by Nikki Carter
“So thirsty! Girl, you need to quit,” Dreya says. “He’s old enough to be your daddy or something.”
“It’s not like I want him!” Bethany says. “I just want someone like him.”
Dilly stands. “Can I get a ride home, D?”
“Shelly is waiting for me. Sam, can you take care of that for me? Drop him over Bryce’s house.”
Sam lifts an eyebrow and smiles at me. “Sure, come on, Dilly. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Bethany sucks her teeth. “So corny.”
“But you want me, though,” Sam quips back.
Dreya rolls her eyes. “Why don’t y’all get together already?”
Sam looks at me, I guess trying to get my reaction. But I don’t have one. If he wants to kick it with Rielle, Bethany, or whoever, it’s all good. As long as it doesn’t affect my beats or my cash. Know what I mean?
“Let’s bounce up out of here, Dilly, before somebody gets her feelings hurt,” Sam says.
Feelings hurt? Whatever. He should’ve checked that before he brought Rielle all up in the spot. From the twisted look on his face as he turns to leave, I’m thinking the only one catching hurt feelings is Sam.
6
I take one look at myself in the mirror of Ms. Layla’s boutique, wearing a one-piece denim bodysuit with leather patches on the knees, black ankle boots, and hoop earrings. I’ve got a fake smile on my face, but I’m screaming on the inside.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I thought Mystique said that her mama was going to make me personalized outfits. Like something I would actually want to wear. She’s gonna have me looking like a hot, ghetto, ratched mess.
And why are Dreya and Bethany standing over there snickering? Wait until it’s Dreya’s turn. If this is what they gave me, I know hers is gonna be crazy, because she’s supposed to be the “edgy” one.
Mystique asks, “So, what do you think?”
She’s got this big expectant smile on her face, and the BET cameras are rolling. How can I tell the truth?
“What do I think?” I ask. I’m trying to stall for time so that I can come up with something believable.
Thinking … thinking … Yeah, I got nothing.
“Do you like the outfit?” she asks again.
I look around to see if Ms. Layla is coming back into the room. She ran in the back of her shop to fix a hem in a pair of pants.
“There are some things about it that I like,” I say after a really long pause. You would think that after all that stalling, I would’ve come up with something better.
Dreya bursts into laughter. “Like what?” she asks. “Is it the knee patches? Because that’s my favorite part of the outfit.”
“Mine too,” giggles Bethany. “No wait. My favorite part is the hungry butt.”
And by “hungry butt” she means the fact that this bodysuit is all up in my behind. A denim wedgie.
I spin around and give them both an angry glare. “Shut up! It’s a stage costume.”
“That’s right,” Mystique says. “It’s not supposed to look like something you’d normally wear.”
Right. Like who would wear a sleeveless blue jean bodysuit? Ever? Did I forget to mention that it was sleeveless? Welcome to my nightmare.
Ms. Layla walks up from the back of the store and grimaces. “What are you wearing, Sunday?”
I lift my eyebrows! This is exactly the question I want to ask her. What in the world am I wearing?
I look down at the outfit. “This is the one your assistant gave me to try on.”
“No, no. That one is for Drama. All of the bodysuits are for her. Your stuff is less edgy and more regular teen.”
I close my eyes and let out a huge sigh of relief. After trying on this ratchedness, I’ll take regular teen any day.
Dreya leans back and gives her most exaggerated neck roll. “I don’t care if you are Mystique’s mama. I am not wearing that!”
Did this heifer forget that the cameras are on and that Mystique and her unfabulous mama can make or break her career? Or maybe she forgot that Mystique is a platinum-selling recording artist, and the only reason why a lot of people will tune into this show is because she’s on it. Maybe she forgot that her own first single hasn’t even come out yet, and that a project can be yanked and shelved without any explanation whatsoever.
Yeah, she’s got a real case of amnesia up in this piece. She better find a cure quick, or she’s gonna be filling out applications for a summer job at Sonic.
