Whiteout: a Novel, page 16
“Thanks, by the way,” I eventually say. “That was, like, an Edward Cullen–level rescue. Less graceful, but effective.” I look up at him slow, but I keep my eyes steady. It was pretty hot, the way he picked me up like it was nothing, and I can’t wait to tell Sola about it. To him I say, “You kinda saved my life.”
He smirks. “Couldn’t let you go out like that,” he replies in a low voice.
I stand up and throw Delilah’s strap over my shoulder. I tune her up, strum her once, and I almost squeal because she doesn’t sound too terrible. I let out a sigh of relief, grateful she’s still playable. Still my lucky baby girl.
Téo looks behind him at the door of the theater, then he turns back to me. “I, uh, saw that you called a Ryde. That wait is probably gonna be a brick, right? Why don’t you come wait inside with me? I know you’re cold. Guessing you hungry too, and I got a ton of grub in the green room.”
I do a double take. Like a full-on look-at-him, look-away, look-back-at-him double take.
“You have access to the green room. At the Fox Theatre.” I say it like it’s not a question, but I clearly have many questions.
“Oh, yeah. Guess you wouldn’t know that. I was supposed to be the opener at tonight’s show, but . . .” He gestures to the snow all around us. “Everyone else—the headliner, my band and crew—got stuck on 285 on the way here. Only reason I was already in Midtown is cuz I was swinging by Vovó’s for some QT before I went back on the road. Once we heard the forecast, she dropped me here early so I wouldn’t have to worry about traffic. I just been in the green room, chillin’ since before the storm started. Only came out to stretch my legs.”
I imagine myself in the green room of the Fox, sitting on a couch where a real rock star might have sat, and I’m nearly vibrating with excitement.
Téo smirks. He can tell I’m starting to fold. “It’s big,” he says. “And warm.”
“Oh hell yeah, I’ll wait inside.”
I grab my things so fast I beat him to the front doors. As I pull one open, I hear him laughing his goofy, snorty (kinda cute) laugh from somewhere behind me.
The theater is empty and quiet as a church when we step through the doors and into its huge atrium. Which is fitting. If there’s anywhere I’d want to worship, it would be in a place that has seen as many musical gods as the Fox has.
Téo walks toward a carpeted staircase and beckons me to follow him, and we head upstairs and through a series of mazelike hallways. We pass a few maintenance people, who nod in our direction. Then he opens an unmarked door, and inside is a wannabe rock star’s dream.
The room is sunshine bright and warm, and it’s big enough for a dozen people to be here, moving around all at once. There are lit-up vanities along two of the walls, a few sofas and plush-looking chairs, a mini fridge, and a long and low glass coffee table with a wide spread of food, from charcuterie and fruit platters to chips, cookies, and granola bars. Téo walks over to the mini fridge, grabs a bottle of sweet tea, and tosses me one too. I almost don’t catch it. He flops down on one of the sofas and kicks his feet up as I envision the bustle of an imaginary band and sound crew getting ready for a show. “There’s Wi-Fi too,” Téo tells me.
I yank off my beanie and shake out my yarn twists before tucking them behind my ears and unzipping my coat. “This is even cushier than I thought it would be.”
Téo doesn’t say anything, so I glance at him, grinning. He has a strange pained look on his face. It’s then that I realize I never asked him if he was okay after our semi-near-death experience. I toss my stuff on a chair, then walk over and sit beside him on the couch, my excitement about being here diluted by sudden worry.
“So . . . I definitely should have asked this a while ago. But are you okay?” I lean forward until I catch his eye. “That was some scary shit.”
He nods slowly, his locs flopping back and forth. He runs his fingers through them so they all point toward his left ear, then clears his throat.
“So, I’m good. But what you said earlier kinda got me in my feelings.”
I frown. “What did I say?”
“All that stuff about me being discovered and how I don’t know what it was like to have to work for anything. None of that’s true.”
I turn around to face him fully. “Wait. Are you saying you weren’t discovered?”
“Nah, that happened. Even though I hate when people say that. It’s like, I been existing. You the only one just finding out. Shit reminds me of colonialism. But we don’t gotta get into that tonight.”
I bite my lip because this is a level of depth that the TV interviews and magazine articles skim right over. When we were kids, he’d regularly get into it with teachers who wanted to gloss over the parts of history that they didn’t like, so he was always in detention. I can’t believe I forgot that about him—that he was only quiet until he had to speak up.
