Something She Can Feel (13 page)

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Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: Something She Can Feel
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Dame went on, and I learned more about his music. More about him just as a person. He seemed so angry at times. So political and militant. He saw sides of the music industry that I thought were myths. Beyond the dancers, videos, and flashy cars, people were stealing money and labels were rejecting what would be considered positive songs by top artists. He said the worst thing he ever did was make a platinum record. Now everyone had platinum dreams. He had to remind himself every day of who he was and that's what the latest album,
The Same Dame
, was about. Being himself and returning to his roots. So far, the fans got it and all of the people at the label who wished he'd been more raunchy, more aggressive on the release, looked silly when the entire industry agreed it was his best release.
“Don't get me wrong,” he said. “I ain't no flower child MC. I ain't rapping for peace or ending homelessness.”
“But why not? Don't you think those kids in the school today need to hear that? To know what's going on in the world? You have such a powerful influence on them. You could use it.”
“This business is about money first.” He ate the last bit of a sandwich he'd made with some rib meat and bread. “You can't forget that. It'll use you and spit you out like you ain't shit. If it's not a hit, it ain't a hit. You're out. I'm in this to make money. That's first. The art is second. And the fans are third. They feel me. You may not feel me. People trying to hate on me may not feel me. But the fans feel me. And that's it.”
Dame and I went back and forth about this for an hour before I realized I was talking to a grown man who had his mind made up about what he did and was making millions of dollars doing it. I kept telling him that the kids he was reaching and the art should come first, but he had a point about the hits the industry was expecting. If no one was making money, he wouldn't have any fans and his art would be recorded on a cassette tape in the projects he once lived in. While that seemed like the proper place for someone trying to remain connected to his roots, it was a lot to ask of someone who already starved for most of his life.
It was an interesting debate that was hands-down the best dinner conversation I'd had in years. It wasn't about me or church or family; it was about art, the world, and dreams. And all of this from a former student I'd fully expected to arrive back home as a boy. Now I knew the world had made him a man.
 
 
When I got home, Evan was still out, so I climbed into bed alone and called Billie. The news of the evening would no doubt keep us on the phone all night.
Chapter Eleven
“S
o, what was he like?” Evan asked as we sat on a bench inside the tennis courts at my parents' estate, watching Jr and May finish their match. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was looking up at the brightening sky, praying the sun wouldn't suddenly make its grand appearance once Evan and I got up to play.
“What?” I asked. I'd spent most of the night on the phone going over the dinner with Billie. “Why didn't you call me? I wanted to party like a rock star!” she'd squealed.
“Dinner with Dame—what was he like?” Evan repeated.
“It was fine. I mean, we just ate and ... that was it.”
“Come on, you had dinner with a rapper. I'm sure there were some highlights. Strippers? Moët?” he joked.
Jr was serving balls at May like the Wimbledon trophy was waiting inside on the mantel. He'd hit them hard and fast, even though he knew the woman could hardly play. And then he'd take time-out between obnoxious sighs to point that out.
“If you'd anticipate my hit, you'd see where it was landing,” he growled, and she just wiped her brow, hustling to get to the other side of the court.
“He was a little flashy at first,” I said to Evan, “but then he warmed up and we just talked.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don't remember, Evan. Music. God. Everything. I wasn't exactly keeping track.” This wasn't half the retelling I'd given Billie. But I knew Evan didn't really want to know how it felt to be sitting at a table in a restaurant with someone who drew eyes from everyone walking by. How fun it was to ride in the backseat of that Bentley. And how I'd found Dame's smile endearing. His ideas potent. And his company just plain refreshing.
“Good hit! Great! Good!” Jr hollered, coaching May. Looking ragged but not defeated, she swatted at each ball defiantly and I wondered if she imagined it was Jr's big head.
“Did he say anything about the school?” Evan asked me. “About donating more money?”
“ No.”
“Well, did you bring it up?”