“Well, what exactly is it that you want to wear, Drama?” Ms. Layla asks, classy as ever. Not one neck roll or finger-snap. If this was Aunt Charlie, there’d be all kinds of hair weave flying right about now.
Dreya is caught completely off guard, I think, and left without a comeback. She’s used to people sparring with her, but Ms. Layla is not about to do that. Neither she nor Mystique seem much like the brawling type.
“I think she would look good in skinny jeans and leather accessories,” Bethany offers, trying to save her friend. “Like a leather choker with spikes on it and leather belts wrapped around her waist and legs.”
Dreya high-fives Bethany. “My girl! That’s what I’m talking about. Something hot to death that’s gonna make them dudes go crazy.”
Bethany must have already forgotten how a couple of hours ago, she was Dreya’s slave girl. Now they’re besties again. They’re special. And not the kind of special you say when you do something nice for someone, as in, “I baked you a special treat.” No. These two are special in a mildly medicated kind of way.
Ms. Layla looks as if she’s considering Bethany’s suggestion. With one hand she smoothes the side of her honey blond lace front wig, and with the other hand she taps her chin. Then, something suddenly strikes her as funny. She reaches over and grabs one of her hip-hop magazines off of the coffee table and turns to a specific page. She hands the magazine to Dreya.
“You mean something like this?”
Even though I’m dying to take off this cooter cuttin’ bodysuit, I need to see this photo. I look over Dreya’s shoulder, as does Bethany on the other side. The picture is of another R & B chick, Hot Chocolate. She’s wearing almost exactly what Bethany described.
Can somebody say “epic fail”? No R & B diva would be caught dead rocking a similar outfit to her competition.
“You ‘bout to have me looking like a swagger jacker!” Dreya fusses. “Next time you think you have an idea, tell yourself never mind.”
Bethany gets a wounded expression on her face. As a matter of fact her face is on the floor waiting to be picked up and put back on. Ms. Layla examines her perfectly done French manicure as if she couldn’t care less.
“I was just trying to help,” Bethany mumbles.
“If you two are done, we can discuss some different options for Drama,” Ms. Layla says. “The outfits I’m showing you are examples. You’re free to choose whatever you want from the collection.”
“I’m going to take this off now,” I say, tired of my butt’s being attacked by this fabric.
Ms. Layla replies, “Go ahead to the back room, and my assistant will give you both more suitable outfits to model.”
Dreya and I both hurry toward the changing room. The BET television audience will already have more than enough views of my behind in this monstrosity.
The assistant hands me a highly appropriate pair of khaki cargo carpri pants, a fitted tiny tee, and a jeweled and bedazzled half jean jacket. I will look past the rainbow of rhinestones, because anything is better than what I’m wearing now.
Dreya’s costume looks like something one of the crew of the Starship Enterprise would wear. It’s an all-silver catsuit with a wide zipper down the front. When the assistant helped Dreya into it, she zipped it all the way up.
Hello. Has she met Dreya?
Dreya promptly zipped it halfway down so that her miniature breast matter was on display. As ridiculous as that would look on me, Dreya gives it a fiyah-type element. I
t’s a good thing too, because it doesn’t sound like Ms. Layla is trying to fool with Dreya.
“You look good,” I say.
Dreya looks over from the mirror and says, “You too. That’s a good look for you.”
“Thanks.”
“So,” Dreya asks with her head cocked to one side, “you’re going to prom with Dilly? How’d that end up going down?”
I shrug. “He’s cool, and I didn’t have a date, so it was a wrap sort of. I thought I didn’t even care about going, but then I changed my mind.”
“Your mom is gonna be cool with him going? With Carlos and everything?”
“We’ll leave from the studio, right?”
Dreya laughs out loud and shakes her head. “Okay, even if we do leave from the studio, don’t you think she’s going to want to come and take pictures? We’re talking about Auntie Shawn, queen of the digital camera.”
“You’re right. I just won’t tell her about Dilly being related to Bryce and LaKeisha.”
“You better hope she doesn’t find out.”
