Diamond Life

by Aliya S. King

  The weed made Birdie cough hard until Travis had to clap him on the back.

  “So what has to happen?” asked Travis.

  “I don’t know,” said Birdie. “I’ll know when it happens.”

  Travis and Daryl looked at each other, and even though he was high, Birdie caught it.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” said Daryl. “We can talk about it later. You got shit on your mind.”

  Birdie sat down. “Come on.”

  Travis cleared his throat.

  “It’s not that deep,” he said. “You know I always wanted to start my own management company. Well, I’m branching out. I’m taking on some new clients.”

  Birdie nodded. “Good for you.” He turned around to face Daryl.

  “And you?”

  “I’m taking an A&R gig at Interscope.”

  Birdie lifted an eyebrow. If he hadn’t smoked, he might have felt something.

  “Oh, so we’re really splitting up.”

  “Hell, no,” said Travis. “We just all trying to get on your level.”

  “Well, that’s what I want for y’all too. It’s all good. You’re finally giving me something to write about. My whole crew is falling apart.”

  Birdie laughed and the guys chuckled nervously.

  “It’s all good,” said Birdie. “It’s allll good.”

  Birdie threw up a peace sign and left the studio.

  On the ride back home, Birdie kept thinking about this ridiculous Chips Ahoy commercial that always made Tweet laugh. The cookies were alive, singing along to a song while speeding along in a convertible. Then, out of nowhere, a hand comes from the sky and plucks the cookies out, one at a time. That’s how Birdie felt. Like he was a cookie in a convertible, about to be plucked up by some higher power.

  “I really am high,” Birdie whispered to himself as he pulled into the cul-de-sac. Back at home, Birdie threw his backpack on the white sofa in the family room and slumped on the sofa. The house was too big without Alex and Tweet in it. Without them, it was stale. Just what was he supposed to—

  A smooth, thin arm locked around Birdie’s neck and squeezed.

  “Don’t move, sweetie,” said a squeaky voice behind Birdie’s head. “This will be quick.”

  Birdie heard some rustling and whispering behind him. It was a woman. And there were at least two other women with her in the house. Did they just break in? Had they gotten into the house and waited for him? What the hell, Birdie thought to himself. I’m getting robbed by a woman?

  For a half-second, Birdie thought of trying to overpower her. He could tell from the grip around his neck that she was tiny. He felt like he could flip her right over his head and onto the floor. The woman must’ve felt his body clench up because Birdie felt the cool touch of gunmetal at his temple.

  “I said this would be quick,” the woman said.

  Birdie closed his eyes. Thank God, Tweet’s not here, he thought. In minutes, the arm was lifting him to his feet and walking him into the kitchen.

  Birdie started counting in his head for no good reason. It just seemed like the thing to do. He couldn’t imagine she would shoot him. For what?

  Birdie waited for whatever would happen next. And as he waited, he got more and more angry. He’d told Alex he wanted to get a gun for protection and she’d put her foot down. The fact that a gun would not have stopped him from getting robbed didn’t change his mind. Maybe when they left, he could have chased after them and squeezed off a few shots.

  I’m getting a gun as soon as this is over.

  The butt of the gun hit the back of Birdie’s head as soon as he completed the thought. He fell in a lump to the ground; three women stepped over his crumpled body and made their way out of the back door.

  The moment Zander’s flight landed from Los Angeles, he slipped his hand into his bag and turned his cell phone on. Hiding it from the flight attendant, he obsessively checked his text messages until he saw one from his father:

  “I’m at baggage claim.”

  Zander exhaled and sat back in his seat and closed his eyes as the plane taxied to the gate. Even though he’d only spent a single night in jail, he could still feel it all over him. His father’s attorney in LA had bailed him out, and a court date was set. Z and Beth flew out the very next morning and stood next to him as he pled not guilty. A month later, thanks to his father’s relentless attorneys and a healthy dose of good luck, Zander was semifree. Five years of probation and a year of mandatory drug counseling and he was free to return to New Jersey—under one condition that he was more than happy to agree to. When the plane finally pulled to a stop, Zander didn’t jump up to get his luggage out of the overhead compartment the way he usually did. He stayed in his seat as the other passengers struggled to get a head start on the bottleneck toward the exit.

  “You plan on staying for a while?” a flight attendant said with a smile.

  “I’m not in a hurry,” said Zander.

  When the last passenger began walking down the aisle, Zander stood up and got his bags. He walked slowly, deliberately, looking out of the windows of the plane where a torrential rain was coming down. At the front of the plane, the pilot stood in the doorway of the cockpit and smiled at Zander.

  “Pleasure having you aboard,” said the pilot.

  “You don’t know the half,” mumbled Zander.

  In the terminal, Zander walked slowly. Every few steps, he’d feel eyes on him. A group of girls at a fast-food restaurant pointed and took camera pics. A woman manning the cash register at a newsstand did a double take as he walked by.

  Zander felt like he was shedding a second skin as he made his way to the escalator. People would always stare. For a long time, people would recognize him, for a variety of reasons. But he knew he’d be able to control how he felt about it.

