by Kennedy Ryan
Five minutes. The countdown on Angie Black’s YouTube channel says the live feed starts in five minutes, too. I know Grip’s been looking forward to this Artists As Activists panel, but I’m not as excited. Seeing him with Qwest might only further water the seeds of insecurity Jade planted and I allowed to take root, at least a little. I’ll check back in a few minutes, but now I need to get Kai onstage for her performance.
“You ready?” I ask once inside her dressing room.
Kai raises wide eyes, pressing a silencing finger to her lips. Aria has fallen asleep at her breast. I’ve seen Kai feed my niece too many times to count, but never wearing a beaded halter top, leather pants, and full face of makeup. Her dark hair is flat-ironed and falling nearly to her waist. She carefully extracts her breast from Aria’s little rosebud mouth and gently places her in a travel playpen. She literally hasn’t missed a beat, dropping all her baby weight and her first solo album to rule the charts.
She picks up her phone and turns a pout in my direction.
“No messages from Rhyson.” She sighs and faces the mirror to check her makeup.
“He hasn’t landed in Prague yet. He’ll call when he gets there.” I consider her reflection and dig into the bag her stylist left behind. “Try these earrings instead.”
“I’m exhausted. Aria was up all night teething.” She changes out the earrings, closes her eyes. “And I miss my husband.”
Her eyes pop open to meet mine in the mirror, and her smile teases me.
“I guess you miss Grip, too, huh?”
“Yeah.” I check the iPad once more—three minutes. “He has this panel airing in a few minutes that I need to watch. Qwest is on it, too.”
I try to keep my voice neutral, but something must tip Kai off because she offers a reassuring smile I don’t want her to know I need.
“You know you have nothing to worry about, right?” She turns and perches on the edge of the dressing room table. “Grip has been in love with you as long as I’ve known him, and he’s ecstatic to finally have you.”
“I know.” I force the words, blowing my nervous energy out in a sigh. “But he was with her, and I can’t help but think she still has feelings for him. I trust him.”
“Good, because he’ll never give you reason not to.”
A text message lights Kai’s phone on the dressing room table. She grabs it, smiling and responding.
“Rhyson?” I guess.
“No, my sister.” Kai grimaces. “Half-sister. She lives in Vegas with my dad and . . . his wife.”
I notice she doesn’t say stepmother. Kai and I haven’t talked much about her complicated history with her father, but I know they’ve been working on their relationship.
“She’s wishing me luck.” Kai sets the phone down and meets my eyes with a soft smile. “She’s a great kid.”
“You guys are close?”
“Getting there. We talk more than . . . well, more than I talk to my father.”
“Thank you for encouraging Rhyson to work on things with our parents,” I say. “Seeing you do it has helped him a lot.”
“I try, but it’s not easy. My father ruined my mom’s life for a while.” Pain etches lines between her brows. “He hurt a lot of people—the church he abandoned, his community.”
“You?” I venture quietly.
Kai looks up, blinking a few times and drawing a shallow breath.
“Yeah, me.” She glances at Aria, a tender smile tugging at her lips. “He was my world. I think sometimes we don’t realize that for our kids, we’re everything. I mean, friends and family, of course, and as they get older, maybe their peers have more influence, but we’re what they see most. I was a daddy’s girl, through and through.”
“And he left with her? With his current wife?”
“Yeah, she was pregnant.” Kai licks her lips before going on. “She was the secretary at our church, where he was the pastor.”
“Wow.” I wrestle with surprise and disgust. “Another reason to skip religion.”
Kai considers me in silence for a few seconds, crossing one ankle over the other before speaking.
“I get that.” Her harsh laugh splinters in the air. “Hell, I felt that. For a while I wasn’t sure what I believed because most of it came from my dad.”
She drops her eyes to the floor.
“And I didn’t believe in him anymore.” She shrugs. “But liars can tell the truth. It took me a long time to figure out that just because my dad lied about his affair, it didn’t mean every sermon, every Bible story, everything he told me about God was a lie.”
“Is that why you’re church shopping?” I give her a smile so she’ll know I’m not mocking her.
Kai rolls her eyes and grins.
“Rhyson probably thinks I’m crazy. I know he’s not big on faith.”
“He has faith in you,” I assure her. “He loves you more than anything.”
“The woman he loves was shaped by my father,” she says. “By my mother even more, but my faith was shaped by my dad. There’s not a doubt in my mind that, in spite of his flaws, he understands faith. He understands God, even if he doesn’t always follow. I’ve finally managed to sift out what was his and what’s mine, what I want to keep and what I don’t need. I want to pass that on to Aria. She’ll have to go through the same process, decide what part of what I’ve shared is for her and what is not, but I want her to know that part of her mother.”
Her smile wavers, bitterness leveling it out.
“The way I know that part of my father, the way I know all of his parts . . . even the ones I wish weren’t there.”
Three quick raps at the door interrupt and signal that it’s time. Kai glances again at Aria sleeping peacefully, reluctance to leave obvious on her face.
“Don’t worry, I got her.” I open the door for the production assistant, who looks at me expectantly. “She’ll be right out. Thanks.”
When I turn back, Kai is leaning over the pen, smiling.
