Not A Good Look

by Nikki Carter

  “Yeah, because y’all most definitely need it,” I reply.

  Carlos chuckles from the kitchen.

  “What are you laughing at?” Dreya asks.

  “You could use a lil’ work, Dreya,” Carlos replies. With his thick Puerto Rican accent, he almost rolls the r in Dreya’s name.

  “Ugh. Why don’t you just make your pancakes?” Dreya says with attitude.

  The fact that Dreya and Carlos don’t get along makes him even cooler in my book. He laughs her off and flips a plate-sized pancake on the skillet.

  My mother storms up the hallway from her bedroom. She looks really mad about something as she snatches her keys and purse and walks toward the door.

  Carlos calls from the kitchen, “You not gonna say ’bye or wish me luck on my class?”

  Maybe after dating my mother for two years, Carlos still can’t read her moods. But I wasn’t even about to trip about her leaving without a word, because I can tell she’s heated about something. I’d help a brotha out, but I ain’t trying to get in my mama’s warpath.

  She spins around with fire in her eyes. “Carlos, you really need to check your baby mama.”

  He blows breath through his lips in an irritated-sounding whistle. “Did LaKeisha call you again? What did she want?”

  “The same thing she always wants, Carlos. Money. She said your son needs some new sneakers.”

  Carlos sighs. “Okay. I’ll call her back.”

  “When you talk to her, tell her to lose my number.”

  Carlos walks over to my mother and pulls her into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Shawn. I’ll handle it.”

  Just like that her anger melts away and the fire leaves her eyes. Carlos’s got some serious skills, because I thought she was going to flip out on him.

  My mom looks at the three of us girls all up in their business. She narrows her eyes at Carlos, like she wants to say more but doesn’t want to say it in front of us.

  “I’m going to work, Carlos. We’ll talk about it when I get home.”

  My mom slams the door as she leaves and Carlos goes back to fixing his breakfast.

  “Come on, Bethany,” I say. “This is too much drama this early in the morning.”

  Bethany, Dreya, and I walk outside. Me and Bethany are on our way to the bus stop, but Dreya’s grown, nineteen-year-old boyfriend, Truth, is waiting for her in his tricked-out Impala. You would think they’d offer us a ride since we’re all going to the same school, but nope—they’re not even cool like that.

  As Bethany and I start down the street, my cell phone rings. “Hello.”

  “Sunday, it’s Dreya.”

  I whip my head around to see if they’re still parked in front of the house, but they’ve already pulled off.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I can’t practice after school because I’m going to the studio with Truth. He’s almost done with his album and he wants me there for inspiration.”

  “All right then. Me and Bethany will practice without you.”

  Bethany looks at me with questions in her eyes as I press End on my phone.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Dreya’s not practicing after school.”

  “What’s new? She hardly ever practices—that’s why she sounds a mess.”

  “I know. We’re never gonna get a record deal, messing around with her.”

  “You’re going to college anyway. It’s not like you’ll be able to go to school and be a star.”

  “If we get a record deal between now and the time we graduate, I can help my mom pay my college bills.”

  “Or you could not go to school,” Bethany says. “Then we could kick it hard on the red carpets and go on tour and…”

  This is the part where I tune Bethany out. Truth is, I don’t really want to be a star. I want to be rich, not famous. And as far as being an artist is concerned, I want to write songs. I couldn’t care less about being a performer.

  But it seems like the way to make all that happen is with a girl group. Here in ATL there are so many retired and semiretired R & B stars looking for the next group to manage or sign. We’ve been approached by more than one bootleg producer, but I refuse to go out like that.

  “Maybe we should ask Dreya if we can come to the studio tonight. You never know what might happen,” Bethany says.

  “You can ask her. She’ll tell me no.”

  The bus stop is packed, as usual, because everybody is too lazy to walk to school and it’s starting to get chilly. October is hit-or-miss down here in the A. It’s either warm and sunny or chilly and rainy. Since it’s a week away from November, we’re getting some of the latter.

