by Carnal, MJ
“Here,” I say, tracing a line over my wrist with my finger.
He blinks his caramel eyes a couple of times. My brother is so not a tattoo kind of guy. He’s so straight-laced it’s disgusting. The real reason he hasn’t gotten any is because he knows my mom hates them. I’ve gotten three: the bee on my hip and the anchors on my foot, because I know my mom hates them. And because they’re meaningful, but my mom hating them definitely factored in to my reasoning when I got them.
“Because you need a reminder to breathe,” he says sarcastically.
I nod. “Yeah, sometimes.”
He looks at me again, gauging whether or not I’m serious. When he sees that I am he agrees to go with me. After we eat our pizza, we head out to Shea’s favorite tattoo parlor in Soho. I tell the guy what I want and he squeezes me in with no appointment since it’s so small and simple. My phone rings as he prepares the needle, and I ask Hendrix to pick it up since it’s my mother. I listen to his conversation with her. He’s smiling for the beginning part of it and then frowns and then cringes and then grimaces; his facial expressions match exactly what I feel as the needle hits my wrist and begins to move.
“She wants to talk to you,” he says, holding the phone on his chest.
I shrug with my free arm. “Okay.” He holds the phone to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”
“Brooklyn Paige Harmon, tell me you are not getting another tattoo,” she scolds.
I roll my eyes. “I am,” I respond, smiling.
“So trashy,” she says. “Anyway, I was calling to inform you that you have a date for the party on Saturday.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“Yeah. He’s pretty popular, unsigned, he goes by the name Rapture … is it Rapture?” she asks somebody in the background. “Yeah, it’s Rapture.”
For the sake of not arguing with her, I go along with it, like I always do. I’m not losing anything by going along with her. I stopped trying to make her proud years ago, but if I’m lucky, I’ll gain a commission from this Rapture guy. “Okay. Whatever. It’s not like I had a date anyway,” I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes again. When I speak to my mother, I might as well be in a state of permanent eye roll.
“Good girl,” she says. I hate when she says that to me. “Talk soon,” she says right before hanging up on me.
I shake my head and look at my brother. “Who the eff is Rapture?”
Hendrix laughs. “No fucking idea. He must suck if you don’t know him.”
Ain’t that the truth. I’m a little worried about what I may find on YouTube when I get home and look him up.
The tattoo artist chuckles and cleans me up, smearing the ink on his cloth and letting me look at my new tattoo: Breathe
“I love it,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.”
The next couple of days fly by, and before I know it it’s Friday and I’m headed for The Hamptons with my brother and Nina. A drive that usually takes us two hours is going on three today. It took us forever to get out of the city and on the road, but we finally make it to the gates of my parents’ Water Mill mansion. I used to love coming here when I was a kid and laying out in the pool or going boating with the guests. The house looks as beautiful as ever, sitting on the luscious green lawn. It’s so big—twenty-two thousand square feet of house—that when we were kids, it would take us hours to find each other when we played hide and seek. After the millionth time Hendrix forgot that we were playing and gave up on looking for us, Nina and I decided that we would only play if we set perimeters for the game. We were sick of being left alone in one hiding spot for hours. The house was built in the 1920s, but my parents remodeled it when they bought it and keep on updating it every couple of years. They’ve kept its original colonial style with a modern twist.
There are white event trucks cased out on the further end of the lawn, already setting up for tomorrow’s party, and I actually begin to feel a little bit excited.
“We are going to paaarty,” Nina sings, making Hendrix and I laugh. “Is Sarah coming up for the party?” she asks Hendrix.
“Nope,” he says quietly. “She has work to do, and Mel is sick so she doesn’t want to leave her or make her fly.”
“Bummer,” I say. “I always like partying with Sarah.”
“You like partying with a tree, Brooklyn,” Hendrix mutters.
“Liked,” I correct. “I don’t usually party anymore.”
Nina scoffs. “Seriously, going out with her is like going out with a dead guy.”
