Grown Page 2

  “Honest mistake,” I say, checking the time just as a text from Gab pops up.

  What up! How’s it going?

  Not there yet.

  Girl! The line closes in thirty minutes. Move ur ass!

  “A whole week early, though?” Mom carries on. “Doesn’t she know some of us have jobs? Why are you walking so fast? Slow down!”

  As she drags behind me, digging in her giant purse for her keys, I casually stroke into the next phase of my plan.

  “Hey, Mom. Since we have some time, I mean, while we’re here . . . can we stop at another tryout?”

  “What kind of swim meet would be this late?”

  “Well, it’s actually a singing competition. A friend told me about it . . . today. It’s just a little thing.”

  Mom’s head pops up, eyes narrow. “Oh, really now?”

  Torn between coming clean and pressing on, I dive deeper.

  “Please! It’ll be real quick. It’s only fifteen minutes from here.”

  “Oh, and how would you know that?”

  “I, uh, googled it on the way. I thought maybe if we finished up early, we could stop by. Not that I expected to, just, you know, being . . . proactive. Like you always tell me, right? Looks good for college recommendations.”

  Mom blows out some air. “Chanty, we talked about this. School, then activities, then homework, then housework, and then singing. That’s what’s going to get you into college!”

  She’s been beating this horse to death for years.

  “I know! And we did, see? School, check. Activities, check. I did my homework during lunch. Shea has us covered at home, so . . .”

  Mom shakes her head. “Oh, all right. You got one hour.”

  I smile. That’s all I need.

  A roar of applause bursts from inside the auditorium, bombarding the hectic lobby of the Beacon Theatre.

  “I thought you said this was a small competition,” Mom exclaims behind me, gaping at the massive MUSIC LIVE: AUDITIONS banner.

  “Um, yeah, I thought so too,” I mutter, noting the LIVE taping sign and camera lights.

  “Wait, Chanty . . . is this Music LIVE? The one on BET?”

  I pretend not to hear her as we make our way to the registration table with minutes to spare.

  “Hi. Enchanted Jones,” I say out of breath. “I’m here for the auditions.”

  “You’re lucky. We were just about to shut it down. Are you registered?”

  “Yes, I . . . uh, did it online.”

  Mom grunts behind me as the lady slides her finger down the chart.

  “Got you! OK. Here’s your number. You have your track ready?”

  “Yup, right here,” I say, waving my iPhone.

  “Cool. Now, when they call your name, hand your ballot to the judges and take the stage. Go ahead. Good luck!”

  “Thanks,” I say, turning to Mom, her arms crossed. I know I’m busted, but I ignore her eye daggers. At the end of the night, it’ll all be worth it; I know it.

  Inside, the theater is jammed with people. The purple and white stage lights swim across a wave of faces. Music beats through my chest. I grab Mom’s hand, surveying the scene and finding two empty red velvet seats in the back.

  Onstage, a girl with long extensions is singing—really, slaughtering—Destiny’s Child’s “Cater 2 U,” the crowd booing her. A camera projects her face on massive screens as she struggles to maintain a brave smile.

  Music LIVE is BET’s version of American Idol. A three-round singing competition. The grand prize: ten thousand dollars. If I win, it’ll be enough to pay for real studio time to record my album. Even if I don’t win, it’s an opportunity to be noticed by record labels, managers, and A&R reps. All a big if, but better than nothing.

  What I didn’t know was that the auditions were open to the public. Gab left out that crucial detail.

  Everyone, including other contestants, is dressed in an array of party clothes and heels. I gulp.

  “Be right back,” I say to Mom, running off before she can ask questions.

  In the bathroom, I struggle with Gab’s mascara and eyeliner, thread her gold bamboo hoop earrings, add a touch of pink to my lips, and glide a shaky hand down my scalp. I take a quick selfie and send it to Gab.

  This pink looks horrible on me.

  It’s camera-ready pink! You cute!

  Back at my seat, Mom looks me over.

  “Um, did they call me yet?”

  “No,” Mom says, tone clipped, and I try not to wish Grandma was here instead.