  I see my ex-boyfriend, Romell, chilling with some of his boys, and butterflies dance in the pit of my stomach. As much as I can’t stand him anymore, I still have to admit that he’s fine. He’s deep, dark chocolate with a pretty smile. His cornrows to the back look good on him, too. But I wonder which new chick put them in for him. His playa tendencies are what made me sideline our teenage love affair.

  “Look at your boy,” Bethany whispers.

  “I ain’t thinking about him.”

  “Then why you still rocking those earrings?”

  “Maybe because they’re the only piece of jewelry I own that doesn’t come from Claire’s.”

  Bethany grins at me like she knows something that I don’t. “Whatever, Sunday. You still dig Romell.”

  I shake my head and click on my iPod. I let the smooth vocals of Chrisette Michele drown out the noise. This girl can blow, for real. Not like these pop princess divas who need Auto-Tune to make a record. My eyes close and my head bobs as I let the music take me to another place where cheating ex-boyfriends don’t reside.

  Bethany taps me on my shoulder, snapping me out of my trance. “The bus is here.”

  I nod and follow the rest of the group to the bus. I just listened to a sad song, and it’s sticking with me right now. Music does that to me. I can listen to a Jay-Z track and get pumped about my career, or listen to a Biggie track and have to dance no matter what. Seriously, can you hear “Hypnotize” in the club and not get up and dance? That’s for real.

  Bethany usually sits with me on the bus, but today it’s packed and we have to split up. I end up sitting in front of Romell, and next to someone who’s on their way to work. It would be nice if our school had actual school buses. They just give us bus tickets and expect us to share the public transportation with all the grown people who don’t have cars.

  I get ready to flick my iPod back on, when Romell leans forward and whispers, “You looking real nice today, Sunday. When’re we getting back together?”

  Part of me wants to smile because he appreciates my look, but the other part wants to dead that noise because he played me.

  “Romell, I’m not getting back with you. You know what it is.”

  He chuckles, “‘You da you da best / you da you da best.’”

  “You can sing all the Drake songs you want, Romell. It’s not gonna work. I’m never getting back with you.”

  “Never?” Romell replies with a laugh. “How you gon’ challenge me like that and think I’m not gonna accept?”

  A challenge? Wow, I don’t even know how he got a challenge out of I’m never getting back with you. That’s crazy.

  “Romell, ain’t nobody trying to challenge you. Go holla at Chantelle. She’s the one you with now, right? She braid your hair?”

  “You like my hair, baby? Thank you, but Chantelle is just for playing—you know that. You’re the one I wanna be with.”

  “Yeah, well, won’t Chantelle do whatever you want?”

  “She’s too easy and I’m a man, baby. I like to hunt for my food.”

  I roll my eyes, flick on my iPod, and hope that Romell can’t see the tiny smile on my lips. Yeah, he’s a cheater and all, but dang, he’s wearing that swagger like Roca-wear cologne.

  Wait, did I say I was over him? Well, I am, but a girl can still appreciate fineness. I’m j
ust sayin’.

  3

  Bethany squeezes my arm as we get out of Truth’s car in front of the studio. She had begged and pleaded with Dreya for us to be able to come, and Truth had picked us all up from school. Dreya promised us that it was the first and last time that we’d ever be in her man’s ride and she threatened Bethany with a slow and painful beat down if she tried to push up on Truth.

  “Y’all can sit down over there,” Truth directs us as we walk through the studio doors.

  Dreya looks hesitant to let her man’s hand go when we see three chicks walk by us wearing bathing suits.

  “Who are they?” Dreya asks.

  Truth grins and his mid-back-length locs move, emphasizing his amusement. He walks up really close to Dreya and kisses her on the neck. While he’s doing this, I notice he has a new tattoo on his arm—a microphone. In a minute he’s not gonna have anywhere else to add any tattoos; his chocolate brown skin is covered in ink.

  “You jealous, ma?” Truth asks.

  Dreya sticks her chin out defiantly, like a little kid. “No, never that. I was just wondering why they walkin’ around half-naked like it’s summertime, and it’s cold outside.”

  “They are doing a photo shoot. They’re some little girl singing group. Kinda like y’all, but they can’t blow like y’all can.”