As soon as she says that, her eyes widen apologetically. Hendrix shakes his head in disbelief, but I smile at her.
“You know what I love about you, Nina? The way you can take the most tragic things and joke about them and not make me want to cry when you do it.” I let out a breath, blowing my new side swept bangs out of my face. “Besides, you’re right, partying with me is pretty much like partying with a dead guy.” I bite the inside of my lip after I say it and train my vision to the sunny clear sky, blinking my eyes rapidly so that I won’t shed any tears for the part of my heart that is gone but will never be forgotten. Eight years is a long time, but no time is long enough to heal the loss of a life.
We settle in, Hendrix in his room and Nina and I in mine. One of my mother’s maids comes in and informs us that my mother wants us to join them for a dinner party they’re having tonight.
“That Rapture guy will be here tonight too,” Nina says when she walks back into my room after we’ve lounged by the pool and she’s flipped through a dozen gossip magazines.
I’ve been getting ready for the past fifteen minutes and still don’t know what I’m going to wear.
“Oh yeah? How do you know?” I ask, putting down my blush.
“Your mom just told me. Apparently he’s one of those YouTube sensations,” Nina explains.
“Yet we’ve never heard of him,” I mumble as I apply my eyeliner.
Nina laughs. “True.”
I decide on a short sequined silver dress and black wedged heels.
“Nice,” Nina says when she sees me. “Very nice. I hope you don’t have to bend over at any point.”
I laugh, finger combing my hair to separate the big curls at the end. “No vagina shows from me. That’s your job,” I say, pointing at her short little black dress.
We bump into Hendrix on our way down the stairs and link arms with him, each of us on one side. We always do this and I think he must feel so cool when we do. I can picture him internally high fiving himself and thinking, “I’m a pimp” as he nods at other guys in the room.
When we enter the sitting room, my dad is talking to an older man with white hair, but catches my eye and stops talking to him, turning his body and opening his arms to embrace me as I walk up.
“Hey, baby girl,” he coos into my hair, hugging me tight. “So glad you made it.”
“Me too,” I respond, kissing his cheek.
He’s wearing a white button down shirt with the first button popped open, just like Hendrix. I notice they’re both wearing black slacks too, like father like son. If they stood beside each other, they’d make a perfect whiskey commercial too, the way they’re holding their drinks in their hands so casually.
“What a nightmare, huh?” my dad comments.
I raise my eyebrows and nod. “That’s exactly what it’s been.”
He tips my chin and looks at me for a long moment, his wise green eyes assuring me that it’ll be okay, and then walks away talking to somebody else.
I get a glass of wine with Nina and try to find out the dirt on who’s coming tomorrow night, mainly because I want to know if Shea will be here, and in turn, maybe Nick. We’re talking to my mom’s friend and model, Giselle, about it; she usually knows things that are going on even when they’re not in gossip magazines. The moment Giselle stops talking and gasps, looking up with admiration, I know my mother has entered the room. That’s how people, mainly models, react to her: they stop and stare as if she’s the light they live for. I’ve
always thought it was ridiculous, but she’s my mother, so maybe I don’t appreciate her as much as everybody else does. Or maybe I just see her for who she is.
Either way, I pivot my body to watch her come in because whether you like her or not, Roxana Harmon is a sight to see when she walks in a room. She doesn’t walk, she glides in with such grace that you can’t help it—you have to be awed. She’s wearing a form-fitting black dress with sleeves that purposely fall off her shoulders and a hem that reaches her knees. Her hair is made into a bun that looks like ribbons of brown hair and her golden skin is flawlessly made up with very light makeup. She looks like a wicked queen in black Louboutin heels and a smile plastered on her face. My mother doesn’t have a genuine smile; her smiles are all for show, until she looks at my father and sometimes my brother.
When her eyes meet mine, she stops greeting people and strides over to me, fake smile intact. She doesn’t even examine my body closely today, which is both surprising and relieving. The last thing I want to do is regret the pizza I had for dinner the other night and the lack of exercise I’ve had lately.