  I recognize the profile of Richie Price at the table facing the stage. He’s a big-time music producer–turned–TV director, or something. I read his bio on the website. Beside him, Melissa Short, a music executive from RCA. Beside her, Don Michael, singer.

  “OK. Next up, Amber B. Come on down, Amber!”

  The crowd cheers as a girl who looks about my age makes her way to the stage. She waves at the judges and struts center stage.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Richie says.

  “Hi!” she chirps, lush golden curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face.

  “What are you singing for us tonight?”

  “Beyoncé’s ‘Halo.’”

  “OK, ma, let’s hear it!”

  Amber nods at the soundman, and the beat thumps into the speakers. The crowd claps along. Amber grabs the mic, closing her eyes.

  “Remember those walls I built

  Well, baby, they tumbling down . . .”

  Her voice is . . . majestic. A blend of sweet with sharp edges. A voice made for the stage. I slump lower in my seat, nerves firing into my stomach.

  “Mom,” I squeak. “Mom, we should go.”

  But Mom can’t hear me, too hypnotized by Amber’s skin sparkling like moondust under the stage lights. I’m never going to sound as good as her. Or look as good as her. I slip on my hoodie and grab my book bag. If I leave now, Mom can just meet me at the car.

  I rise to my feet as chaos erupts by the door. A cloud of burly linemen dressed in black piles in, surrounding something . . . or someone. The person, dressed in a white hooded sweat suit, stops in the middle of the aisle.

  As the stranger pulls back his hoodie, a shriek erupts from the crowd. “Oh my GOD! Korey Fields!”

  Korey Fields’s megawatt smile lights up the room. He walks with a slight bop in his step down to the judges’ table. He gives Richie a pound, and they exchange a few words, oblivious to the excitement that has taken over the theater. Onstage, Amber finishes her song but stands shell-shocked.

  “Wow, Chanty,” Mom shouts, clapping. “Korey Fields!”

  I’m speechless. This was supposed to be a simple audition. First the crowd, now Korey Freaking Fields . . . all here to see me make a fool out of myself.

  “Mom, let’s go before . . .”

  “Next up . . . Enchanted Jones!”

  Chapter 4

  Heart Song

  My name booms over the loudspeaker. Too loud to ignore.

  “OK, Chanty, you’re up! Good luck, baby!”

  Mom kisses my cheek and pats me on the butt. The entire theater turns in my direction. I swallow and head for the stage.

  Korey sits behind Richie, surrounded by his entourage, at least a dozen people, while the audience elbows over each other to grab pictures. They don’t even notice me take the stage. I’m invisible—how I always feel.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Richie says.

  “Hello,” I croak out, and the mic delivers feedback. “Um. I’m . . . uh, my name is Enchanted.”

  “Yes, we already know your name. What are you singing for us today?”

  “Oh! Um, ‘If I Were Your Woman’ by Gladys Knight.”

  Korey’s eyes lock on me. He’s like a large moon in a starless sky.

  Richie frowns. “Hmm?” The judges look at one another, unsure, then shrug. “OK, let’s see what you got!”

  I nod at the soundman.

  The chords ring in, the crowd silent. I start to sing, kee
ping a running checklist of all the performance notes I learned on YouTube:

  Chin up.

  Hold the mic firm.

  Eye contact with the audience.

  But the only person I seem to see is Korey, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

  “You’re a part of me

  Korey leans forward in his chair. And somehow, seeing him, the one person I can make out in a room full of nameless faces, soothes my nerves. So I sing to him, just him. The way I used to sing to Grandma during my living room concerts when I was a kid.

  And you don’t even know it

  I’m what you need

  But I’m too afraid to show it . . .

  When I’m done, the room bursts into applause. Korey’s mouth hangs open, staring up in awe.

  Judge #1-Melissa: “You have a great voice. But a little shaky. Need a few more rounds of singing lessons.”

  Judge #2-Don: “Eh, I don’t like the song. Too old-school. Not something of today.”

  Judge #3-Richie: “You two are crazy. You hear all that untamed talent? But I’m outnumbered here. Better luck next year, sweetheart. I’m sure we’ll see you again. Soon.”