  Kinda like us? That’s really funny. There is no way in the world anyone’s gonna ever see me doing a photo shoot with no clothes on. That’s for no-talent chicks.

  Truth continues, “I’m gonna go ’head downstairs ’cause I’m already late. Y’all can chill and watch TV, and somebody will probably come up and get y’all something to eat. You straight with that, wifey?”

  Dreya nods and returns Truth’s kiss. He untangles himself from her and dashes down a flight of stairs. Dreya looks like she wants to follow him, but she doesn’t. She sits down on a leather couch and we follow her.

  “Y’all betta not embarrass me up here, especially you, Bethany, with your thirsty self,” Dreya says.

  I guess I’m looking real lame right now, because I brought my homework, but whatever. I’ve got a calc test tomorrow, and I don’t flunk for nobody. I don’t care if they do have a record deal.

  This is a pretty fly spot, for real. There’s a big flat-screen TV on the wall, surround sound, and theatre chairs. Somebody spent some serious cheddar on this spot.

  Just as I finish up my homework, a pretty, brown, video-vixen type walks into the room. She’s got a lace front wig that hangs nearly to her waist, fake eyes, fake boobs, and probably a fake behind, but at least she’s fully dressed. I wonder what she looked like before the enhancements.

  “Y’all want something to eat?” she asks.

  Dreya looks her up and down. “Who are you?”

  The girl laughs. “You must be Truth’s little girlfriend.”

  “I’m his wifey.”

  I have to swallow the laugh that threatens to explode out of my throat. Dreya is hilarious without even trying. As if a girl who looks like this chick would be interested in Truth’s broke, on the come-up self. Dreya sounds really desperate right now.

  “Well, I’m the receptionist, baby girl, and the hospitality committee. Do you want something to eat or not? We’ve got lasagna and pound cake in the kitchen.”

  My eyebrows lift involuntarily. She just said the magic word for me. Lasagna is one of the world’s most perfect foods.

  “I don’t know about her,” I say while holding on to my grumbling stomach, “but I’m hungry. I would love some lasagna.”

  Dreya cuts her eyes at me like she wishes they were a knife. It’s whatever. I haven’t eaten since lunch and it’s dinnertime.

  The vixen smiles at me. “Well, come on then. Big D said to roll out the red carpet for y’all.”

  “Who’s Big D?” Bethany asks.

  “He’s the man who owns this studio.”

  “Are you his girlfriend?” Dreya asks.

  “Something like that.”

  I don’t wait for Dreya to make up her mind about whether or not this girl is a threat. I’m hungry and the scent of freshly baked lasagna has made its way to my nose.

  When Bethany stands up, too, Dreya reluctantly joins us. We follow the vixen down the hall, and for real, her butt has to be fake. Each cheek is moving like it has its own personality. Those kinds of booties don’t grow naturally, do they?

  The vixen girl shows us to the kitchen nook area where we slide into a booth. Dreya’s mean mug is slowly evaporating as the girl serves us hot, steaming plates of cheesy lasagna.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the girl, tired of thinking of her as the vixen in my head.

  “It’s Michelle, but everybody calls me Shelly.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Sunday, and this is Dreya and Bethany. We’re a singing group.”

  “That’s cute,” she says. “I used to sing, too, but that was a long time ago.”

  “So what do you do now? Dance in videos?” Dreya asks.

  “No, sweetie. Big D takes good care of me. I don’t have to shake my behind in videos to make money.”

  Bethany’s eyes widen. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. I need a man like that.”

  Michelle laughs out loud. “You’re a baby. You don’t need a man at all.”

  Thank you, big-donk girl, for spitting knowledge in the atmosphere! Sometimes I really don’t know about Bethany. Some of the stuff she says is twisted.

  “If y’all want some more, it’s on the stove,” Michelle says. “I’m going back downstairs.”

  “Are we allowed down there?” Bethany asks.

  “Maybe. I’ll ask, and if they want y’all to sit in on the session, someone will come upstairs and get you.”

