Chapter One:
Poppy
I spin in my Capezio dance shoes as my tight braids whip in front of my eyes, sweat flinging off my forehead, and I mouth the words to the song “It Takes Two” by Rob Base and E.Z. Rock. I steal a glance in the studio mirror. The image of thirty other bodies all moving in synchronization, like a wave in the ocean, provides a backdrop.
I place my hand on my thin waist, knowing what will come next.
“Keep it going, now to the left,” comes the instructions from the front of the room.
I shoot a smile toward my good friend, roommate, and teacher, Adele.
“Now grapevine,” she shouts, and my feet shift a step ahead, my body so in tune with the music and the routine it moves on its own.
I’ve been coming to Adele’s class for nearly a year now, Friday night hip-hop at Galaxy Studios. It’s a class made up with a mix of yoga moms, young professionals, and the ‘it’s been too long since I went to the club and need to brush up on my moves’ women.
My feet take me toward Angela, two rows over. She has trouble with the grapevine move. I arrive in time to nudge her to the left, just as her right foot snags on her left ankle. She extends her hand to regain her balance. She shouts over her shoulder while moving onto the next step. “Thanks, P. You’re a lifesaver.”
I nod and add a pirouette spin, an unnecessary improvisation movement that feels right. I return to my spot and catch Adele’s wink out of the corner of my eye. She bites back a comment she will not be able to keep to herself after class.
My eyes snap shut as the challenging part of the routine kicks in. My mind relaxes, and I escape in the music. It is my getaway, my happy place, and my joy all wrapped up in one. I’m doing exactly what I am meant to do, and the world disappears. Some call it a transcendental meditative state, while others call it achieving Zen. For me, I call it the calm.
No stress, no distractions, no restrictions, no rules. My body moves without thought. The notes of the music provide the markers on my journey. I don’t need to open my eyes to know the regulars are giving me my space. Every week at some point, I hit this state, the signs evident to anyone who cares. Internally, I’m at peace, a calm I rarely get to experience during my day-to-day. Externally, however, I appear to be a complicated mess, my frenetic movements coming so hard and quick, most of the moves go unnoticed to the naked eye.
I complete my final spin in sync with the last beat of the song. My right foot punctuates the note with a stomp worthy of an HBCU drumline. My sandy brown skin glistens in sweat as I attempt to catch my breath during the break.
“Next week, same time,” Adele screams over the combination of applause and chatter.
I bend over at the waist and wipe my forehead with my hand towel. My chest continues to heave, attempting to return to normal.
“You gotta show me that move, girl.” Adele steps next to me with a strange grin on her face.
“Which move?” I laugh at her expression; it’s the look of a tourist coming across an unmapped monument.
“The one you did like twelve seconds ago,” she says with a giggle and bends over, kicks out her left leg, and twists. Her blonde hair bounces into her face, and she flips her head back. It’s an awkward move, which I know I’d never attempt.
“You sure you weren’t watching the squirrels outside the window again?” I lay the towel across the back of my neck, and my legs revert to their ballet training and rest in first position—a lifelong habit. “I don’t think humans should ever perform that move.”
She wraps her thin arm around my neck, faking a choke. “I hate you.” She leans to her left, looking over my shoulder, and I hear the door close. “Good, now I can kill you without any witnesses.”
I spin out of the chokehold and bow. “Ninety-nine problems, and you choking me isn’t one of them.” I flick the end of the towel toward her. “Girl, you know when I get in the zone, I can’t replicate the move. It’s an in-the-moment thing. My body reacts to the music. Hell, half the time I have my eyes shut.”
She shakes her head side to side. I’ve explained this to her at least a dozen times; she’s never gotten it. Hell, I’ve done it over half my life, and I barely understand it.
“Whatever.” She steps toward the front of the room, and I follow. I notice the frayed ends of her white denim shorts, not sure if it’s a style choice or an ‘I can’t afford to do laundry, and this is all that I have left’ choice. I fear it’s the latter, as things have been tight around the apartment lately. “I’m glad we’re alone; I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
I nod. Even though we share an apartment, Adele’s been M.I.A. for most of the last few weeks. Her relationship with her boyfriend has gone from hot to heavy. Most nights, she never makes it back to the apartment.