  Chapter 5

  Bright Eyes

  Backstage is dark enough to mask the oncoming tears. The perfect place to hide when you need a moment or two. Or ten. Or fifteen.

  I need a few before rejoining Mom, before spending the forty-five-minute drive home in awkward silence. I tricked her into taking me to this audition, all for nothing. I don’t understand. I know I nailed that song. Did way better than others. But maybe it wasn’t the song choice. Maybe it was the whole package that turned them away. My skin, my clothes, my crooked smile, my nonexistent hair . . .

  “Nice song.”

  His breath touches the back of my neck, and I whip around.

  Korey Fields.

  My tongue plays dead in my mouth, lips parting. When did he come back here? And how . . . wait, I’m talking to Korey Fields. Well, no, I’m not talking. He’s talking to me. Say something, dummy!

  “Um . . . thanks.”

  His smile lights up the dark space. Up close, he smells rich, like honey and musky tanning oil. His outfit is crisp, not a speck of dirt on him. Not even on his kicks.

  “Interesting pick,” he says, nodding as if impressed.

  “Interesting?” I repeat.

  “I’m just surprised someone your age would choose such a . . . classic.”

  I don’t know how to take that, so I shrug and offer honesty.

  “It was one of my grandma’s favorites.”

  He pauses, a stunned look in his eyes before chuckling. “Yeah, mine too.”

  We stand in silence, staring at each other. The next contestant is already onstage, singing Beyoncé. Guess I missed the memo that I should’ve gone with any song from her catalog.

  Korey seems much taller in his music videos, towering over every girl he dances on. But in person, he’s regular. Not that he’s short or nothing, just not the LeBron James I thought he’d be. More Steph Curry.

  “You have a voice,” he says. “You take lessons?”

  “Kinda.” I don’t think YouTube counts. “But I practice all the time! And write my own songs.”

  “Hm. Well, you should take some. Professional ones.”

  I blink. “Ouch. Was I that bad?”

  “Oh, nah. Not like that!” He chuckles. “But even naturals need some coaching. Like sports. You get better the more you train. You feel me?”

  I think of Coach Wilson and smile. “Yeah, I think I know exactly what you mean.”

  Korey searches my face.

  “Here, let me show you something real quick.”

  I gasp as he steps toward me, laying one hand flat on my stomach, then the other on the middle of my back. I tense up, frantically searching the room.

  Does ANYONE see this? Korey Fields . . . is touching ME!

  But there’s only bodyguards. And they all seem to be standing away from us, backs turned, pretending they’re invisible.

  “Relax, ma, it’s OK. You’re safe with me,” he says with a wink, voice raspy. “See, you gotta breathe from your diaphragm. Do it with me, ready?”

  I breathe in deep, my belly expanding as he caresses my back.

  “Now release a note as you exhale.”

  I do as he says, and the note comes out smooth and effortless.

  “See? Better?”

  “Yeah.” I giggle. “Better.”

  I look up into his eyes and . . . I can’t look away . . . so I don’t because he doesn’t either. His lips, pressed into a hard line, part.

  “Damn. You got some beautiful eyes.”

  My heart beats hard against my ribs, hands rested on his like they’ve always belonged there, rubbing the rough patches on his knuckles. Then it hits me . . . I’m touching Korey Fields. THE Korey Fields . . . and Mom could come back here any moment. It’d be sixth grade all over again, when I got caught in the closet kissing Jose Torres.

  Except Korey isn’t a regular boy like Jose. He’s . . . so much more.

  “I, um, I gotta go. My . . . mom is probably wondering where I’m at.”

  A flash of confusion sweeps across his face. He hesitates before unattaching himself.

  “How old are you?”

  I gulp. “Seventeen.”

  For a long moment, his face is expressionless. Then he offers a smile.

  “You’re gonna come to my show next Saturday,” he says. “I’ll hook you and your parents up with some VIP tickets.”

  The last contestant jogs backstage with a face-splitting smile. She was picked. Of course.

  “Um, OK,” I say.

  “Your name will be at the box office,” he says whipping out his phone before winking at me. “See you later, Bright Eyes.”