  Michelle jiggles out of the kitchen and leaves us there to finish our food. Stripper or not, she knows what the heck she’s doing in the kitchen. This lasagna is the bomb, for real!

  “She looks like she stinks,” Dreya says.

  “Hi, hater,” Bethany replies with a giggle.

  “Seriously!” Dreya exclaims. “How can you wipe a booty that big?”

  “Ewww, you nasty,” I say. “Leave me alone so I can eat my food.”

  “I don’t want nothing that booty girl fixed,” Dreya says.

  “Okay, you can starve then.”

  Bethany and I scarf down our lasagna and soda like we haven’t eaten in weeks, while Dreya watches.

  “Didn’t she say something about some pound cake?” Bethany asks.

  Just when Bethany and I are about to go in search of dessert, a teenage boy comes into the kitchen. He stops in the doorway of the kitchen, leans on the wall, and checks each one of us out.

  “Y’all wanna come downstairs?” he asks.

  Dreya stands up. “Yeah. It’s about time.”

  The boy looks at Dreya’s untouched plate of food. “You didn’t like the lasagna?”

  “I don’t eat food cooked by strippers.”

  The boy looks offended. “I’m not a stripper!”

  I burst into laughter. “I don’t know who you are, but, boy, you put your foot in that lasagna.”

  “I’m Sam, the studio engineer and junior producer. I also like to cook.”

  “I’m Sunday, this is my girl Bethany, and the hungry chick over there is Dreya.”

  Sam smiles at me, and I smile back, although he’s far from a hottie. His clothes are fresh and his haircut is nice, but he’s barely cute with his big nose and lips. He’s got a great smile, though, and since I’m not looking for a boyfriend, that’s good enough for me.

  We follow Sam downstairs to the studio area. Shelly is chilling on a couch reading a book. Truth is in the booth with a headset on, and I guess Big D is the one at the control panel. I’ve never met Big D, but the giant medallion of the letter D across his chest is a giveaway.

  “Which one of you young ladies is Truth’s girl?” Big D asks.

  Dreya pipes up, “That would be me.”

  “Well, you betta talk t
o your man. He needs to finish up this album and he ain’t belting out this hook the way I need him to. Sing it again, Truth, while your wifey’s down here.”

  Big D hits some buttons on the control panel and a loud, pulsing beat blazes through the room. My head involuntarily starts to bob, and a melody forms itself around the bass line.

  Truth opens up his mouth and sings in a gravelly tenor. His singing voice isn’t bad, but the melody is lacking. The one I’m thinking of is a lot hotter, and more fitting for the beat. Obviously, Big D isn’t feeling it either because he turns off the music.

  He fusses into the microphone leading to the booth. “Truth, man. Come on.”

  I clear my throat and tap Big D on the shoulder. Dreya’s eyes widen like she wants to strangle me, but it’s whatever. He needs to hear what I have to say if he wants to make this track hot.

  “You interrupting me, right now?” Big D asks.

  He sounds irritated, but I’m not scared, because I know he’s gonna be pleased when he hears what I have to say.

  “I think I can help. The hook you’ve got him singing doesn’t really fit the track.”

  “You got something better?”

  I nod.

  “Then let’s hear it.”

  Big D turns the track back on, but waves at Truth to let him know he shouldn’t sing. I close my eyes, open my mouth, and sing the lyrics I just freestyled to the track.

  “You say I’m the best now show and prove / If I’m the one then make your move / I’m a lady, I’m not sweating you / now what ya gonna do, what ya gonna do?”

  I repeat the hook a few times while the track plays, and on the second time, Dreya and Bethany harmonize with me. We sound hot! I’m so proud of them, especially Dreya, because she doesn’t go flat even though she does a little run at the end.

  Big D claps his hands together. “All right, baby! Now we talkin’. That’s gonna be a hit right there. Wifey, go get in the booth with your man and belt that out.”

  What? Did everyone not hear me freestyle and lead that hook? Is it my imagination or does he really want Dreya to sing on the track? What in the…

  “She’s got a little bit more flava to her,” Big D explains. “You look kinda Disney, sweetheart. We can use her in the video. But you and this whooty right here can sing backup.”