  The driver of his dad’s Suburban came around to take his bags and put them in the trunk. Zander climbed into the back seat.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said, shaking his father’s hand.

  Z nodded and gestured to the driver to leave. For thirty minutes, father and son sat in absolute silence. The driver was on the New Jersey Turnpike, at exit 11 before Z cleared his throat.

  “You think you’re doing the right thing?” he said to Zander.

  Zander nodded.

  “You don’t have to do what I want you to do, Zan,” said Z.

  “I know.”

  Father and son remained on opposite sides of the back seat, each staring out of his own window.

  “Have you spoken to Bunny?” Z asked.

  “She called,” said Zander. “I haven’t spoken to her.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No.”

  Z turned to face Zander.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through all of this to see her for who she really was.”

  Zander shrugged.

  “Everybody warned me. Don’t have anyone to blame but myself.”

  “Jake’s attorneys sent the paperwork releasing you from the label.”

  Zander nodded.

  “And you know you’ll be able to get another deal whenever you get ready.”

  “Nah, I’m done.”

  “I’m just saying you don’t have to be. You’re still young. You can do whatever you want to do.”

  “I know.”

  More silence. The driver turned off at exit 9 on the turnpike and drove onto Route 18.

  “I’ve been a mess for just about your entire life, Zander,” Z said. “That feeling of failure never goes away for me.”

  Zander held his breath, praying his father wouldn’t start crying. Everything was too intense anyway. He couldn’t deal.

  “I feel like I let you down in a lot of ways too,” said Zander.

  “Fresh starts all around.”

  The driver pulled up to a large building set back from the street and stopped directly in front of the door.

  “You ready?” Z said.

  Zander nodded and climb
ed out.

  It was intensely quiet and the air was cleaner. The soft crunch of gravel under Zander’s feet was the only thing he focused on as he followed his father to the front door.

  The door opened before Z could knock or ring the doorbell and a tall black man with gray streaks on either side of his jet-black hair ushered him inside.

  “Good to see you, Z,” said the man, pumping his hands.

  “Dr. James,” said Z, smiling. “Always good to see you. This is my son, Zander.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Zander,” said Dr. James. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

  Zander looked down at the floor and mumbled a thank you.

  “Your father was my star pupil. I’m sure you’ll follow in his footsteps here at Rutgers.”

  “I plan to.”

  Dr. James handed over a package to Zander stuffed with paperwork.

  “I’m the dean of student life here. If you have any questions about anything, come see me. You don’t have a lot of time to prepare. Summer session starts in two weeks and you need to choose your courses and register.”

  Zander accepted the package and nodded.

  “Your father told me you wanted to stay on campus . . .”

  “Yessir.”

  Dr. James handed over a magnetic card reader and a key.

  “We’ll see how this works out. I have you in Campbell Hall. Most freshmen share a room or a suite. But I finagled a single room for you. I thought it would be better that way.”

  Zander felt his heart beating harder in his chest. The campus of Rutgers University was only thirty miles away from his home. An hour away from the Parker Meridien, where he’d lived for almost a year. He’d criss-crossed the country, performed for crowds, released an album. And nothing had scared him as much as being on a college campus.

  “You can walk to the dorm from here,” said Dr. James. “Follow the trail at the back of the house until you come to the courtyard. You’ll see signs.”

  Z and Zander walked in silence from the back of Dr. James’s home toward the courtyard.

  “Your mom is going to send all of your stuff this week,” said Z.

  “Cool.”

  At the entryway to the dorm, a group of young kids stood around talking. They fell silent when Z and Zander walked up to the door.

  “This is Campbell?” Zander asked, looking up at the building.

  One of the guys, who obviously recognized both of them, nodded his head without speaking. They moved to the side so that Zander could open the front door. Before the door closed behind him, Zander turned back around.

  “I’m Zander,” he said, offering his hand to one of the guys staring at him.

  “Ethan,” the young man said.

  “I’ll check y’all later,” Zander said.

  The group exchanged looks and went back to talking, this time softly, barely above a whisper.

  “This is not the Parker Meredien,” Zander said with a laugh, as soon as he opened the door to the musty room on the second floor overlooking the courtyard. Z sat down on the hard bed and bounced on it a few times.

  “You want me to ship you a new bed?”

  Zander laughed.

  “Nah, I’m good. It’ll be a constant reminder of where I could be. In jail.”

  Z stood up and looked around the barren room. The walls were made out of white cinder blocks and there were stray marks where taped posters once hung.

  “I’ve been in jail cells that looked better,” Z mumbled.

  Zander smiled and thumbed through the course catalog.

  “I’m going to get back on the road,” Z said.

  Zander stood up.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You can come home whenever you need to. I hear college food is horrible.”

  “I’ll live.”

  Zander took a step toward his father and quickly hugged him, clapping him once on the back and then stepping back, looking away. For an awkward moment, they mumbled “good-byes” and “see-you-soons.”

  Zander offered to walk his father back downstairs, but he brushed him off gently.

  “Get yourself settled,” said Z. “Here, take this.”