  He taps one of his bodyguards, who gives me a once-over before exiting.

  Butterflies tickle the inside of my chest. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Because there’s absolutely no way Korey Fields would ever be into me.

  Chapter 6

  A Star is Born

  According to Wikipedia, Korey Fields is twenty-eight years old.

  Korey was a protégé. A child superstar at thirteen, he was discovered on YouTube, singing Stevie Wonder songs.

  Raised by his grandmother, he could play several instruments, including drums, piano, guitar, and even trumpet. All self-taught while spending hours at his local Baptist church.

  They called him the second coming of Michael Jackson, with such hit singles as “Invincible,” “I Remember You,” “Work It,” and “Love Is a Verb.”

  My parents loved dancing to his song “A Lifetime of Love.”

  Fifteen top Billboard hits. Triple-platinum albums. Back-to-back sold-out concerts and tours.

  He won his first Grammy at age fifteen.

  He’s an E shy of being an EGOT (Emmy Grammy Oscar Tony).

  The shirtless photo on the cover of his latest album is like an oil painting of a Greek god. He’s the color of earth. Dark eyes, sharp chin, perfect nose, a chest chiseled out of amber stone, muscles forming a V right above his jeans waistband . . .

  Korey Fields is twenty-eight years old.

  He’s young. But not that young.

  Chapter 7

  Friends to the End

  Gabriela dips her fish stick in a cup of ketchup that sits on top of her biology textbook.

  “So, our evil plan worked,” she says with a grin.

  “Yeah. Even though LaToya Jones almost killed me.”

  Like most lunch periods, we find ourselves chilling in the dark gym alcove near the school’s trophy display, skin drenched in fluorescent lighting. I dip my fish sticks in tartar sauce, stealing some of her ketchup for my fries.

  “And the lipstick? Earrings?”

  “Perfect. But none of that matters . . . because I met Korey Fields.” I try to hold in my swoon. “He gave me a nickname. Did I mention that yet?”

  “Yes.” She sighs, flipping open her
notebook. “For the fourth time now.”

  “Yeah, but it’s how he said it.”

  Rolling her eyes, she chuckles. “I’m sure he was just being nice.”

  “No way. It’s wasn’t like how Daddy’s friends call me sweetheart. No, this seemed . . . specific. Just for me.”

  “Ew, girl, are you double dipping? Stop mixing your pickled mayo with my pureed tomatoes.”

  “It tastes better this way! OK, listen to this. ‘Soul eyes, souls rise. Be it a day or a lifetime. When the beauty comes alive. Would you be mine?’ Then the hook would sort of be this hum melody.”

  Gab’s smile stretches wide. “Whoa. That’s fire! You came up with that today? You’re such a beast!”

  From the outside, our friendship seems understandable: same height, weight, and pedigree, except Gab is a year older, and instead of a baldy, she has a head of thick, straight, dark brown hair she keeps in a sloppy high bun. But any word you’d think to describe me, think of her as the antonym. Where I’m clumsy and awkward, Gab is modelesque and confident. Where I’m anxious and frantic, Gab is calm, wise beyond her years. Nothing tips her scale.

  Yet we’re two of the few girls of color in a field of lilies. She’s the only girl in the entire school I can talk to without overexplaining my existence. That brings a level of sisterly comfort. For both of us.

  Comfort enough to admit my deepest emotion. “He said he liked my singing.”

  Gab smiles. “Of course he did. Because you’re good, and the world needs to know that. This is just a start. Soon you’ll be performing in sold-out concerts!”

  I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe even with him.”

  She plucks a thought from my head and frowns. “He’s too old for you.”

  “Well. Y-y-yeah, obviously,” I mumble, my cheeks on fire. “But a girl can dream, right?”

  Her face contorts. “Why the hell would you want to dream about that old-ass uncle?”

  “Uncle? He ain’t that old! He’s not even thirty! He’s only, what, seven years older than Jay?”

  Gab’s eyes squint over her can of Sprite. “That’s completely different, and you know it.”

  “OK, OK! Easy, killer,” I laugh. “I can’t believe you still get in your feelings about that.”