“I didn't know I was supposed to,” I said. “Maybe if you'd come, you could've.”
The sun was up now. It was already warm, but by the time Evan and I were midway through our match, it would be near dreadful.
“See, if you'd just anticipate my moves more and really run the court, you'd do better,” Jr said as he and May dropped their rackets and walked over to Evan and me. “Your turn,” he said to us.
I looked up at the sun and thought about my hair.
“Jr, your game was good. Maybe you should play Evan, so May can see your skills from over here ... then maybe she can anticipate your moves better,” I said, knowing just how to rub my brother's ego to make him insist upon playing again.
“Hmm,” he said, pretending to consider my suggestion before responding. “Maybe you're right.” He tilted his head and paused reflectively. “Yeah. Let's play, Evan.” He pointed to Evan as if he was enlisting him into the Army and picked his racket back up. “And May, you can watch, so you can see me move.”
Evan popped up and gathered his racket as well. As May sat down, I rolled my eyes at Jr. If I could count on one thing from him, it was his ego leading to disaster.
“Thanks for saving me from having to sit here arguing with him for another half hour,” May said, settling into her seat next to me. “Your brother keeps me in prayer.”
“Oh, that was for me,” I said. “If my hair feels one more drop of sweat, this mop will be an Afro for sure.”
We both chuckled, and when I refocused, I saw Jack Newsome stepping into the gate. He was alone and dressed in some loose-fitting shorts and a Prophet House T-shirt.
“Pastor Newsome,” May said.
“Hey, everyone,” he said, walking onto the court.
May and I got up and walked over to greet him, meeting Evan and Jr halfway.
“Your father invited me out to play this morning,” he said.
“He did?” Jr asked, scowling as if he was ready to bounce Jack off of the court.
“Well, welcome,” May said pleasantly. “Let's get you a racket.”
Jr mean-mugged Jack for as long as he could before we continued pleasantries and decided to let him play in the next match. He claimed he hadn't played in a while and needed to loosen up. Jr, smelling weakness in his unfortunate opponent, was adamant that he help. In fact, Jr added, he was just about to show everyone his new serve.
Evan, May, and I scrunched up on the small bench and watched the two get into position. The only thing missing was a commentators' table and microphones. Jack had no clue, but this was sure to be the hottest action the courts had seen since the infamous Justin and Jr matches in the nineties.
“I hope your brother doesn't embarrass us. The man's a guest,” May whispered, sitting on my left.
“I think that's part of the problem,” Evan said on my right.
Jr hit the first ball hard, but Jack, who apparently knew how to “anticipate a play,” hit the ball right back at Jr, slamming it at his feet.
“Nasty,” I said, watching Jr hustle to get the ball as May had. “Good and nasty.”
The ball was up again and the pair hit it side to side, fast and forcefully. It was more like a fight than a match. We could hear them grunting with each hit. And when the ball came down on Jr's side again, he flung his white head band to the ground and started bouncing around on his feet like a fighter.
“They kinda look alike,” Evan said, his head moving as we watched the ball.
I looked back and forth between my brother and Jack. Jr was lighter and a bit taller, but from where we were sitting, they did look a lot alike. The same build, way of hitting the ball. Even their profiles favored one another with the sun's shadows.
“Well, you know what they say about people hating each other looking like one another,” May offered.
“I thought that was about people who were always together,” I said as the ball slammed at Jr's feet again.
This battle went on until my mother called us all into the house to eat. Jr lagged behind, cursing and spitting so much that my mother told him to sit outside and cool down before he came inside the house.