“Brooklyn,” she says charmingly.”You look nice. Let me introduce you to this Raptor guy,” she says flippantly.
Biting down on my lip so that I won’t laugh, I tilt my head to look at her. “Is it Rapture or Raptor?”
Her eyebrows scrunch up as she thinks, then stops walking and turns to me. “You know … I can’t remember … why do these kids have to name themselves after dinosaurs? Jesus …”
“Mom … what is it that this guy does again?” I’m laughing a little, but now I’m nervous about who she’s setting me up with.
She sighs. “Brooklyn, just have a drink and talk to the guy. I’m sure you can convince him how great the label is in ten minutes tops, especially with the dress you have on,” she says.
My heart drops a little at the possibilities of what that statement could mean. Does that mean she thinks I have sex with everybody I’ve signed? Or is that her way of complimenting me? It’s hard to tell.
“Here he is,” she says cheerfully when a guy, probably around my age comes up to us. He’s tall and thin, yet fit looking, he has nice dark brown eyes and dark brown hair that’s cut short and a perfectly trimmed beard. I’m not into beards, but he makes it work. “This is my daughter, Brooklyn. Brooklyn this is …” my mother lets the words hang so that he can introduce himself.
“Jayson,” he says, offering me his hand to shake, which I take and smile when he brings it up to his lips. “Pleased to meet you, Brooklyn,” he says, dropping my hand.
“Likewise,” I say with a smile.
And I am glad. I’m instantly comfortable with him, and as we walk over to get a drink, I find that I love looking into his eyes. He has childlike eyes, full of awe and wonder. Things I don’t remember mine ever having. The industry hasn’t killed him yet, and I find his energy refreshing. I also find that I’m slightly jealous of it, of the amazement in his eyes as he looks at things. I wish we could trade places for a day and he could live this lavish lifestyle and I could live his normal everyday life. I can tell he’s not lonely, I can tell he has people that care for him, and I decide that if he’s good, I will sign him, regardless of whether or not he’s “gotta have it” material. This will be the first time I’ll sign somebody because I feel like they can handle this business and not because I know we’ll make money off of them.
If he sucks, I’ll have hell to pay, but I want to give this kid the opportunity to make a name for himself. I’m sick of selling poor lost souls to the devil. I’m sick of feeling like I need to wash my hands as soon as they sign on the dotted line. I think of Shea and I know he would be worse off if he hadn’t signed, but still, where he is now scares me. The amount of stress he deals with and the little real support he has terrifies me for him.
“So, you rap, Jayson?” I ask, standing beside him as we look at the pool, letting the breeze of the night hit our faces.
“I do,” he says. “Wanna hear?”
I smile. “Why not?”
He begins to freestyle, and obviously we have no music to go on, but he still impresses me. Jayson doesn’t do the regular throwing his hands all over the place, trying the beatbox thing that I’m used to new guys doing. In fact, he doesn’t even look like what I would expect him to, judging by the rappers I know. He’s not wearing a chain, not a flashy one anyway. He is wearing a big watch, but it’s not large enough to call attention.
When he finishes, he flashes a bashful smile at me and takes a sip of his drink.
“That was very, very good,” I say. “Why haven’t you signed again?” I ask with a small laugh. It’s a rhetorical question since there are better unsigned talented people than signed. Sometimes I have to laugh at the quality of music we’re putting out there nowadays, but then I remind myself that it’s called commercial for a reason. If what the people want is shit, then we’ll give them shit.
Jayson laughs and shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. The longer he stands there and looks at me, the more I wish we were in a group setting. His eyes keep flickering to my lips when I talk and I can tell what he’s thinking. Not that he’s being disrespectful at all, but we’re going to have to attend the party together tomorrow night and I’m wondering if maybe I should make sure he knows it won’t be that kind of date.
“Do you have a manager?” I ask.
“I’m talking to someone now.”