“Okay. I’ll be back.” She gives me a knowing look. “And don’t be paranoid about Qwest and the panel. She’s a great girl. It’s no secret she and I are friends, and I feel for her, for how things happened, but Grip has never really been anyone’s but yours. Remember that.”
With one last glance in the mirror, she’s out the door. I turn on the monitor mounted in the corner to watch the feed of Kai’s performance but mute it to focus on the panel that is just starting online.
“Thank you for joining us today,” the host says. “We’re continuing our web series entitled Helping Ourselves. Each week we discuss an initiative or a group of people making a difference in communities of color.”
Angie, her hair in its natural state, a beautiful nimbus of textured waves and curls, wears skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. Her skin is tiramisu brown, glowing with health and good makeup. She exudes complete confidence. I haven’t had any interaction with her at all, but I’m already impressed by what I see.
“We’re broadcasting on YouTube and Periscope,” Angie continues, smiling into the camera. “We’re also live tweeting, and the official hashtag is #HelpingOurselves.”
She gestures to her right, where Grip, Qwest, and a few other celebrities are seated. I try not to read too much into the fact that Grip and Qwest are right beside each other.
Angie performs quick introductions for each person, famous in their own right and arena, but Grip is the best known, by far. He’s not doing anything that should make you want to look at him instead of everyone else, but you do. You just do not want to take your eyes off him.
Or maybe that’s just me.
A new sense of purpose rests on Grip’s shoulders since he started Dr. Hammond’s class and moved to New York. He’s definitely still engaged as an artist, still the studio rat he’s always been, but there’s more to his life now, and I can tell it is deeply satisfying to him. It’s significance. He wouldn’t be the man I love without this passion, this thirst to do something abou
t the things that need doing.
He’s laughing at something Angie said that I missed because I’ve been caught mid-drool. He leans back, his casual posture a thin veil over the coiled energy always waiting to spring forth. The Run DMC shirt fits the lean musculature of his chest and arms. I smile at the cheap black plastic watch on his wrist that he’s never without, the one I won for him that night years ago. Qwest may have more in common with him—culture, music, challenges—but that watch reminds me that Grip and I have a history and a future.
“Grip, you’ve always been socially conscious,” Angie says. “But ‘Bruise’ kind of put everyone on notice and started a lot of dialogue. Can you talk a little about what went into that song?”
“Yeah, sure. I grew up with that tension.” Grip leans forward, elbows propped on his knees and eyes lit by conviction. “Needing law enforcement because I lived in such a dangerous place, but fearing cops because we never felt they were checking for us. I didn’t write the song to take a side as much as to represent both sides, and hopefully show that we’re more alike than we are different, find some common ground to negotiate the most difficult things. It’s not right when unarmed black men are shot in the back for doing nothing and then officers walk away with impunity, but it’s also not right when good cops are judged by the same stripes as the bad ones. It’s not right to ambush good cops to make a point. Nina Simone said it’s an artist’s responsibility to reflect their times. That’s what I want to do.”
A wide grin hangs between my cheeks, pride swelling in my chest. His intelligence and passion are evident every time he answers a question. Angie has assembled a great group, each of them incredibly talented and popular, leveraging their moment for causes close to their hearts. I’m even touched when Qwest talks about Our Girls, the initiative she works with to raise awareness about women of color who go missing and the fact that they receive less media coverage and less attention.
“Grip, you’re here in New York now, right?” Angie asks near the end of the allotted broadcast time. “At NYU?”
“Yeah, for the semester.” Grip grins. “I love New Yorkers because they don’t give a damn about me most days. I walk to class and grab coffee and go home like everybody else. There’s an anonymity here that I really enjoy.”
“And what are you studying?” Angie asks.
“I’m taking Dr. Israel Hammond’s course on systemic bias in the criminal justice system. He’s a guest professor this semester.”
“Now that’s a woke brother.” Approval shines from Angie’s eyes. “I read Virus when it came out. It should be required reading for everyone.”
“He’s brilliant and cool as a fan.” Grip returns her smile.
The open curiosity gives way to a calculation I’ve seen on faces like hers on shows like these a hundred times. Even before she asks her next question, I sense the interview about to take a different turn. Call it premonition, or call it one ruthless bitch recognizing another, but I know.
“And you’ve been sighted with your girlfriend here in the city,” she says. “She moved here, too, right?”
Grip must recognize that look, too. He shutters his expression, but keeps smiling.
“Yeah, she grew up here.”
“I keep it real, Grip.” Angie spreads the look to the rest of the panelists. “Every person here has been on the receiving end of my real. It’s your first time, but I’m not gonna treat you any different.”
Oh, God. What is she about to say?
“You sound like you understand and want to raise awareness about the issues facing black people.” The “but” is all over her face before she even says it. “But, really how woke can you be sleeping with a white woman?”
All the air freeze-dries in my chest, just stalls and is enveloped in cold.
“What did you say?” Grip’s brows bend like an accordion into a disbelieving scowl. “What does that have to do with being woke? With wanting to make a difference?”