  Z pulled a small box out of his bag and Zander took it, turning it around in his hands.

  “What’s this?”

  “I think you might need it.”

  The first thing Zander did when his father left was sit down on the bed and open the box. It was a cell phone. Zander’s eyebrows knitted. Why would he need a new cell phone? As he turned it around in his hands, his own cell phone rang. He picked it up to check the Caller ID: Bunny.

  Zander stared at the phone as it rang. Her photo came up. She had her knees drawn up to her chest with her head hanging to one side. Zander had taken the picture of her at the beach last summer. The strap to her bathing suit was hanging off one shoulder, showing a deep tan line.

  When the phone stopped ringing, Zander turned it off. He opened the new phone and called his father.

  “Yup,” Z answered.

  “Who has the number to this new phone?”

  “Just me and your mother.”

  “I need this.”

  “I thought you might.”

  Zander hung up and began cleaning up his new room. He found garbage bags in a hall closet and filled it with stray papers, random things left behind by the last tenant, and finally, his old cell phone. He heard it ringing—Bunny’s personalized ringtone—as he carried the bag into the hallway. Zander knocked on the door of the residential advisor.

  “Hey, good to meet you,” said the advisor. “You moved in okay?”

  “Just need to know where trash goes.”

  “Trash chute. Third door on your left.”

  Zander nodded.

  At the trash chute, Zander looked down. He grabbed the garbage bag and stuffed it down the chute. He could still hear Bunny’s first single playing as the bag fell to the bottom.

  Back in his room, Zander found the sheets his dad had brought him from home and made up his bed. He peeled off his boots and jeans and sat cross-legged on the bed, his back against the wall with the summer session course catalog in his lap.

  For two hours, he pored over the catalog, choosing classes and making up his schedule. When he was done, he closed the catalog, tapped his pencil on the cover, and stared at his new schedule until his eyes started to burn.

  A nurse came into Birdie’s hospital room and started her morning routine of poking, prodding, and drawing blood.

  “Any word on when I’m getting out of here?” Birdie asked, staring at the ceiling.

  “We’re waiting for a clearance from the neurologist,” said the nurse. “Your concussion was severe.”

  “I don’t have amnesia,” said Birdie. “I know my name. I remember exactly what happened. I’m ready to go.”

  The nurse smiled and packed up her supplies.

  “Doesn’t work that way. I’ll be back a bit later.”

  Birdie grunted and then turned on the television. He started to fall asleep during a mindless sitcom and didn’t hear the knock at his door.

  Birdie opened his eyes and saw Alex standing in the doorway. He sat up as best as he could and waved her in.

  “Hey,” she said, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “Hey,” Birdie said back.

  “Are you okay?”

  Birdie shrugged.

  “Bruised ego mostly. One thing to get robbed. Another thing to get robbed by a gang of party chicks who prey on idiot celebrities who invite them to house parties.”

  “What’d they take?”

  “Everything not nailed down,” Birdie said. “Very organized.”

  Alex exhaled.

  “Feeling better?”

  “I’d be a lot better if I had my wife back.”

  “I just came to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Alex pulled loose threads off his blankets. They were silent for a long moment.


  “I miss you,” Alex finally said.

  Birdie didn’t respond. He knew he didn’t need to.

  “I haven’t forgiven you,” said Alex. “But when I heard about what happened, I had to see you.”

  Birdie nodded.

  “And now what?” Birdie said. “You see I’m not dead. I’m going to live. Now what?”

  Alex stood up.

  “I guess now I go back home.”

  Before Birdie could protest, a doctor came into the room with a clipboard.

  “We just heard back from the neurologist,” said the doctor, flipping through some paperwork. “She’s satisfied with your progress and she’s referring you for discharge.”

  Birdie exhaled and sat up.

  “Thank God.”

  “You’re not one hundred percent yet,” said the doctor. “You’re going to need someone at home to help you out for a while.”

  The doctor glanced over at Alex.

  “I have that taken care of,” Birdie said.

  “Good,” the doctor said, smiling. “You’ll have some papers to sign, one more round of observations, and you’ll be discharged in the morning.”

  As soon as the doctor closed the door, Alex stood up.

  “Who’s going to take care of you?” she asked.

  “I’m sure I can get Travis to come by once in a while. And Dylan is always showing up.”

  Alex nodded.

  “I can take you back to Jersey in the morning,” Alex said. “If you want me to.”

  “I don’t want to go to Jersey,” Birdie said.

  Alex gave Birdie a look.

  “You want to come to Brooklyn?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Birdie said. “I do.”

  Everything about their old house was perfect. Birdie loved hopping over the missing step on the way up to the porch. He loved the etched glass windows and the little tiny foyer where he and Alex would wait for a rainstorm to slow down before venturing out. He loved the heavy banister leading up to the second floor. Everything in the new house in Jersey felt sterile and cold. This place felt like home. Tweet’s drawings were tacked up everywhere. Her growth chart was scribbled on the wall near the kitchen. And dozens of Alex’s cover stories were hanging up all over the house.