Praise for the works of Dana L. Davis
Roman and Jewel
“An entirely showstopping story of star-crossed love on the modern stage.”
—Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka, authors of If I’m Being Honest
The Voice in My Head
“A moving tale of faith and sisterly love. Booktalk this with friends and family!”
—Tiffany D. Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of Grown
“Fun, catharsis, a bit of endearing strangeness amidst heartfelt familial drama. It’s everything you want out of a road trip novel.”
—Adi Alsaid, author of Let’s Get Lost and We Didn’t Ask for This
“An endearing and compelling coming-of-age story. Dana L. Davis captures the messy, complicated love of family in a road trip novel that redefines what it means to truly live.”
—Nancy Richardson Fischer, author of When Elephants Fly
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now
“The novel tackles a wide range of important issues—racism, mental health, religion, class, family—through the lens of a spirited and tough protagonist you’ll fall in love with.”
—Bustle
“This debut grabbed me from the very beginning, and kept the hits coming till the very end.”
—B&N Teen Blog
“This #OwnVoices YA novel delivers moving, realistic, and fully developed characters that you’ll feel deeply connected to from the very first page. Don’t miss Dana L. Davis’ lovable debut.”
—HelloGiggles
“Utterly engrossing... A terrific teen read for our tumultuous times.”
—Washington Independent Review of Books
“Honest, funny, captivating.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Books by Dana L. Davis
available from Inkyard Press
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now
The Voice in My Head
Roman and Jewel
Dana L. Davis is an actress who lives and works in LA. She has starred in Heroes, Prom Night, Franklin & Bash, Veronica Mars, and 10 Things I Hate About You. Dana is a classically trained violist and the founder of the Los Angeles–based nonprofit Culture for Kids LA, which provides inner-city children with free tickets and transportation to attend performing-arts shows around LA County. She currently stars in the following animated series: Star vs. the Forces of Evil, Craig of the Creek, and She-Ra and the Princesses of Power.
Dana L. Davis
Roman + Jewel
For Laura G.
Because you said, “I think you should write it!”
And so I did.
And to all the lovers of Shakespeare...
Contents
“’Tis But Thy Name That Is My Enemy”
“For Never Was a Story of More Woe”
“If Love Be Rough with You”
“With a Tender Kiss...”
“I’ll Tell Thee Joyful Tidings Girl...”
“I Thought All for the Best”
“Come Gentle Night”
“That Dreamers Often Lie”
“Out of His Favor, Where I Am in Love...”
“Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?”
“Pronounce It Faithfully”
“Give Me My Romeo”
“So Shalt Thou Show Me Friendship”
“Do Not Say Banishment”
“And This Is Wisely Done”
“O Juliet. I Already Know Thy Grief”
“Here’s Drink. I Drink to Thee”
“Who Bare My Letter Then, to Romeo?”
“Where Is My Romeo?”
“I Will Lie with Thee Tonight”
“Oh Blessed, Blessed Night”
“A Plague o’ Both Your Houses!”
“Myself Condemned and Myself Excused”
“Why the Devil You Come Between Us? I Was Hurt Under Your Arm”
THREE WEEKS LATER
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from The Voice in My Head by Dana L. Davis
“’Tis But Thy Name That Is My Enemy”
“What’s in a name? Is something profound and meaningful supposed to live deep within the string of letters? Is a name supposed to say something?”
I stare into the camera of my phone and take a dramatic pause.
“Take my mom for example,” I continue. “Her name is Monday. You know, the saddest day of the week? And have you ever met a black man named Dusty? No? Well then, you haven’t met my dad. I mean, what if my dad was a surgeon? He’s not. He teaches fourth grade. But can you imagine? You meet your brain surgeon and his name is Dr. Dusty?” I shift in my seat. “Dust aside, my older brother’s name might take the cake. It’s Judas. Like the stupid snitch who ratted Jesus out? For thirty silver shekels or shillings or whatever money was called back in the days of yore when people were actually named Judas.
“They saved the best for last. Monday. Dust. Jesus killer—meet Jerzie Jhames. Born where? New freakin’ Jersey, y’all. I’m not kidding, that’s my real name. And I’m not kidding, we live in New Brunswick, New Jersey. I swear I’m like the defunct superhero Stan Lee contemplated before deciding it was a really bad idea. Is it a bird? Is it a 747 jumbo jetliner? Nope. It’s Jerzie Jhames in her silk cape and go-go boots. Watch her werk.”
I lean forward to read a comment from one of my most loyal followers.
Eye_Eat_MonkeyBrainz: What about Cinny? That’s a name that makes a really bold statement. That’s the best name ever.
“Cinny?” The mention of the superstar makes my stomach churn like I just ate something super spoiled. “That name’s okay. I guess. Not sure if she lives among the other one-name greats like Cher. Rihanna. Beyoncé. Ciara. Drake. The name Cinny is unique, but I’m not sure it’s simple enough to relate to.”
“Oh, it’s simple, all right.”
I turn to face my aunt, who is twisting her braids into a bun on top of her head as the subway rattles across the tracks.
“Simple. Trite. Silly. Dumb.”