“I’m just saying we get sick and tired of watching men like you talk about the cause,” Angie says, her polite mask falling away, the indignation she must have been hiding rearing its head. “Talk about what our community needs and esteem black women from one side of your neck, and then go and choose a white woman as your partner. You out here playing in the snow. It’s a little hypocritical.”
“How is it hypocritical?” Controlled rage is evident in Grip’s narrowed eyes and the fists clenched on his knees. “I don’t see anything incongruent about those two things, unless you are operating under the false assumption that me wanting to end systemic racism equates to me hating white people. I don’t hate white people—I hate racism.”
Grip pauses meaningfully, tipping his chin back to study her closely.
“Racism in any form,” he says. “Even the reverse kind.”
“This isn’t reverse racism,” Angie snaps back, bouncing hot eyes to Qwest where she’s seated beside Grip. “We gave you a pass when you chose a white woman over the black woman you said was your queen.”
Not true. It drives me crazy when people assume “Queen” was written for Qwest, and the #GripzQueen hashtag still haunts me occasionally on social media.
“Did you hear me asking for a pass?” Grip cocks one brow, his voice even but taut with outrage. “You don’t give me passes because I don’t need your approval.”
“All I’m saying is I bet you won’t find Dr. Hammond pulling this. You may talk woke,” Angie asserts with relish, “but your walk is broke.”
Oh, I bet she’s been saving that line for a special occasion.
“Oh, you wanna compare walks?” Grip sits up straight, his words sounding like a battle cry. “Check my record—I’ve put my resources where my mouth is. I take every chance to engage with these issues, not just throw money at them, and what exactly have you done other than start Twitter beef and host a podcast?”
“Don’t throw shade at me for voicing what most black women think,” she fires back. “I just thought I should bring it up because I wasn’t sure if you were ashamed of her or what. We rarely see you out or in the news with her the way you have been in past relationships. You must realize how bad it looks.”
“I see no need to satisfy the curiosity of people who don’t mean well,” Grip replies. “Who only want to play in mud and make a mess of people’s lives on Twitter and Instagram. She isn’t a public figure, and I’m protective of her privacy. She chose me, but she didn’t ask to live on blast. I try to honor that. Believe me, it has nothing to do with me being embarrassed.”
“She may not be a public figure,” Angie says. “But she’s sleeping with one, and she’s related to one. Her name is Bristol Gray, for those who may have missed it since you’ve been hiding her, and her brother is Rhyson Gray—now that’s a big name. You don’t mess around. Go white or go home, huh?”
“I came on this panel to talk about issues,” Grip says. “Real issues that are costing us lives and compromising our future. You, however, chose to talk about shit that doesn’t matter and isn’t anyone’s business but mine and my girlfriend’s. I bet the men sitting in jail too long for petty crimes, or for crimes they didn’t even commit, those looking for jobs or needing education to even compete for them, all the people I want to help won’t give a damn if the person helping has a white girlfriend or not.”
Grip stands, reaching to loosen the mic from the collar of his T-shirt.
“So, I say, with all due respect, Angie.” He holds the mic in his hand, farther away from his mouth, but there’s no mistaking his parting. “Go fuck yourself.”
He flings the mic onto the couch, leaving various degrees of shock and satisfaction on the faces of those who remain.
“Peeps, you heard that.” Angie turns her gaze to the camera. “Now I want to hear from you. Where do you stand on black men pretending to be all woke, but first chance they get, going for a white woman? Leave comments on YouTube, on Facebook, tweet us, tag us on Instagram. Hashtag #PlayingInTheSnow.”
She levels a more parting smile at her watching audience, the kind of smile you give when things go exactly as you’ve planned.
14
Grip
“Shit!”
The expletive bounces off the walls of the narrow corridor as I leave the stage and head for the greenroom to collect my things. I can’t believe I allowed that conniving chick to lure me into that trap.
“Grip!”
I don’t turn even though I hear Qwest right on my heels and calling my name.
“Grip, stop.”
I’m still not stopping. Rage pumps toxins into my bloodstream, and I might poison anyone I make contact with right now.
“Man, hold up,” Qwest says louder, irritation lacing the words. “Grip.”
“What?”
The word cannons from my mouth, and I turn around abruptly, Qwest slamming into my chest. Breathing like a bull, air streams from my nostrils. Angie Black is the red flag I can’t get out of my head. How dare she use a panel on such important issues to create drama? And to bring Bristol into it, to call her name and imply that I’m embarrassed to be with her. My jaws hurts; my teeth are locked so tightly together.
“About what happened out there—”
“You mean the ambush?” I snap.
“Yeah. I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Really?” A scoffing gush of air rushes past my lips. “You expect me to believe that? Don’t give me that shit, Q.”
“Who you think you talking to?” The goodwill on Qwest’s face gives way to irritation. “You better act like you got some sense talking to me.”
“So, it’s just coincidence that we ended up on this panel together? You’re asking me to believe you didn’t know things would go left like that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.” Qwest’s anger clashes with mine in the tight space. “My cousin was snatched when we were twelve years old. There were no TV cameras, no vigils, no magazine covers for months wondering what happened to her. She was just gone, and we never saw her again, never got answers. That’s why I’m here, not for your conceited ass.”
