I woke up to the sun shining. I’d forgotten to close the curtains. It was 8:30—late for me—but that was far from why I felt so out of sorts. First thing I did was check my texts. My message to Tam was marked as read. She hadn’t responded. I sent her a quick Morning.
That too was read immediately and ignored. It took me less than a nanosecond to decide to go see her. I rushed through my morning routine, throwing on my YOU HAD ME AT STAY AT HOME T-shirt and Jordan retros before heading downstairs to apologize to Aunt E.
I opened her door without knocking and made my way through the patchwork of furniture that had crowded the main living area as far back as I could remember. Aunt E had always referred to Gram as an organized hoarder. Claimed to hate that about her. And yet she hadn’t removed a single item, even Gram’s aged black leather recliner, which none of us dared use.
Aunt E sat at the kitchen table in her pajamas, talking on her house line. I could tell from her expression she was speaking to Ms. Paterson from next door. “Let me go, Denise. Lena’s here.” She paused. “She’s a grown woman. If she wants to get in that late, that’s her own business.” Another pause. “I’ll definitely let you know as soon as arrangements are made.”
She hung up. “That nosy heifer will probably know before you or me anyway.”
We both laughed, and she kept the smile on, genuinely happy to see me.
“No Zumba?” I said. She did Gold at least three times a week.
“Not today.” She gave me a thorough once-over as if looking for cracks and tears. “You okay?”
I was not but didn’t want to get into details. Not until I knew more. “Sorry I missed dinner.”
“I’m sure you enjoyed the leftovers.”
I nodded even though I hadn’t eaten them.
“Let me make breakfast. You can tell me what all you did yesterday. You musta been busy to miss my chicken ’n’ dumplings.”
“I need another rain check.” I still wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want her to worry, so I grabbed an apple from a bowl on her counter. My first bite tasted rotten, but when I looked at it, it was fine. “Gotta go to Mel’s office.”
She paused, surprised I’d voluntarily go see him. My relationship with Mel was the elephant in the room, around as long as her plastic-covered couch. We never spoke about how he’d left me. Instead, Gram and Aunt E had just tried to fill the hole. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Changing her mind.
“Good,” she said. It wasn’t the first time I was happy she wasn’t the type to pry. “I love you, baby. Know that.”
I would have taken my bike, but I wanted to catch Tam as soon as the office opened, so subway it was. Since I was in the system, I got up to the fifteenth floor with no problem—only to be greeted by locked glass doors. I could still make out Mel’s greatest hits playing on repeat. The lone concession to the office’s closed status was that the videos played on mute.
Mel had started Free Money in his junior year at Morgan State after meeting a wannabe rapper named Free. I’d read enough profiles to know that no record label would give Free the time of day. So they’d started one themselves using Mel’s scholarship money. The rest was a classic Hollywood tale. Making it big by sheer will. Falling out over money before the new millennium. Never speaking again. Desiree had assured me it had not been a clean break, but I’d figured that out myself, since Free killed a freckle-faced Mel lookalike in a video from his new solo label. Mel responded by smashing Free’s platinum records during a photo shoot for Vibe. Neither was known for his subtlety. But despite the beef, they’d still both gone on to bigger things—marriage, kids, Grammys. The usual.
Even after their falling-out, Free was part of the Hall of Hits. Murder Mel would never let anyone—especially Free himself—forget the integral role Mel’d played in his success. He hadn’t just served as manager and label head when they’d started out. He’d done whatever was needed, even helming Free’s first video, “Wasted,” since they didn’t have enough money to hire a real director. Complex magazine had done an oral history for the twenty-fifth anniversary. They’d dubbed it a hood classic, up there with “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” and “It Was a Good Day.”
Watching it now, I could see why. They’d forsaken the “money, cash, hoes” vibe of other ’90s-era videos to craft an actual storyline. Free’d played a neighborhood boy trying to do right by his little girl. After being rejected for job after job, he’s forced to turn to a life of crime. With no budget, they’d shot without permits and cast people from around the way. Mel’s high school basketball coach was a McDonald’s manager who refused to hire Free. Aunt E was a nosy neighbor who didn’t like him hanging out on her stoop. The label’s first receptionist played the nagging baby mama looking for formula money. To hear my mom tell it, Veronika soon proved a much better actor in real life.
The climax looked like a deleted scene from Scarface. A minute straight of real guns and fake death, shot in front of Gram’s house. His friends all killed, Free leaves with nothing but his Glock and the two bullets in his chest. Instead of going to the hospital, he goes home. The final scene shows Free walking in the door, blood covering his shirt like a bib, and immediately checking on his three-year-old daughter. She’s awake, as if she’s been waiting for him to finally come home. He picks her up and snuggles her close, getting blood on her cheek. Then the screen fades to black.
It was my first—and last—starring role.
Desiree had also made an appearance, though no one knew it at the time. Real life imitating art. Of course, Complex didn’t include Veronika’s pregnancy in the oral history.
After watching the same videos repeating for thirty minutes, I accepted that Pierce Productions was not opening anytime soon. I went back downstairs. The security guard told me he never saw anyone before 10:30. I rolled my eyes—that was when I was usually on break from my first class.
I messaged Omar as I went back up to fifteen. How’s class?
It took him ten minutes to write back. You’re missing out. Nothing as exciting as Financial Management. How you doing? Need me to send notes?
Me: Yes please.
He wrote again: I got you. You get an extension on the paper?
Me: Don’t need it. Already done. Emailed White to see if I could drop it off tomorrow.
I didn’t have class tomorrow but knew I’d feel better after I turned in the essay. I’d worked on it long enough. I could email it, but unlike Omar, I actually liked going to class. And I needed that normalcy, even if it was just for ten minutes.
Omar responded. Shoulda known. Would love to see you if you’re coming to campus.
I hearted the message without thinking, then responded: I really appreciate you.
Of course. We’re friends. You’d do it for me.
I hoped he was right.
Up next was a text from Kat. I’d never responded to her last one, but she’d sent another—about the funeral. I hadn’t even thought about it. I wrote back promising to share details when I had them.
That taken care of, I checked in on Zarah. She didn’t respond. I hoped it meant she was in a medically induced sleep. I checked for any messages from Green, who still hadn’t called me back. Nothing. I didn’t know if detectives worked 9 to 5, but I made a mental note to call him right before lunch.