“I still don’t know why you don’t teach here. You are better than anyone here. Obviously, you can do the routines with your eyes shut.”
I snicker to hide the concern which is creeping into my chest. “You know I don’t do front of the room.” Dance is an escape for me; I find joy in the ability to disappear. Being in front of people, let alone being responsible for teaching them, is not something I’m interested in.
“You are a natural. And the pay…” she hesitates and fiddles with her phone, which is connected to the speaker system in the room. It’s one of her many tells.
“Out with it, Adele. What aren’t you telling me?” I watch as her slender shoulders slump down.
She merely glances over her shoulder, almost as if she is afraid to face me full on. “Kirk asked me to move in with him.” She twists away from me, all of a sudden unable to resist the urge to change the screen lock photo on her phone.
My mind races ahead to panic mode, and I tell myself to breathe and not make assumptions. “And you said yes?”
The bob of her head confirms what I already know. That’s the problem with assumptions: I’m almost always right.
“That’s great, Adele, honestly. I’m happy for you guys.” My tap gives her permission to turn and face me. I pull her into a hug.
She shakes and fights a sniffle. She’s not done dropping bombshells.
“You have to know I’m happy for you, right?”
“Thank you, Poppy. That means the world to me.” She nods and pulls my towel to wipe her nose. She begins to place it back on my shoulder when I shoot my hand toward her.
“It’s yours now.”
The laugh escaping from her lips is forced, and her gaze locks in on the towel. “We have five months left on our current lease, Poppy. I can’t wait that long. We can’t wait that long.”
I push a few strands of her hair from her face, realizing the we from her lips are her and Kirk. “It’s going to be okay. How soon?”
Her mouth expands, and I recognize the look. She is biting her tongue. The pitch of her voice rises with each word. “Two weeks?” She states it like a question, but we both know it’s not.
“I meant to tell you last week, but I chickened out. I suck as a roommate.” Her concern disarms any anger. I’m happy for her; she and Kirk make a great couple. At least one of us deserves a happily ever after.
“It’s okay. I mean it. Just be a better roommate to Kirk than you were to me,” I joke, pleased when the unique Adele sparkle returns to her eyes. “Please tell me you’ve at least identified some possible replacements?”
“Yeah, about that. I did try,” she begins and leans against the wall for support. “Apparently, there isn’t a lot of interest in a short-term rental. The shortest anyone appeared interested in is six months. I do have some good news.”
I brace myself. Adele and I differ on the definition of good news. I glance toward the floor, searching for evidence of the joy and buzz from my dance routine, which is slithering away. “And what would that be?”
She stuffs her phone in the back of her tight jean shorts and forces a plastic smile on her gorgeous face. “Nancy has agreed to approve you as an instructor. I know it’s not something you’ve ever been interested in, but …”
“Beggars can’t be choosy?” I add.
“You won’t get rich by teaching classes, but as an instructor, you are qualified to teach privates. I have a few, and they pay very well. You can negotiate whatever rate your client can pay as long as the studio gets their cut. You can even negotiate to use the studio space.”
I merely nod at her and turn toward the doorway. Performing in front of people is not appealing to me, which is why she is selling the privates so hard. Since she doesn’t have a roster of roommate candidates, she is not about to hand over her private clients to me.
I lead her to the door. “I’ll think about it. I know you don’t have money for movers, so I assume you’ll need a hand, or should I make myself scarce?”
I feel the warmth of her arm on my shoulder once again. “Nice deflection. You can’t get rid of me that quickly. We still have two weeks. Kirk is coming with a group of his friends, so no heavy lifting required. However, I need you around to provide some eye candy for the boys. Even free labor isn’t free. You know how it goes.”