Dreya throws open the door to the back room like she’s walking onto a stage. She struts out as if she’s on a runway, and even strikes a little pose a few feet from Ms. Layla. I don’t make nearly as bold of an entrance, but I give the cameras a little twirl. I can’t be looking all boring next to the diva Drama.
Bethany woot-woots. “That’s my girl! You are on fiyah!”
Notice that she says nothing about my hook up, and I wasn’t the one who treated her like some old busted up groupie chick. But you know what? I don’t care about her lodging herself inside of the crack of Dreya’s butt, just like that bodysuit was all up in mine.
Mystique claps her hands, runs over to me, and hugs me tightly. “I like this outfit. Now, I just need to teach you how to dance.”
I swallow a frown. I do not wish to share with the BET viewers the lack of dance skill in the Tolliver family blood. I mean, we’ve got mad singing talent. We can’t have it all! Look at Ciara! She’s singing about riding the beat, because she can dance her butt off. Who heard her singing about singing on a beat? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
“I didn’t think I needed dance lessons,” I say through clenched teeth.
Mystique laughs out loud. “You’re a lot better than Drama, but you still need some work. What do you think, Drama? You ready to learn some choreography for the tour?”
“I don’t do choreography,” Dreya announces. “I pop, that’s about it.”
Mystique scrunches her face with confusion. “You pop? What does that even mean?”
Dreya bends her knees and pops her booty over to one side, then rolls it back and pops it over to the other side. Then she drops into a squatting position and pops it in the middle. Bethany joins her. They look like two strippers up in here. I’m telling you, Dreya would snap that behind right off her hips if it wasn’t attached. That’s how hard she’s popping.
“That’s not dancing,” Mystique says. “You can’t really think that’s going to be entertaining for a five song set.”
“Pretty much,” Dreya replies.
“Well, Big D wants me to teach you some moves for your video shoot for ‘Love Is.’”
Dreya frowns. “Why is Big D asking you to do stuff for my video shoot and not asking me?”
Mystique doesn’t answer, she only sighs, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head. Her body language tells me and everybody else that she’s tired of Dreya. But the look is only momentary. The smile quickly reappears on Mystique’s face.
“Choreography class for both of you. Tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock.”
“But tomorrow is Sunday,” Dreya whines.
“Have you got junior usher board committee meeting at church or something?” Mystique asks with a chuckle. “It’ll be fun. We can do it over at Zac’s house.”
“Over at Zac’s house? Why does it have to be over there?” Dreya asks. “I’d rather come to the studio.”
“Because Zac had a dance studio built for me in the basement,” Mystique explains. “All wood floors. Benji will be by to pick you up at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Eat a light breakfast, full of carbs. Y’all have a lot of work to do.”
“We’re going to celebrate my single’s release tonight! I can’t be getting up that early,” Dreya moans.
Mystique promptly ignores her. Dreya opens her mouth to blurt out yet another protest, but is interrupted by a car horn blaring outside.
“Who is that outside my boutique honking like a maniac?” Ms. Layla fusses.
We all turn our attention to the storefront window. The car is a platinum drop-top Benz with a big pink bow on it. Truth walks around the car and leans against the passenger side with a huge grin on his face.
Dreya shrieks at the top of her lungs. “My man bought me a car!”
Dreya runs outside, and we all, including the cameraman, follow her. She hugs Truth around his neck and runs her fingers through his locs before she runs to the driver’s side of the car and jumps in.
This ride is fly as all get out. It’s got all the features too. Wood grain, smoky grey leather interior, chrome wheels accented with rhinestones, and tires glistening with Armor All. He even got her personalized plates that say MZ. DRAMA.
While everyone else is smiling and congratulating Dreya, I watch Bethany narrow her eyes and give Dreya one of the most haterrific glares I’ve ever seen. That look is more than a little bit of envy. Shoot, I’m envious! Being a pedestrian is for the birds. But that vibe that Bethany is giving out is pure hatred. It’s one of those looks that you give a person when you don’t think they’re looking. But somebody is looking at Bethany. Me for one, but more important, the BET cameraman just caught her look and immortalized it on film.
