Doing My Own Thing

by Nikki Carter

  Sam shifts on his stool and strokes the keys on the keyboard. “I might not be going to Georgia Tech.”

  “For real? Well, where are you going?”

  “Might not be going to college at all right now. Our music is really taking off, and I think it’s about to blow up even further.”

  My eyes widen. Sam and I have talked about college so much that this surprises me. Or maybe I’ve done all the talking and he’s only listened. It’s kind of hazy to me now.

  “I still want to go to college. It’ll just be after I ride out this ten or fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “What makes you think we won’t be in it longer than that?” I ask. “Look at Mystique and Zillionaire.”

  “They’re like special cases, Sunday. We’ve got a good five years to make as much paper as we can. Then we’ll just be regular, you know?”

  I consider Sam’s ideas about fame. I think that people who aren’t really talented end up falling off the map after a few hit records. But this doesn’t apply to Sam! He’s a great keyboard player and producer. And he plays the cello too! I mean seriously, he’s a real musician. Not just some dude with a beat machine.

  “I still think you should go to college. Not just for our education! Think of the fraternity parties, step shows, and football games.”

  “I’ll go to school in a few years.”

  Sam’s track continues to loop in the background of our conversation. It plays so many times that it’s all up in my head. I feel a hook forming around notes and drums.

  I sing, “Say that you will.... I need to know that you’re gonna be here.... Say what you won’t do.... You won’t hurt me . . . and I’ll never lose you.”

  Sam beams a smile in my direction when I’m done. “How is it that you can write all these love songs, and you don’t know anything about love?”

  “You don’t know what I know about!”

  I’m offended that he would even say that to me. I’m even more irritated that he’s right. But who says you have to know about love to write a love song? I know what I think love feels like, and I know I haven’t felt anything close to what I’m imagining.

  “Then tell me, Sunday. What do you know about love?” Sam’s teasing voice makes me look at the tan berber carpet on the floor.

  “Don’t worry about what I know. You just keep the beats coming, and I’ll keep writing the lyrics.”

  “That’s all I am to you?” Sam asks. “A dude with nice tracks?”

  “You know I don’t feel that way, but I really don’t want to talk about love, you know? It’s too much trouble. Let’s keep the conversation light.”

  “Gotcha! Sam and Sunday light!” Sam says in a tone that tells me he’s a little bit irritated with me, but I’m irritated too, at the way he put our names together like that. Did he have to say, Sunday and Sam? It’s almost like I’m talking to a brick wall with this dude!

  I’m not trying to be wifed up! Dang!

  Sam reaches out and flips the little bracelet on my wrist. It’s the one he bought me, with the little S charm that dangles. He’d bought it for me when he was trying to be my boyfriend, and I wasn’t ready. I wear the bracelet because it’s cute, not because it means anything.

  I finger the bracelet thoughtfully. “Do you want it back? If it bothers you for me to wear it, you know you can have it back, right?”

  “I don’t want it back. I gave it to you.”

  Now, we’re staring at one another. I’m not sure where the conversation is supposed to go next. I guess it’s my turn to speak.

  “So . . . demo for Bethany. Three songs. We’ll give her hot stuff, and see what happens from there. It’ll be about selling it to Epsilon, I think, since they’re the only record company where we have real connections.”

  “Bethany gets a record deal, and then what?”

  I tap my chin until my thoughts become clear. “Then, we get paid to write the songs on her album, but this time we get royalties. No work-for-hire stuff like we did for Dreya.”

  “Don’t get mad at the work for hire,” Sam says. “It got us in the door.”

  When we wrote the songs for Dreya’s album, we made an agreement with Epsilon Records that was like a deal with the devil. We don’t get any money in royalties, no matter how many records Dreya sells, nor do we get any additional money from the song we did on Mystique’s record.

  “I’m not mad about it, but we already took one loss. I’m definitely not trying to take another one.”

  “Okay, so how are you going to explain it to Dreya?”

  “I don’t answer to her, and she’s not my mother. I don’t really care if she’s angry or not, as long as I make money for my tuition. And that’s for real.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s do the dang thang!” Sam exclaims.