Fortunately, for the sanity of my family, Jack, who was as cool as a politician after the match, had to get back to the church to excuse the children's Bible study academy, so he had to leave. He made his apologies and promised to join us again next time. Only we knew that next time would be more like never once Jr spoke to my father. I volunteered to walk Jack to the car. He was a year older than Jr and lived just blocks away from us growing up, but I never got to know him very well outside of the church. He was an interesting man—dedicated to the church and God. Like my father, he had a strong grasp of the Bible, but he'd taught at the Johnson C. Smith Theological Seminary in North Carolina, so he tended to think of things in the Bible in less conventional ways than my father. He wanted to break things down, ask questions, and explore other texts. This came through in his smart, lecture-like sermons, which attracted a young, more educated population. Unlike other assistant pastors, when the church knew Jack was going to lead a sermon, they showed up in numbers. I thought this was why Jr was so jealous of him.
As we walked to the car, I complimented him on his backhand and apologized for Jr's behavior.
“He'll have to accept it on his own time,” Jack said openly, and I assumed he was talking about his eventual leadership of Prophet House.
“Jr is stubborn. He gets that from our father. I'm sure he'll be okay,” I replied.
“I'm happy to hear that.”
“You know, I'd like to get to know you better. We never talk that much outside of the church,” I admitted.
Jack looked at me meaningfully.
“I'd really like that, too, Journey,” he said.
We shared a friendly hug and I walked back inside the house to see everyone assembled at the table.
“So, tell us about that Dame,” my mother said as I sat down. “What was he like? And when are you going to be on BET?”
Chapter Twelve
A
s they did most Mondays, that fourth-period class put a beating on me. No one had their music sheets, every section forgot their notes, and when I tried to get them warmed up by singing “Lift Ev'ry Voice” to get ready for the opening at graduation, anyone listening would've thought not one person in the room had ever heard the song. I'd rolled my eyes and frowned so many times that I was sure if someone walked up behind me and hit me on the back, I'd have a cross-eyed scowl on my face for the rest of my life. I'd had good days teaching, but this unquestionably wasn't one of them. The students were too busy talking about Dame and BET to hear a word from me.
As they hurried out of the room when the bell rang, I tried to remind myself that I only had three weeks to go until it was all over.
“You busy?” Zenobia asked, slowly strolling behind the crowd.
“Well, that depends on if you intend on having a ‘Student Death Match' outside my classroom again,” I replied. Zenobia had just returned to school the previous week from her suspension for fighting with Patrice.
“No, I ain't fighting, Mrs. DeLong,” she said, amused by my comment. “I know I be acting up in your class and stuff, but I ain't no fighter. Patrice stepped to me, so I had to do what I had to do.”
“Fine with me. Just do what you have to do someplace else next time. Maybe by the science lab,” I said. She sat down in the chair next to my desk. “So what's going on with you?” I pointed to her stomach.
“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.” She looked down. “My mama's making me have an abortion. She said we can't afford another baby.”
“How do you feel about that? You don't look too happy.” I was against abortion, but my personal feelings aside, I also felt Zenobia couldn't afford to have another baby. Not only financially. Psychologically, she was already going through enough. She wasn't even seventeen yet. And if she was going to make anything out of her life, the second baby was about to make it almost impossible.
On the news, people always talk about how there are poor people in Africa and in other far-off places. But there was poverty in Alabama, too. Women like Zenobia had three or four kids they couldn't afford to feed and they worked twenty-four hours a day at the minimum-wage jobs they were lucky to have.
“I ain't happy about it,” Zenobia said, answering my question. “I want to keep my baby.”
“Zenobia, I'm sure your mother respects your right to choose. But she also wants what's best for you and Mikayla.”
“I know she do,” she said sadly. “But she just don't understand, you know? She been alone and stuff all the time and she don't know what it's like to love a man like I love Michael. She always saying we ain't gonna be together, but she just mad because she can't find nobody. But I know when I have this baby, Michael gonna help me and we gonna get our own place and everything.”
“But I have to ask you again, Zenobia. What about the other baby? How can he do all of this for you and do the same for Patrice's baby?”
She just shrugged her shoulders and kept her head down. I saw a tear fall from her eye and stain her red tank top.
“I can't lose him,” she said, sniffling now. “I can't lose Michael.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I remembered her saying that when we first talked about the baby. “You make it sound like your whole life is wrapped up in being with him.”