This doesn’t surprise me in the least. A YouTube sensation that’s about to get himself a manager and a record deal. It’s like Justin Bieber all over again. But better. Okay, maybe not better. Bieber started at the perfect age, where he could get tween fans to grow with him and their moms to think he was cute. Now they’re kind of stuck with him regardless of his bratty ways because, well, Bieberfever doesn’t have an antidote until a newer better version of him comes out.
I nod. “Are you going to make me guess who or are you going to tell me?” I ask, signaling him to follow me back in the house.
He chuckles. “How old are you?” he asks, changing the subject.
Old enough to know that your manager is going to try to fuck you over before you even sign on the dotted line. Old enough to know Harmon or whatever label you sign with is going to make you record an album, maybe three, and may hold on to whatever you record for months, years even, before they release it. If they even do.
I sigh, shooting him a glance over my shoulder and catch him staring at my ass but resist rolling my eyes. “Twenty-five,” I answer. “You?”
He swallows hard, his dark eyes on mine. “Twenty-three.”
I turn around and look forward again, my feelings conflicted even though I know this kid is going to sign with somebody and may end up getting screwed over regardless of who it is. “Get a manager. Get a lawyer,” I suggest.
“Don’t you have my best interest?” he asks, his voice is low and flirty now.
“Yes and no,” I respond truthfully, glancing over my shoulder as we come to a stop in front of the doors of the dining room.
He nods in understanding. “I want to perform worldwide,” he says, his eyes hopeful.
I smile at him. “We can make that happen for you.”
He lets out a breath and my heart clenches for him. He really is just a kid, a kid with big dreams that he wants realized, a kid that wants to help his family out as best he can. Jayson carries his heart in his eyes and even though he’s not much younger than me, he seems it and that makes me feel responsible for what will become of him.
“Jayson,” I start, speaking lower so that only he can hear me. “How many friends do you have? Real friends? People you trust?”
He gives me a confused look and answers, “Six.”
At the same time I shake my head. “Sleep on it and let me know tomorrow.”
He’s completely confused by my question and probably thinks I’m crazy, but I want to take this kid under my wing. It’s the damn childlike eyes. Even over dinner he’s looking at
everything like it’s his first time in Disneyland.
When Jayson, who asked me to call him Jay, goes to one of the guesthouses, I finally make my way upstairs and see a text message from Shea.
Shea: Yo, you still my date tomorrow?
Me: My mom asked me to go with some new guy :(
Shea: So cancel!
Me: Can’t.
Shea: Trying to sign? Who is it?
Me: Name is Jay. Jayson. Raptor. Rapture. Idk about the last two. My mom confused the shit out of me with those.
Shea: LOL. YouTube guy right?
Me: That’s what I hear
Shea: He’s dope. K see you tomorrow. I get there in the afternoon but I’ll be there.
I’m so glad he confirmed that he would be, but I don’t ask about Nick. Just the thought of asking makes my stomach flop. We haven’t spoken since the text messages the other day, which I’ve looked at close to a hundred times now. Nina thinks I’m insane, I think she almost suggested I call him the other day when she caught me looking at them, but shook her head instead and looked at me like I was crazy.
***
Turning over on my side, I open my eyes and notice that Nina’s bed is empty. I blink my eyes to adjust to the light pouring in from outside and see that the clock reads ten o’clock. Yawning, I turn over in bed and close my eyes again. I know I have to get up because somebody will be knocking on my door shortly for one thing or another. My mom doesn’t like to let me sleep in for too long when we have an event. She usually has nails, hair, waxes, and collagen appointments through the day and likes me to go along. Mainly to chastise me about whatever I desperately need to get done. I go anyway because Aunt Mireya and Nina always come with us and I like spending time with them.
“You’re up,” Nina says sleepily as she walks out of the bathroom.
I yawn again. “I’m so tired.”
“Your mom sent the old lady to come wake us up,” Nina says, walking over to her bed and plopping down on it again. She looks as tired as I feel, but at least she’s showered and dressed.
I groan, throwing my head back into my pillow again. “Is your mom here yet?”