I turn back to my phone. “That’s my aunt, y’all. She lucked out in the name department. Karla. A sensible name. Karla’s reliable. Upright. Stable. Lovely. My aunt is such a Karla.”
I lean forward, reading another comment from one of the eight people watching this livestream.
Ram_Butt_Booty16: Why’d yer Mom and Dad name you Jerzie Jhames? You sound like a porn star.
I nod. “Good point. It could easily be a porn star’s name. But then again so could Ram Butt Booty.”
Aunt Karla snatches the phone out of my hand.
“Hey! I’m livestreaming!”
She fiddles with the phone. “Not anymore.” And hands it back to me.
“Aunt Karla!” I whine.
“Jerzie, you had eight people watching that. It’s not a big loss. And why are you doing a livestream on a public train?”
I glance down the aisle. There’s only six other people riding in this car, and five of them are on the opposite end, not even in hearing range, engrossed in phones or books, minding their own business in typical New York fashion. The sixth person, a lady near the closest set of doors, is in deep, whispered conversation with herself; I’m pretty sure she’s not paying any attention to us either.
“Aunt Karla. Most Instagram accounts are so fake. I want my account to be genuine, so I speak truth and talk about real issues.”
“Complaining about your name? That’s a real issue?” She frowns. “Why not show them your life—what’s more real than that? You’re a busy kiddo. Voice lessons, dance lessons, piano lessons, too. I fo
llow you on Instagram. You haven’t even mentioned you’re gonna be on Broadway. Talk about that. Show them what it takes to make it to Broadway. Show ’em you can sing.”
“So you want me to be like those Instagram accounts with narcissists singing into the camera? Desperate for followers? Bragging about all their accomplishments?” I shake my head. “There’s a million accounts like that. I may only have 114 followers, but they’re loyal. And they appreciate my unique style.” I log back on and scroll through the comments that were left before Aunt Karla canceled the stream. Perhaps scroll is an exaggeration. There is only one additional comment, after all...
GiggleMeister727: Take off your shirt!!
Uggh. These boys are so annoying!
The subway screeches to a slow stop. I hear a muffled station announcement through the speakers. Can’t make out what’s being said, but I’m pretty sure Forty-Second Street is next. That’s where we get off. Then it’s only a short walk to the rehearsal space, where we’ll be almost every day for the next few weeks.
“So, you excited to meet Cinny?” Aunt Karla asks as quite a few people file into the subway car and plop down onto empty seats.
I shrug.
“Aww, Jerzie. Don’t be like that. She’s your idol.”
“Was.”
“Stop it. You got all her posters in your room. Downloaded all the girl’s music. You’re a superfan.”
“My musical tastes have evolved. R & B pop fusion, or whatever it is Cinny sings—it’s not really my style anymore.” The train jerks into motion again. “By the way, you think Mom and Dad will get mad at me if I change my name when I turn eighteen?”
“Why you wanna do that?”
“Actors do it all the time. Did you know Olivia Wilde’s real name is Olivia Cockburn?”
“Cockburn? That’s tragic.” Aunt Karla grimaces. “So whatcha gonna change yours to?”
“I dunno. Like a one-name name. Like Saran. That’s pretty, huh?”
“Honey...” Aunt Karla’s big brown eyes stretch wide. “That’s plastic wrap.”
“Okay, fine. Not Saran. But you get my point.”
“I get it. You want a name weirder than the one you already got.”
“Not weirder. More amazing than ever.”
“Jerzie, please. Beyoncé at four years old? During preschool roll call? Trust me, she was cursing her parents, too. These wacky names like Cinny. What is that? Short for Cinnamon?” Aunt Karla pauses to roll her eyes. “These names become amazing because they’re attached to amazing people.”
I accidentally make eye contact with the lady near the door talking to herself.
“Is that girl lookin’ at me?” she whispers to empty space. “Why she lookin’ at me?”
Damn. I quickly avert my eyes.
“So don’t change your name,” Aunt Karla goes on. “Change your trajectory. Make Jerzie Jhames the next dumb name attached to greatness.”
“So you admit my name is dumb!”
She tugs on my mop of curls. “Do all teenagers have selective hearing, or just you?”
“Doesn’t matter anyway.” I press the side button to lock the screen on my phone as the train starts to slow again. “Because under the current circumstances, I can’t change my trajectory.”
“Why you think that? You’re about to be on Broadway.”
I give Aunt Karla a look that I hope says, You know exactly why I think that.
She tosses back a look of her own. I’d guess she’s saying, Jerzie? Stop acting like a sixteen-year-old. I’d toss back yet another look, but Aunt Karla’s now gathering her purse and tote bag.
“We get off here.” She stands.
I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder as the train screeches to a stop. Once the double doors slide open, we both hurry and step onto the platform. The terminal has an interesting odor, a mixture of sweat, must, dust—not my dad—and excitement. An energy you can literally inhale. It’s electric.