“It's just the way he make me feel when we together. You don't understand. It's like I ain't even alive if I ain't with him,” she said, and I could see in her face that she meant it. “And when he be with Mikayla, just holding her, I'm like that's what I wanted from my daddy. Somebody to just hold me and love me. But he was never there for me.” She crouched over in the seat and covered her face with her hand.
I moved my seat near her and began to rub her back.
“I do know what love feels like, Zenobia,” I said. “And I also know that you won't find the love you're looking for from your father in any other man.”
She looked up at me.
“Having another baby isn't going to bring Michael closer to you,” I said as compassionately as I could. “And it's not going to erase the pain you feel for never having a father.”
Soon I started crying, too, and Zenobia and I sat there talking and crying until my lunch period was over and the next section of students started filing in.
Before Zenobia left, I embraced her and told her I'd be there for her, whatever the decision was.
 
 
I was exhausted. So tired I was sure my feet had divorced my body and whatever stubborn strips of skin that continued to keep the two attached were going to snap the moment I reached my car toward the back of the school parking lot. After missing my lunch break talking to Zenobia, I was on my feet for the rest of the day and every muscle in my body was aching—from my index fingers from pointing, to the very tips of my toes from running around the room. To make matters worse, I'd stayed late, working with a few of the soloists, and it was 6:15 p.m. The sun was still high, though, and it felt like it was sitting right above my forehead. Trying to juggle two heavy bags and a radio I'd carried to work, I thought fainting and rolling under one of the other cars might be a better option than setting my sights on my own car. At least, then, I'd be out of the sun's spotlight.
“Whew,” I exhaled, finally making my way to the driver's-side door. Not caring where anything landed, I dropped all of the bags right where I stood and let my shoulders go limp to take a second to catch what little breath of life I had left. When I finally got enough energy to actually bend down to get the keys out of my purse, I noticed that the brightness around me had dulled and thought maybe a cloud had snuck up and covered the sun. If I hustled fast enough and found the keys, I'd be lucky enough to ease into the car before the sun came striking again. No one else was in the teachers' parking lot, so I was sure it would find me again.
“Nice view,” I heard someone say.
Still bending down, I turned my head to see that the cloud was actually an old pickup truck.
I straightened up quickly, snapping the found keys into the palm of my hand.
“Oh, I'm ...” I covered my brow with my hand, so I could see who was sitting in the truck.
“No need to apologize,” the person said. “That's exactly what I was looking for.”
I stepped forward and squinted a bit more.
It was Dame. He was grinning and leaning out of the truck window with one hand still on the wheel.
“Excuse me?” I asked as I frantically straightened my skirt.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that,” he said, smiling, yet apologetic. “Well, I meant it like that ... but I didn't mean to be disrespectful.”
A bead of sweat trickling down my forehead, I could see the muscles in his arm tighten and flex as he spoke.
“Thanks ... I guess,” I said, trying to sound unaffected—stern, yet calm and not staring at his biceps. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, you could,” he said. “I was actually here looking for you. I knew it was late, but you always stay late before graduation.”
His statement caught me off guard. I wondered how he'd remember that.
“For what? I mean, what did you want?”
“Well, we could start with you coming a little closer, so I don't have to scream my business out over this whole parking lot.”
“Come over there?” I asked, looking around the lot. It was a simple request. But I still felt inside that I needed to stay where I was. Like walking to the truck was wrong in some way. I felt girlish and ridiculous for thinking all of these things.
“Yes,” I said ... looking at his arm and then away. Closer to the truck, I saw that the old, blue thing really did block out the sun. Maybe it was the steel or just the size, but I felt cooler there. Cooler and smaller somehow.
“I wanted you to hear something.” He shifted the gear and put the truck in park. The engine growled and then grunted as if it was threatening to cut off, but then it kept going.
“Hear something?”
