If Free was known for his in-your-face bars, then Mel was known for his in-your-face bravado. There wasn’t an interview that didn’t mention his “reputation.” His quick fuse. His threats of ass beatings. His promises to end careers. I know because I read them all.
The video played on repeat in my head as I biked into Manhattan. Even though it was Sunday, Mel was at work. I’d taken a long shower and spent even longer laying my edges and deciding what to wear—a delay tactic more than anything else. In the end I’d just chosen my black Afroed Rosie the Riveter T-shirt and black jeans.
The walk to Mel’s office felt like another walk of shame, somehow made worse by the empty desks. I sat outside his door like a kid in a time-out.
“He’s ready for you,” Tam finally said.
My cell rang again as I stood up, but I hit DECLINE like I’d done the other five times. I made my way over, looking down as if I could actually see the eggshells. It took me four steps to get there. Then I knocked.
Truth was, Mel had never used his infamous temper on me. And I had never given him a reason to, treating his presence like a field trip to a museum. Don’t touch anything. Don’t run anywhere. Don’t talk to strangers, even if they’re your father. Desiree had handled it differently. Doing everything short of screaming for attention. Not me. Never me.
He yelled, “Come in!” and I finally opened one of the double doors. I figured he’d be behind the big black desk, staring me down behind ever-present sunglasses. But he was pacing, eyes on full display and focused on his cell. He didn’t look up when I walked in. Mel didn’t use a computer much, but he stayed on his phone constantly. The only time I hadn’t seen him on it was during our meeting with Green.
“Sit,” he said, but he didn’t stop moving himself.
“I’m okay.”
“Sit.” He’d put more bass in that one, and I did what I was told.
The next few minutes felt longer than a 10K, me sitting as Mel did laps. I didn’t dare look back. Finally, he appeared next to me, leaning on his desk mere inches away.
“What the fuck is going on, Melina?” He didn’t yell. Just spoke in an über-calm voice, which I took to mean the storm was inevitable.
“What do you mean?” I didn’t know what else to say, and I couldn’t stand another stretch of silence.
“You’re not acting like yourself,” he said.
I didn’t say what I was thinking. That he wouldn’t know.
“You’re showing your ass with the police,” he said. “You’re being rude to Tam. You were backstage like some groupie looking for Free.”
Of course, he’d know about that. I felt myself regressing like a New Year’s countdown. I wanted to stamp my feet. Suck my thumb. Melodramatically throw my body on the floor and roll around. Instead, I swallowed back some smart-ass retort about how Desiree was the one acting like Free’s groupie. Because, present circumstances excluded, I wasn’t a snitch.
He kept on. “And then I see that article today. Some ‘family member’ being quoted that Desiree and I were estranged. I’ll say it again. You’re not acting like yourself. You’re acting like your sister.”
Again, the calm voice. I would’ve preferred he yell. That was the Mel I knew. The one on TV and in memes. Not the one acting like a father. Rubbing my wrist, I worked up the nerve to look at him.
“You don’t feel guilty?” I said. “Because I feel like shit.”
He stood up, took his time going to his office chair. “She’d changed since the last time you were in contact with her.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that. But you didn’t say how.”
He finally looked at me. With my eyes. Desiree’s eyes.
“What was going on with her?” I said. “Do you know who she was meeting up there?”
He did. I could tell by how quickly he looked away. For a moment, just one split second, I thought he was actually going to tell me. But then he put on the sunglasses at the ready on his big black desk. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Maybe not to you.”
He palmed his phone. “I have a call.”
Just like that, I was dismissed, which put me back in familiar territory. His directness had been startling. Clearly Desiree and I weren’t the only ones not acting like ourselves. It made me wonder if something more had happened between them.
I stood up, made my way to the door. He waited until I opened it before he spoke again. “And, Melina, no more quotes from family members.”
*
My lock screen was a string of missed notifications. Texts from Stuart Jones. Calls from Stuart Jones. Calls from an unknown number I assumed was Stuart Jones. I ignored them all—having already texted him a piece of my mind—instead focusing on the two missed calls from Aunt E. It had to be important for her to call me. Twice. But the last thing I needed was more bad news. The service was shit in the elevator, so I hit her back as soon as I got to the lobby. “Everything okay?”
“Some man’s been calling here for you.”
Really, Stuart? “He say what he wanted?” I said.
“To apologize. He didn’t say what for, though. I told him you were going to see your father.” She took in a breath. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. He’s a reporter from the News. That’s all. If he calls again, just hang up.”
There was a beep. I pulled the phone from my ear to check. Stuart again. A text. He was lucky I decided to ignore him. “Is Erin still there?” I said to Aunt E. I was glad she had someone to keep her company. And vice versa.
“Yeah. The way she’s loitering, she wants to talk to you too.”
Erin was on the phone within seconds. “So…”
I’d made it through the revolving door and was headed back to my bike. “He wasn’t happy with the article.” I contemplated telling her my new suspicion, that Mel knew something he wasn’t saying, but I’d snitched enough for the week. “He told me to mind my business.”
She sighed. “Of course he did. I hope you let him have it. So what now?”
“Please tell me you found Karma Dodson.”
“Who’s Karma Dodson?”
I always thought I could smell bullshit a mile away. I was wrong. Stuart was next to me, his smile tentative yet present.
“Let me call you back,” I said to Erin and hung up. I looked at Stuart. He wore his usual black suit. “Stuart Jones.”
“First and last name. Not good. You’re mad about the article.”
I kept walking. “You screwed me over.”
“You didn’t want to use your name. I didn’t use your name. Not sure where I went wrong here.”
I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, a New York no-no, up there with standing on the left side of the escalator and rooting for the Red Sox. The man behind me grunted his displeasure as he huffed past us.
“You called me ‘a family member.’ We’re not the royal family. There’s no twentieth in line for the throne. There are four of us left. Mel. Veronika. Aunt E. Me.” I counted us off on my fingers. Resisted giving him the middle one when I was done. “You might as well have published my name, social security number, and credit score.”