The platform is crowded, but I’m always amazed at how expertly Aunt Karla weaves through rush-hour crowds. She’s barely over five feet—I’m a good five inches taller than her—but she’s lived in New York since she was eighteen and is not the one to try. She sort of exudes that New Yorker don’t-even-think-about-effing-with-me vibe, and I swear swarms of people disperse when she approaches. Like the way the Munchkins scattered when Evilene walked through the sweatshop on The Wiz. She’s basically got it like that. But as my gaze drifts away from Aunt Karla’s Wicked Witch of the West march down the platform, I screech to a halt like somebody pulled the emergency brake on me.
It’s one of those digital posters. For Roman and Jewel. I place a hand over my chest in hopes it’ll dull the ache. It’s like my heart is in a free fall after being hurled off the roof of a building. I’ve lost track of where my aunt is, but I can’t worry much about that, because I’m not sure I can move anyway. I’m glued to the platform.
It’s real. Suddenly so real. And even though the poster isn’t much to look at—two shadowy figures and the words Roman and Jewel: A Hip-Hopera Starring CINNY. Previews begin August 18th!—it still hits me like a sucker punch from an MMA fighter.
I feel a hand rest gently on my shoulder and look over to see Aunt Karla standing beside me.
“See?” I point to the poster. “It is all in a name.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “On the hero’s journey, you’re obviously gonna run into other heroes along the way. All at different stages of a marathon. So this is the first mile of yours. Twenty-five more to go. You’re gonna get your time to shine.”
“I wanted it to be now,” I admit softly.
Aunt Karla wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean my head on top of hers. I’m glad she’s here, because my knees feel weak and the weight of my heart is working hard to drag me down. “Now is here. You’re on Broadway, baby. 1681 Broadway, to be specific.”
1681. The address to Broadway Theatre. Where Roman and Jewel will be performed live onstage. Hopefully for years to come. I force a smile. “I’m on Broadway?”
“Girl. You really are.”
I’m finally able to will my legs back into motion. Aunt Karla guides me up the stairs and away from the underbelly of Times Square. The city seems to magically swell, welcoming us as we slowly ascend.
“For Never Was a Story of More Woe”
Six weeks earlier
“Why do you think they’re taking so long with her?” I whisper. “They didn’t take that long with me.”
“Stop worrying,” Mom whispers back, scrolling through the news on her phone as if this isn’t the most exciting thing to happen to us in like...ever.
“Stop worrying? How do I do that again?” With visibly shaking hands, I grab my stainless steel S’well bottle decorated with pink and red hearts from the floor beside me, twist off the cap, and down a few gulps of water, choking on an ice cube in the process.
Mom’s eyebrows rise. “Do I need to do the Heimlich?”
I toss the tiny ice cube back into the bottle. “No, I’m good.” I pound on my chest and lift the bottle to take another sip.
“Jerzie Jhames.” Mom snatches it from my hands. “Your bladder is gonna explode. Stop.”
The door to the rehearsal room is pushed open. A girl about my age slinks into the dimly lit hallway. She flips her perfectly straightened hair over her shoulder and blinks dramatically as her mom, who was sitting across from us, stands and rushes toward her.
“Well?” her mom whispers, pulling her purse over her shoulder. “What did they say?”
The girl tugs at the sleeves of her white leotard. A leotard that makes her pretty brown skin seem to glow like liquid gold.
“First off.” She licks her lips, painted deep purple, and I notice she has a similar shade painted above her eyelids and dusted across her cheeks. “They like, literally sta
rted clapping when I finished that last song.”
The mom squeals and hugs her daughter tightly.
Clapping? They didn’t clap for me.
“And then what did they say?” the mom asks anxiously.
The girl shrugs. “They said we’re free to go. For now.” Her eyes meet mine. Shit. I look down at my hands as if they’re somehow interesting. “But they stressed that I will be hearing from them later today.”
Seriously?! I pull at my fingers. All they said to me was thanks and have a seat in the hallway.
“Thank You, God.” The mom folds her hands in prayer and stares up at the ceiling as if God is on their side alone.
“Hey.” I call out as the two move gleefully toward the elevator. They stop and look back in our direction. Actually, look isn’t the right word. They more eyeball us the way you would a family of rats in a dark corner of the subway station. “I could, uh, hear you in there.” And I could.
“Okay?” is the girl’s only reply.
“Just wanted you to know you sounded good.” And she did. “Really good.” I notice she’s wearing LaDuca dance heels. And a feather boa. Where in New York City does one purchase a lime-green feather boa? Should I have dressed up? I’m only wearing yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of old sneakers. I have LaDuca dance heels, too. Should I have worn mine?
“Aww.” She seems to soften. “You’re like, the sweetest.”
I wait for her to extend the same compliment. After all, she was sitting in the hallway during my audition and had to have heard every note I sang. But instead she sighs dramatically.
“Well. Off to my next audition.” She flips her hair again. “I’m so tired.”
Another audition?
“What, uh, other show are you auditioning for?” I ask, hoping green-with-envy isn’t something you can emote.
“Not a show,” her mom cuts in, wrapping an arm around her daughter. “A feature film.”
“Yeah.” The girl smiles. “It shoots in Athens. I like, love Greece. Anyway.” Another flip of the hair. Jesus, she could use a hair tie. “You two have a blessed day.”
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