I furrow my brow, as her ask is merely just another type of performance. My gut tells me to say no, but it will be the last time I’d get to spend time with Adele before she disappears into the relationship vortex.
“Twinsies—one last time?” I offer, hoping to get us back to a happier place. When we first became roommates nearly three years ago, once a month, we would dress as twins. Same outfit all the way down to our lingerie.
She offers up a closed fist, and our hands collide in a mock explosion. “One last ride for Salt and Pepper.”
I laugh at our couple name—a moniker placed on us by a drunk man during one of our twinsie nights out. His puny brain unable to comprehend how blonde, pale, blue-eyed Adele and a black, whisky brown-eyed, braided beauty were twins. We didn’t care for the man but loved the moniker.
“I get to be Salt this time.” I giggle, and the lightness of our normal relationship returns.
She smacks me on the bottom as we leave the studio. “Just be careful where you shake that thing. We don’t want those guys to wind up with high blood pressure.”
We strut out the studio, our hips swirling to the music in our heads. I use the music to drown out the concerns brewing on the horizon.
Chapter Two:
Ali
“Prince Ali! Prince Ali! Prince Ali!” The massive crowd chants my name in unison as if I’m Superman being called to save them. And in a way, I am. The synchronized stomping of their feet has the building jumping. If I don’t act now, this place may very well collapse.
I step from the shadow of the stage, and the stadium erupts. The sound is the best drug in the world—so addictive. My mind races to my next high before this one has even worn off. “Okay, I guess we do have time for one last song.” I shoot a smirk up toward the cheap seats, and the cheers return even louder.
I’m an applause whore. They are going to have to drag me off the stage, especially tonight. This concert is exactly what I need after the stress of the week. I make my way to center stage and steal a glance at my brother Calvin. He has his head down, his fingers tapping feverishly on his phone. We normally have a no-phone policy during shows, but nothing about today’s show is normal.
“One song… Is there anything, in particular, you guys want to hear?” I pose the question with a smirk on my face. At this point in my career, it is more an inside joke between me and five thousand of my closest friends, my fans.
It takes less than a heartbeat for them to synchronize a response. “‘King Kong’! ‘King Kong’!”
Although the reply is expected, I remain impressed. It is our biggest hit, and the only one we’ve prepared to close out the show. My production team has tried to explain it to me a million times. Someday, they’ll surprise us and demand a different song for the finale, but today is not that day.
I take a deep inhale and rip off the black denim jacket practically sticking to me. As the lights hit my tank top, the crowd whips itself into yet another frenzy. It’s our most popular shirt, my cartoon avatar lifting King Kong above my head as I stand on the edge of a cliff about to toss him over. Strapped to my leg, like a cheesy seventies’ movie poster, wearing a barely there bikini, is Zazie Beetz, the actress from Joker. Easily, the loudest cheer of the concert rises to a crescendo. Calvin, with his perfect timing, waits for the crest before dropping the first line of the song; it’s a prerecorded voice of Zazie saying, “Fay Wray ain’t got shit on me.”
The line always brings a smile to my face as the sweat from performing for the last ninety minutes drips down my face. I start the song—low, slow, steady. I hold the microphone two inches from my lips. My eyes close as I dig deep into the song. It’s a braggadocio hip-hop tune. Very few look beyond the words to see the truth.
It’s uncanny how this one song has become my signature tune. Everything in front of me disappears, and I picture myself, Dad, and Calvin in the basement years ago working on the early versions.
Bigger. Badder. Own it. My dad’s voice rings in my ears. He guided my early years, crafting my image, my presence, even down to what I wore.
I feel the warmth of the tears on my cheek. I don’t resist; I don’t fight or hide it. I’m not concerned. The tears mix with the sweat and go unnoticed.
And that’s me in a nutshell. All on display, but very few see—very few push past the facade.
The audience sings along to every verse. My voice cracks with emotion as I open my eyes. The lights hit the tears, and all I see are blurry images of lights dancing.
Dancing.
My right foot taps in beat. Even after all these years of being told to remain glued in place, I want to move. I want to dance.
