more to go, to finish our demo before he’d shop it to record labels

  2. The education—better than anything I’d ever get at school

  3. The gifts—dude kept us stacked with the freshest kicks, jewelry, and clothes

  4. The dream—that I got to live out with Dali at my side

  Four things I hated:

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  (nothing)

  Written by Denver Lafleur Sean “Mercury” Ellis

  Verse:

  Been wanting this for a long time

  Gonna take my chance

  I’m done with pretending,

  it’s time to start mending

  the heart

  you tore apart

  All good, ’cause I’m secure now

  I gotta go …

  Chorus:

  It’s time to leave

  I know it’s hard to believe

  Don’t be scared for me

  ’Cause I got security

  A place to go that’s all mine

  cash money on flow

  Ya little girl will be fine

  Day & night

  ’cause I got security (security)

  wrapped up recording my new song.

  Once again, Merc didn’t change the lyrics.

  Just slapped his name on the credits,

  ’cause according to our contract,

  that was “standard practice.”

  “In this industry,

  new peeps get no love,

  until they get a stamp of approval

  from someone big like me.”

  Soon enough though

  Merc promised my name would be on

  ev-er-ee-thang we put out!

  And I wouldn’t have to sneak

  to download my work,

  and live with the guilt of doing so.

  All I had to do was prove myself

  as an artist,

  worthy and true.

  I knew my time was coming.

  For real, for real.

  In a perfect world

  I would have controlled time.

  It moved too fast,

  raced parallel to my thoughts,

  crashing into decisions,

  scenarios,

  the endless

  what-if?

  Like …

  What if me and Dali could convince y’all to let us go?