  5

  It’s quiet in our house for a change. Mom and I both sit on opposite sides of the couch reading. Normally, the TV would be on or Manny would be somewhere crying for some juice. But right now . . . total quiet. This . . . right here . . . love it!

  “How was your date, Mom?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  Mom looks up from her book and smiles. It’s not that faraway smile she gets on her face when she sees or talks about Carlos, but it’s a smile nonetheless. She hasn’t been smiling a lot lately, so this is a good thing.

  “He was nice. Just another letter carrier named Jimmy. I’ve known him for years.”

  “Where’d y’all go?”

  My mom laughs out loud. “You nosy!”

  “I’m just trying to hold it down for my boy Carlos,” I say.

  This makes my mother’s smile twist into an irritated frown. “Yeah. I tried to hold out for Carlos too, but I’m lonely. He doesn’t even call on a regular basis.”

  “But Carlos loves you, Mom.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve heard a few things that don’t sit right about Carlos. I think we might be better off without him.”

  I kick both my feet out from under me, so I can stretch while I consider what my mother just laid on me. She’s heard some things that didn’t sit right about Carlos? This reminds me what Dilly said about Carlos not being on the up and up. Maybe he was telling the truth.

  “What did you hear?” I ask.

  “Nothing that I’m about to share with you, Sunday. You don’t need to know about all that.”

  “I do need to know. That’s how I end up in the middle of stuff. That stuff that went down in New York was crazy, Mom.”

  Mom nods sadly and stretches her legs out too. “It was crazy, and I wish that you hadn’t been afraid to say something to me or at least Big D.”

  Why does everyone expect me to know the right thing to do because I’m smart? I don’t know everything! And while everybody is looking at this with their twenty/ twenty hindsight vision, wasn’t none of them there with me thinking my mom and my little cousin could be hurt.

  “I wish I had said something. Dilly hates me now.”

  Mom inhales and sighs. “Can you blame him, Sunday? Even though I can’t stand his chicken-head sister and wannabe gangsta brother, he seems like a nice boy. He didn’t deserve to be wrapped up in that either.”

  “I’ve tried to apologize to him, and he’s not hearing it.”

  There’s a long pause before my mother replies. “Give him some time, and then apologize again.”

  “And if he’s still mad?” I ask.

  “Do you care about being friends with him?” she asks.

  I ponder this for a moment. I do like Dilly as a person, or I should say I did like him. Until the kidnapping attempt, he was funny and a blast to hang out with. Now, he just seems angry.

  “I miss how he used to be. He was cool and talented,” I finally say after I gather my thoughts.

  “Do you care about being friends with him?” My mom repeats.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Then you apologize again, and then again. Apologize until you’re blue in the face, Sunday. You put that boy’s life in danger, an
d I know you thought you were protecting me and Manny, but it doesn’t change anything.”

  A knot forms in my throat, which tells me that I’m on the verge of tears. I don’t usually get all emotional about stuff my mom says, but she’s coming with some real tough love right now. I do need to make Dilly understand that I never meant for him to get hurt, and about how sorry I am.

  “Don’t cry about it, Sunday. Just fix it.”

  “That’s easier said than done, Mom.”

  “You’d be surprised at what a sincere apology can do.”

  I spend a few minutes quietly reflecting on my mother’s wisdom. It’s not often that she drops knowledge on me, because I’m dang near the perfect kid. But when I do need it, my mama can bring it, know what I mean?

  Then, like the hurricane that she is, Aunt Charlie bursts through the front door, wrecking our quiet flow.

  “Sunday! You need to explain this right now!” Aunt Charlie screams at the top of her lungs while waving a Variety magazine in the air.

  I lift an eyebrow, wondering what foolishness she’s on now. “What are you talking about, Aunt Charlie?”

  She pokes out her bony hip and flips to a page in the magazine. She flips the pages so hard that a few of them rip right out of the magazine and fall to the floor.