Years of training tell me not to move. My heart, however, is elsewhere. I whip my arm over my head and step toward the front of the stage, the move clearly catching the team off guard, and it takes a moment for the spotlight to catch up to me. As the song enters the final chorus, I lead the crowd, clapping my hands high above my head. Ten thousand hands mimic my movement. If ever I’m going to do it, tonight is the night, now is the moment.
An image of Dad flashes in front of me. A chill races through my veins, its coolness dousing the flames in my heart. I plant my feet together, slipping the microphone into the stand. My voice is weak; Dad would not approve. “Thanks for coming out. Good night.”
I wave to the crowd and toss my damp denim jacket toward a cluster of women near the front of the stage. I turn with little interest in the tussle that will follow. The band keeps playing as the lights come up, and the curtain lowers.
Calvin steps from behind the soundboard he has been manning. With a phone in his hand and eyes filled with concern, he steps to me in a deep embrace. “Dad would’ve been proud.”
His words hit me right in the chest. Would’ve.
He lifts the phone and whispers in my ear, “He’s gone.”
I grab the phone from his hand, a text conversation between him and Mom at the hospital. I scroll quickly through the thread, my eyes stopping at the mention of my name.
Mom: Tell Ali that Dad wants him to know he was wrong. Ali should follow his heart. Life is too short. Tell him his father said to dance. Dance like there’s no tomorrow.
I lower the phone and turn toward the stage. The stage lights are off, replaced by the harsh bright main lights. The roadies are already breaking down the set. The moment is gone, and now, so is Dad.
***
I’m pacing the small office like a caged animal. It’s been two weeks since Dad’s going home ceremony, and everyone is looking at me to see when things will return to normal. As if they ever will.
“It’s been only two weeks,” Calvin states toward Aaliyah, my agent and manager. Aaliyah is only a handful of years older than me. We met early in my career at a showcase performance. She approached my dad first, full of what my dad once described as Young, Gifted and Black. Her seriousness and confidence the perfect formula to win over my skeptical dad - they connected instantly. My dad was very wary of industry people, but with Aaliyah, he trusted her from day one. My admiration, similar to my dad’s. I admire her smarts, honesty and the fact that she doesn’t pull punches.
She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I understand,” she says, her voice lowering and filling with concern. “And you know if it were up to me, I’d give you all the time in the world, Ali, but the video shoot is coming up quickly. It can’t be moved again. We must build some momentum leading up to the release. We’ve worked too hard, and I know the timing sucks, but it’s a thin window. We must take action.”
I nod as I process the words. I knew this a week ago when Aaliyah began floating variations of this same message. Today is the hard sell. She is not one to push me or send out false alarms, so I take her advice seriously. She has always had my back and always operates with my best interest in mind.
I think back to Dad’s final instruction: Dance like there’s no tomorrow. I need to honor those words. Hell, I must honor what has been in my heart forever. I clear my throat as both their heads spin in my direction.
“Aaliyah, and hear me out for a moment…” I stop pacing and watch her brows furrow. We have both worked together long enough for her to know my tells. I’m prepping her for something I know she will not like. “We have to switch the song for the shoot. I want to go in a different direction.” I let the words hang in the air as if I’ve just pulled a pin on a grenade and am awaiting the explosion.
She lowers her chin to her chest and raises her hand to meet it. The room goes silent, and we wait on her. “What are you thinking?”
The fact that she doesn’t dismiss my suggestion energizes me. I step toward her, and my hands smack together. A loud clap echoes in the office. “What do my fans expect out of a Prince Ali video?”
“Mad, mad beats!” Calvin shouts from the couch, and his face lights up with joy.
“Of course, Mister Beat Master, that goes without saying,” I joke and take in Aaliyah’s stone face; I imagine she’d be an incredible poker player. “Lee Lee?” I call her by her nickname, hoping to pull her back in.