“Yeah. Something I think you might like. I'm thinking about putting it on my next album.”
“Dame, I told you I don't really listen to music like that. Don't you think you—”
“I'm just trying to get your opinion. That's all. If you like it, you like it. If not, you don't. It's all good.”
“Well, I have to ...” I turned to look at my bags on the ground. “I was on my way home.”
“It's just one song, Ms. Cash.”
“Mrs. DeLong.”
He smirked slyly.
“Mrs. DeLong,” he repeated.
“Okay,” I said. “I'll listen to the song.”
“Good.”
I stood there, two inches from the car shaking my head in anticipation. Waiting for him.
“Oh you're waiting to hear it now?” he asked, sounding confused.
“Yes,” I said.
“Come on now. You can't be serious.”
“What? I said I would listen.”
“We got to roll. You don't listen to something like this just anywhere.” He was laughing. “We got to roll with it. Drink it in with the breeze.”
“But I was about to ...” I looked back at my pile on the cement again and couldn't think of a thing to say.
 
 
Dame helped me get the things into my car and we were driving away from the school in the pickup truck. He plugged his MP3 player into what was clearly a new radio in the old truck, turned the volume all the way down and pushed back in his seat. Looking around as we rode in silence, I noticed that there were no seat belts, the air-conditioning had been torn out, and there was a big hole in the floor beneath the gas pedal. I hadn't been in a pickup truck in years, and this one had to have been old enough to belong to my grandfather. But Dame, who'd looked comfy riding in the back of a chauffeured Bentley days before, seemed just as natural here.
“Do we have to go somewhere to get the song?” I asked.
“No ... I'm just waiting until you can hear it.”
“Hear it?”
“Trust me,” he said smoothly. Still handling the truck, he looked over at me and I swore he winked without moving his eye.
I felt I should probably protest, but the heat in the car was getting to me and I just wanted to catch a breeze, so I sat back in my seat like him and held my head toward the window frame, just as I had when I was a little girl riding in my grandfather's truck. I relaxed my neck and let my arms fall to my sides.
As we rolled down University Boulevard and through the middle of downtown, I wondered for a while who might be seeing me riding with Dame. The people from church. From school. My parents. What would they say? We weren't doing anything. Just riding. But I knew they'd say something. I wasn't where I was supposed to be and that was enough. And then I thought of how crazy it would look if we inched up to Evan at a stop sign. He'd look over at me. Open his mouth. Roll down his window. Say my name in a question. I searched the lanes, the parking spots for his silver BMW, but never saw it. And by the time I got tired of looking for the car and recognized that no one—not one single person walking by—even bothered to look, I realized that I'd been riding in silence for over thirty minutes. I'd unbuttoned the top of my shirt and taken out my earrings. The breeze had gotten into me and riding along beneath the steel top, I didn't even feel the heat anymore.
“You ready?” Dame asked, turning the knobs on the radio.
“Sure,” I said.
Break out,
his voice called through the speakers.
Yeah. Break out.
There was a pause and then a beat came in. Fast and full of a kicking bass that thumped in my chest, it vibrated through the truck, rattling so hard I could feel it in between my toes. It was loud. Loud and making the doors creak. But still the constant waves moving through my body made me remember when I used to ride in the front seat of Billie's car freshman year in college as we listened to UGK, the 69 Boyz, 2 Live Crew, OutKast—all of the rap CDs my father would toss in the garbage had he found them in my room.
Then, just as I began to fall back into memory and nod my head to the beat, I heard something that was unfamiliar in a rap song, but very familiar to me—the unmistakable thunder of a Hammond B3 organ.
“Oh,” I said, straightening up, “that's an—”
“No.” Dame stopped me. “Just stay relaxed. Feel it.”
I unfolded again and listened. Dame came in and rhymed on top of the beat. As I'd heard, his flow was fast and intense. I felt old just trying to make out the words and it was funny because when I stopped trying, I could hear and understand them perfectly.

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