  Aunt Charlie reads aloud, “Sunday Tolliver of Mystical Sounds just inked a deal with BET for a reality show based on the video shoot for her hit single, ‘Can U See Me.’ The show will also follow Ms. Tolliver during her first days as a college freshman at Spelman College. Thugged-out Truth and ghetto-fabulous cousin Drama take a backseat to Sunday, but all three can be seen on Backstage: The Epsilon Summer Tour, airing on BET nine p.m. on Thursdays this fall.”

  My mother bites her lip. Of course, she knows about the show. In fact, she’s been bugging me to go ahead and tell Aunt Charlie to get it out of the way. But I’ve been stalling, because I knew this would happen.

  “It sounds self-explanatory to me,” my mother says as she turns the page in her book.

  Aunt Charlie narrows her eyes and growls. “Shawn! You’re just as bad. I know you had something to do with this. She wouldn’t have signed this deal without talking to you about it.”

  Mom nods. “Yeah, I knew about it. So what?”

  “So what? So what? Why wasn’t Dreya a part of this, Sunday?”

  I clear my throat, close my book, and place it on my lap. “BET wasn’t interested in signing Dreya up for another season. The only reason she’s going to be on the show at all is because I begged them to let her go to my video shoot in Barbados.”

  “But why didn’t they want her back?” Aunt Charlie asks. “She has got to be more interesting than your little corny behind.”

  Now I feel myself getting extra heated, but I’m not about to disrespect my auntie. “I guess they thought corny was better than ghetto. They said I’m a more positive example for young people.”

  “Where’s that Big D? I know he had something to do with this. He’s been trying to push my baby to the background since y’all went on tour.”

  As I jump up from the couch, my book falls to the floor. “He has not! Dreya was the one on tour acting like some kind of diva from the hood! Plus, she didn’t even graduate from high school!”

  My mom interjects. “Charlie, I think you need to wait and see the reality show, before you question why they didn’t want to fool with Dreya anymore.”

  “You’ve seen it?” I ask. I didn’t know my mom was cool with Big D all like that.

  “I didn’t watch all of the episodes, but from what I did see, Dreya was acting a fool, Charlie. I mean, she acts like she doesn’t even want this music career. She acts like this record deal is not a gift.”

  “A gift?” Aunt Charlie scoffs. “She’s a gift to the record industry. Now y’all haters are trying to keep her down.”

  My mother and I both give Aunt Charlie blank stares. Then we look at each other and burst into laughter. This, of course, enrages Aunt Charlie even further. She throws the Variety magazine at my mother.

  “You betta slow your roll, Charlie. I ain’t playing with you.”

  I cover my mouth and giggle into my hand. I love when the big sister comes out, and my mother starts fussing at Aunt Charlie.

  “Auntie, maybe if Dreya acts like she’s got some sense when we go and do my video shoot, then they’ll give her a show.”

  “You need to talk to her,” my mom adds.

  “My baby doesn’t have to tone down who she is for anybody. And don’t think she’s gonna kiss your behind because of this video shoot.”

  “Nobody thinks that, Aunt Charlie.”

  Aunt Charlie’s cell phone rings in her gigantic Baby Phat purse. “Dreya? . . . Where are you? . . . The emergency room! I’m gonna wring that little ropehead’s neck.”

  My mother stands to her feet and pulls her shoes on. “Mom, what are you doing?” I ask.

  “Didn’t you hear your Aunt Charlie? Dreya’s in the hospital.”

  Aunt Charlie holds the phone away from her face. “She said that she and Truth got into an argument and she fell running away from his car. Broke her ankle.”

  I roll my eyes. Why are Truth and Dreya dead set on becoming the next Whitney and Bobby?

  “Are you coming, Sunday?” Aunt Charlie asks when she presses End on the cell phone.

  “No. I’ve got something else I need to do.”

  I think my mom and auntie are capable of taking care of Dreya’s goofy self and her unnecessary drama. Seeing her with a cast on her ankle because of an argument with Truth wouldn’t make me feel anything close to sympathetic for her.

  “Well, what are you about to do?” my mom asks.

  “I’m going to talk to Dilly. I’m taking your advice.”

  My mom beams a bright smile over in my direction. “Good. Real friends are worth it.”