She nods and raises a finger to the sky. “Well… the beats, of course, lyrics that are both layered and aggressive, a confident presence that gives the girls that bad boy vibe and street cred from the guys… Oh, and a powerful, brooding presence.”
I nod. Aaliyah knows my brand better than me. “What don’t they expect?” I add, not waiting for a response. “Light, fun, and God forbid for Prince Ali to actually move more than four feet from the microphone.”
I ignore the snort from Calvin, and Aaliyah’s hand returns to her chin. Her hazel eyes sparkle through her glasses; I can practically see the wheels racing in her head. “And you want to mess with that carefully constructed image for what purpose? So, you can be a guest on the Celebrity Family Feud?”
“Nope. Something even more outrageous. After this next video, you may expect an invitation from Dancing with the Stars.”
The corners of her lips rise, and I wait for the verdict. “You’re joking, right?”
The words deflate me, and I catch Calvin’s movement out of the corner of my eye. He shifts to the edge of the couch, leans forward on the balls of his feet, and squeezes the throw pillow in his hand. He knows the history and where this idea originated.
“Lee, you remember when I told you I originally caught the performance bug when I played Usnavi de la Vega from In the Heights in my high school production? That wasn’t entirely true.” I have her complete attention and lock in on her golden eyes. “It was actually elementary school when our class was chosen to learn ballroom dancing. We competed against other schools. By the time I reached middle school, my team had won competitions statewide.”
A look of surprise crosses her face. She turns toward Calvin, seeking validation.
He nods in her direction. “He has a box of trophies to prove it in the attic.”
“In high school, as I got more confident in myself, I branched into all sorts of artistic areas. I studied every type of dance you can think of—tap, jazz—hell, I even learned the jitterbug. My school was a performing arts school, so I took up acting and music and quickly discovered I had an affinity toward music.” I nod toward Calvin. “It apparently runs in the family.”
“That part I’m familiar with. You won the talent show on your first try. You and your dad then crafted the early days of what became Prince Ali. So now you want to dance again?”
The question is delivered with confusion, not judgment. “I never wanted to stop. Dad made me.” My voice cracks with the mention of my dad, his image flooding my head.
I lower my gaze to the floor as Calvin picks up the baton, his sensitive brush strokes completing the picture I was unable to finish. “Dad never thought a dancing rapper would be either successful or taken seriously. He showed us old videos of a few rappers and told us how they had become industry jokes, put in the kiddie lanes of the profession. As you know, Dad can be very persuasive. He and Ali argued about dancing for months at a time in those early days. Dad wouldn’t budge.”
I clear my throat, Calvin’s reprieve appreciated. “It was one of his rules when crafting my image. Prince Ali doesn’t dance. If he needs dancers, hire them and put them in the background.”
Aaliyah pushes off the edge of the desk and takes a long sip of her Starbucks. Her bamboo brown fingers drum along the edge of the cup. “I hear you, Ali. However, as your manager, I have to say not now.” She places the cup on the table and raises her hand toward me, stopping my objection.
“You’ve just been through a traumatic, life-altering event. You really shouldn’t make such huge decisions, which will have long-term ramifications to your image, your career, your future. Even if you want to do it, there is no way in hell I’d be okay with you doing all of this in three weeks when the label has already budgeted six figures for a video, tied to a release and a tour. All of that would need to be revamped, reworked, and relaunched. There isn’t enough time, Ali.” Her voice is firm, but her eyes reveal the pain she feels in delivering the message.
“Calvin?” I don’t turn to face him. All our big decisions have been made by this team, along with Dad. Dad always had the deciding vote when it came to ties. Calvin isn’t just my brother; he is my sound engineer and has created the signature sound for Prince Ali.
“Dreams,” he begins. “Why live life if not to chase after dreams? I’m all in, bro. Dream on, and I already know which song and what changes I want to make.”
Joy fills my chest, and I turn toward Aaliyah. She is raising both hands up in surrender. “Please don’t say it…”
I hop to Calvin, and we high five each other. “Yep, we are going to do ‘Skull Island.’”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