She better hope that snippet ends up on the editing room floor.
7
Aunt Charlie blasts the radio from our living room. I think it’s ghetto as what to turn the radio all the way up as high as it can go. But I guess it is Saturday night. It ain’t like anybody has to go to school or work tomorrow.
But I know why she’s doing it. Tonight on Hot 107.9, they’re debuting Dreya’s first single—”Love Is.” I’m excited too, I ain’t even gon’ lie. Dreya’s not even here to celebrate with us, though. Truth got her a suite at the downtown Omni at CNN Center so they could celebrate together.
He’s such a good boyfriend. Not. The BET cameras are with them. And they even let Bethany tag along. I passed. I’d rather enjoy hearing my creation on the radio in the quiet privacy of my own home.
“This is it! Here go my baby!” Aunt Charlie squeals.
My mom shouts, “Turn it up!”
“It’s all the way up,” I mumble as if they can hear me over the roar of the DJ.
At least it’s private, even if it’s not quiet.
Manny comes out of his mother’s bedroom, dragging behind him his favorite Transformers blanket.
“What’s all this noise?” he asks, sounding like an eighty-year-old man.
“Boy, take your little behind back to bed,” my mother says, “before you wind up getting a whipping.”
“Why you gotta play me like that, Auntie Shawn? I was just trying to catch some zzz’s, and y’all up here playing all this music.”
Yes. He’s five. I’ma need them to get his little ghetto superstar behind tested for Mensa or something. It don’t even make sense for him to be that smart. Especially when he still pees in the bed.
Manny crawls up on the couch next to me. “What’s poppin’, cousin?”
“What’s poppin’ with you?” I ask.
“I asked you first,” Manny says with a pout. “Did you or my sister blow up yet? I’m ready to move into a house with my own room. Y’all gonna make that happen anytime soon?”
“I hope so, little man. I want to move too! What kind of house do you want?” I ask.
“I want a mansion with ten bedrooms and a whole lotta bathrooms. That way when I wait til the last minute to go to the bathroom, there will
be one close by.”
“That’s what’s up, little man.”
“Oh, and I want a whole Transformers room! Bed, pil lows, curtains, sheets! I want Optimus Prime all up in that piece.”
I burst out laughing. “Manny, you are too much.”
“Yeah, he is,” Aunt Charlie says. “And he better simmer down, before I send his little mannish self to bed.”
“What’s good, ATL?” blares from the radio. “Tonight we’ve got a debut from one of our own ripe Georgia peaches. Her name is Ms. Drama, and the song is called ‘Love Is.’ Hit me up on Twitter, and tell me if you love it or hate it.”
I hear the first thirty-two bars of my composition light up the airwaves, and I feel a rush go through my body! This is hella exciting, even if Dreya’s voice is caressing my lyrics.
It’s a totally different feeling than when I did the hook on Truth’s single. That was a tiny snippet in a song that someone else dreamed up. This is mine! Well, I guess Sam and I both wrote the lyrics, but the melody is mine.
Right after the bridge, there’s a breakdown that’s different than what I originally wrote. I scoot forward to the end of the couch and tilt my head toward the radio. Who had the audacity to mess with my music?
Then, I hear Truth’s gravelly voice wind over the track. “Her love is fiyah, I’m a pocketful of matches/Strike up on her friction, leave the spot full of ashes/Take my blank check, but she don’t even have to cash it/She strike a pose e’ry time she see them flashes.”
See, now this is a hot mess right here. Who ever heard of putting some wack rhyme on the perfect mid-tempo ballad? Some songs don’t need that hip-hop piece. And then Dreya’s doing some ridiculous sounding runs too, like I haven’t taught her any better.
But I bet people are gonna eat this up, so I’m gonna keep my anger bottled up on the inside. Don’t want to get labeled as a hater!
My phone rings, and I have to get up and walk back to my bedroom to answer it. My mother and Aunt Charlie are still booty bumping and high-fiving to this song.
“Hello,” I say when I close my bedroom door.
