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?”
“Yeah, she got here early this morning. They went walking or running or something.”
Stretching my arms over my head, I get up. “They’re so friggin weird,” I mutter, disappearing into the bathroom.
They really are. Half the time I don’t know how Aunt Mireya can stand my mom, but then they get together and go running before they go Botox their saggy faces, and I get it. Botox on Wednesday, collagen treatment on Saturday, that’s what my mother’s reminders on her phone look like the week of events.
I shower, even though I have no will to today. If I could, I would stay in bed all day with the blinds shut, basking in an abyss of darkness, but I know Nina and Hendrix won’t let me, so I don’t even try it. Once I’m dressed, I step out of the bathroom and find Nina enthralled in her cell phone, typing away furiously with scrunched eyebrows. I don’t ask questions, I’m not really in the mood to talk right now. I just hope this mood passes me by soon. Maybe after a cup of coffee I’ll feel better, this is what I tell myself as Nina drags her eyes from her cell phone to my face and offers me a sad smile. These moments are totally uncharacteristic of her, so I know that whatever she sees etched on my face causes her concern.
Again, I don’t ask and neither does she, I won’t talk about it anyway so there’s no use. There’s no reason for my moods, no specific reason that I can pinpoint. Over time I’ve realized that it’s just me. It’s not only about the memory of losing a friend or a good friend suing me. It’s not only about my parents thinking I’m not worthy of breathing their air or the guy that I want to be with more than anything turning out to be a complete asshole. It’s not only about years and years of being treated as second to everything. It’s about everything, it’s about me, and because of this, I’ve come to terms with trying to make the best of things. It just takes time for my mind to process what that even means. Thankfully it doesn’t take as long as it used to. I am the master of my own destiny. I repeat this mantra for a couple of breaths and get ready to start the day.
We head to the kitchen, taking the stairs closest to the guesthouse to see if we spot anybody else who might be staying here. We’re both standing on our tiptoes looking through one of the tall windows at the end of the hall, when a door slams shut behind us, scaring the ever living shit out of us.
“Hendrix!” Nina and I both scold at the same time as we turn around with our hands over our hearts.
His shoulders shake with laughter. “Nobody told you to be so nosey.”
Nina scoffs. I roll my eyes. Hendrix shrugs.
“Did you eat breakfast already?” I ask him.
“Nope,” he says, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his jeans and frowning. “Oh shit. I totally forgot. Melody gave me these to give you when I saw her last week. She said it was so you could cheer up.” He hands me three gold coins and even though the dark clouds have somewhat dissipated, I start to cry. Just like that. Three Golden Doubloons and I’m crying as if my dog died.
Nina and Hendrix don’t make a move to console me; they just stand back and wait. They’ve learned that sometimes the best way to deal with my fucked up emotions is to take a step back and give me a moment.
“Golden Doubloons,” I sniffle, wiping my face. I feel like a moron for crying, but I can’t really help myself. Sometimes there are scattered showers before the storm inside me completely clears out of my system.
Hendrix smiles and tugs on my hair. That little gesture makes my eyes water again, but only because it reminds me of Nick. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and wonder if maybe I should skip out on this entire day. Maybe it would be best if I stay in my room for a while longer, at least until I get my emotions in check.
“Don’t even think about it,” Nina says quietly, holding my hand in hers. “You’re going to be fine. This will pass. I promise.”
I cry again, this time wrapped inside of Nina’s arms. Hendrix hugs me by hugging Nina and putting his arms around me too. He’s about as good with dealing with emotions as I am, so it almost makes me laugh that he’s participating in this hug, but instead I cry harder, even though it’s now turned into a happier cry. I’m sure this would make me sound like a complete crazy person to somebody else, and maybe I am. Maybe I’m okay with being a crazy person. I’d rather be crazy than perfect. There’s no excitement in perfection.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I say, wiping my eyes again and stepping out of their embraces. “I dunno what’s wrong with me,” I lie.
“Are you still against taking the medicine?” Hendrix asks quietly. His anxious eyes tell me that he’s dying for me to take my antidepressants.
Slipping my fingers into my hair, I begin to massage my head with my eyes closed. “I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’ll start tomorrow,” I respond in an exhale.
The thing about my depression is that it’s up and down. Some days I’m perfectly fine, some days I’m not. Some days I laugh the entire day and cry during the nights. Some days I don’t feel at all and those are the days I isolate myself most. For the most part, I’m fine though. It almost seems like it really hits me seasonally, like I’m one with nature, feeling as dull as the fall leaves and bright as the spring sun.
When I’m sure I won’t break down again, I tuck the Golden Doubloons in the back pockets of my jeans and link my arms with Nina and Hendrix on either side. We eat our breakfast, saying hello to the guests that walk by us, most of them older men and their wives. My parents’ homes have always served as a sort of hotel for their friends. Anytime one of them knows they’ll be in a place where my dad has a house, they call and ask him to stay there. I’ve been greeted by a perfect stranger on more than one occasion when I’ve stayed in their Miami or New York homes in the past. That’s the biggest reason I refused to stay in their empty New York penthouse. The other reason was that it would be just another thing they can hold over my head.
“Oh, you’re going to LA to make some microphones? Maybe we should change the locks so that you can’t get in when you decide New York is where you should be
.”
They’ve done things like that to me in the past. Getting home after a night out and realizing you’re locked out of your own goddamn house because you didn’t answer your mother’s phone calls is not fun at all. I wouldn’t bring that up, though. Water under the bridge, that’s how my dad classifies anything having to do with my past.
When my mother and Aunt Mireya get home from their workout and revamping their faces, as they call it, they tell us that the hair and makeup people will be here at four.
“Isn’t that too early?” Nina asks, looking at me with a frown.
She wanted to lay out by the pool again today, even though I told her that I refuse to wear a bathing suit in front of all of my dad’s friends. They keep circling around us like we’re bait and I don’t appreciate it. What’s worse is that they keep reminding me of how cute I used to be when I was a toddler.
It makes me want to shake their heads and shout, “YOU JUST SAID YOU KNEW ME WHEN I WAS A TODDLER! STOP STARING AT MY TITS, YOU SICK PERVERT!”
I don’t, of course, I just smile awkwardly and avert my eyes.
“No, it’ll be fine,” Aunt Mireya says, waving her hand. “Did you bring the dress?”
Nina shoots me one of her “oh fuck” glances that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry over.
“Ummm actually, Brooklyn and I went shopping the other day and I got one,” Nina mutters under her breath, her voice barely audible. Barely.
“What?” Aunt Mireya shouts. “Nina Victoria Garcia! No lo puedo creer!”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, even though it shouldn’t be funny to me the way our mothers have the ability to scare us even at this age. It’s absolutely ridiculous, really. What are they going to do? Spank us? The way my aunt is looking at Nina, I think she may just take her Chanel flip-flop off, not caring whether or not she ruins her just-polished toes, and spank her. Nina looks like she wants to run far, far away. Her bony shoulders are squeezed into her body and her brown eyes are as wide as saucers, completely fixed on my aunt’s hands. I know the same image is playing inside her head and it almost makes me laugh out loud. Almost. Until Mireya shoots a death look my way.
Catch Me Page 31