  “Dilly ain’t her friend,” Aunt Charlie says. “He’s just another groupie squirrel trying to get a nut and a record deal.”

  My mom shakes her head and says to Aunt Charlie, “That’s why I’m your only friend.”

  6

  I’m on a mission.

  Sitting in front of Dilly’s house in my car, trying to decide whether or not I want to go up and knock on the door. I guess I could’ve called or sent Dilly a text first, but since he’s in trip-out mode and ain’t even trying to talk to me, I don’t even know if that would be the best thing.

  My phone rings, and it’s Dilly! “Hey.”

  “Why are you in front of my house?” Dilly asks with attitude.

  I expected to be able to work my nerve up before I got the apology out, but it doesn’t seem like Dilly’s gonna give me the time, space, or opportunity.

  “I just want to talk to you, Dilly, without anyone else around. Just us.”

  Silence.

  “Dilly, you there?” I ask. I know he’s still there—I can hear his heavy and ragged breathing. He sounds like he’s got a cold or something.

  “I’m here. What do you want to talk about?”

  I don’t want to do this over the phone! “Dilly, can you come outside? I’d rather see your face when I’m talking to you.”

  “You don’t get to make the rules, Sunday. The last time I trusted you, I almost wound up dead, remember?”

  No, he did not just hang up on me! Okay . . .

  I get out of my car, even though I sooo don’t want to walk up to the front door of LaKeisha’s crib. This is walking smack dab in the middle of enemy territory.

  Their porch is kinda raggedy with rotted-out floorboards, and a ratty old welcome mat. I ring the doorbell, hoping and praying that Dilly is home alone and I don’t have to talk to LaKeisha or Bryce.

  The door flies open and LaKeisha is standing her ghetto butt in front of me looking like a bowl of Froot Loops with her rainbow-colored hair weave. She looks me up and down with a stank look on her face. I stand my ground, though, and gave her a stank look right back.

  “I know you ain’
t ringing on my doorbell when you tried to get my brother killed. You need to roll up out of here real quick,” LaKeisha says.

  “Can you tell Dilly I’m out here?” I ask. So not trying to hear all her noise.

  “Oh, you real bold. You ain’t scared I’m gonna knock you on your behind?”

  I let out a soft chuckle. “Naw, I’m really not. ’Cause I know you want your brother to get a record deal so you can upgrade from that synthetic weave.”

  “You can’t stop my brother from blowing up.”

  I shrug. “You wanna see how quickly Epsilon and Zillionaire drop him once I say the word?”

  “You think you all that?” LaKeisha asks.

  “Naw, but maybe you need to ask Mystique if I’m all that.”

  LaKeisha narrows her eyes and clucks her tongue one time. I knew mentioning Mystique, Zillionaire, and Epsilon Records would make the difference. I don’t care how much they want to make me a part of the drama between Bryce and Carlos, bottom line is they want Dilly to blow up and make their world a better place.

  Finally, after looking me up and down once more, LaKeisha says, “Make it quick. Dilly ain’t trying to talk to you no way.”

  I’m assuming that LaKeisha is done trying to intimidate me because she turns her back and walks away. I chuckle as I watch the fake Baby Phat logo fall off the back of her knockoff jeans. Raggedy, skanked-out heifer.

  It takes a few moments for Dilly to come to the door. His arms are crossed like he’s not ready to talk this thing through.

  I wait for him to step outside and close the door before I begin. At least he can tell that I don’t want to have this conversation with him and LaKeisha’s nosy butt, since she is sure to be listening near the door.

  “I’ve got to go to the studio soon, Sunday, so what’s up?” Dilly asks in a much less hostile tone than he had on the telephone.

  “I just want to apologize, Dilly. No excuses. I should’ve let somebody know what was going down, and I didn’t.”

  Dilly gives me silence. His arms are still crossed as he leans back on the front door. It’s a little bit more relaxed, but not exactly friendly.

  I pull on the top of my ponytail, trying to make my brain think of something else to say. I didn’t really plan this speech. I’m sort of freestyling this.