“But, like, after that exec signed me, I was kinda on my own. You know my vovó adopted me, right? That my moms and pops are still in Rio? She just wanted me to focus on school, and she definitely didn’t support me getting into the rap game. But I saw what it might mean, you know? I could repay her for everything she’s done for me, send money back home to my fam. So, I basically ran away. Forged the consent paperwork and left when she wasn’t home. One thing about me, if given the opportunity, I’m gonna hustle. As a kid of would-be immigrants, I don’t know no other way to live. So yeah, I guess I made it. But it wasn’t like it was easy. And it could all go away in a second.”
I swallow hard and look down at my hands, away from his dark, serious eyes. “You’re right,” I say. I know I say mean things when my guard is up, but that’s no excuse for bad behavior. Téo didn’t deserve that reaction. (Kennedy and Rakeem didn’t either.) Granny Vee always says, “Excuses sound good to you and no one else,” so I don’t offer any of mine. “You’re so right. My bad,” I say weakly.
Téo takes a swig from his tea and puts it down on the floor beside the couch. He nods. “You good,” he says. “And not gonna lie, some parts of my life are a lot easier now than they ever have been. But it’s still work. Every day is work, whether I’m on the road or in the studio, doing interviews or just writing, flowing, trying to come up with something new. You should remember that if you wanna do this music thing for real.”
I nod, and I expect things to feel awkward, but for some reason they don’t. “Since we’re being honest here, that white girl music comment had me ready to fight. I hear that enough from everyone else. I don’t need it from you too.”
He puts his hands together and nods again like he did outside. “Respect,” he says. “I meant it as a kind of acknowledgment. To show that I saw you. I see you. It’s what I remember you listening to since . . . forever. When we were like thirteen and everyone was all about Cardi B and Lil Nas X, you were on some indie tip, into artists I never heard of, or bands playing pop or punk or pop punk? Stuff white kids listen to.”
I just look at him. “Most of the white kids I know love Cardi B as much as the Black kids do. Remember Whitt?”
“Oh shit! Whittaker James Prescott the Third!”
“The whitest white boy name ever,” I say. “He pretty much exclusively listens to V-103. In fact, whenever I see your ass on TV, most of the crowd is white kids. So what are you even talking about?”
We look at each other. When he starts laughing, I can’t help but follow. Pretty soon we’re both cracking up.
“Yooo, it’s funny because it’s true, though!” he says through snorts and chuckles.
“I know, right?” I say when I can speak. “My granny always says, ‘Everybody wants the culture, but nobody wants the color.’”
Téo lets out a low whistle. “That part,” he says.
Something warmer than understanding, better than belonging, passes between us. And out of nowhere, Téo reaches forward and touches my hair.
“This is fire, by the way,” he says. “The color, the length. It’s everything.” While touching a Black woman’s hair is usually a no-no, the way he does it—gently palming a twist and then letting it fall, and paired with that compliment—is too kind and unexpected for me to be mad. In fact I flush, remembering his poem from middle school. I wonder if he’s thinking about it too.
I turn to prop my feet up on the coffee table and clap the toes of my shoes together so I don’t have to look at him. “Those boots lit too,” he adds, and I’m grateful for the subject change. The vanity lights make the pink patent leather shine like just-licked candy.
“Oh, you like? That’s a big deal coming from you, Mr. Fashion Week.”
“You saw that?” Téo chuckles. “Man, I don’t even wanna be rockin’ half the stuff they have me rockin’. But I can tell this is all you.” He pauses for a second. Licks his lips in a way that feels purposeful. “You look good, Jimi Jam,” he says, using a nickname from middle school I’d nearly forgotten about. “And for what it’s worth, I only heard the end of your song, but you sounded real good out there too.”
I nod and say, “Oh, I know,” and he laughs again. I choke down a bit of pride and tell him his stuff’s not too bad either. “I really like ‘Fake Fire.’” It was an early song, from his first EP, not one from the debut album that made him famous. Something about the song is dark and desperate and reminds me of his poetry; of who he used to be.
He does the thing where his eyes go wide. He blinks and shakes his head a little, like he’s surprised. “Damn, J, that’s a deep cut. I didn’t even know anybody knew about that song. You stalkin’ me or something? Gonna show up somewhere and reveal all my secrets?”
I roll my eyes. “Boy, bye. But is that why you’re scared of me? Do I know too much about Téo while you out here trying to be Kinsey?”
Téo shakes his head and shoves my shoulder. He must be getting comfortable because he’s suddenly very . . . touchy. Not that I mind.
“I didn’t say I was still scared of you.”
On the corner of the table, I notice a homey-looking plastic container that seems out of place compared to the fancier snacks. I point to it and Téo nods, so I lean forward and pry it open. Inside, half a dozen round golden-brown pies sit in two tight rows of three. “Are these . . . ?”
“Vovó’s famous empadas? Yeah. Half are chicken, half are beef.” I pull one out, take a big bite. It’s flaky and salty and I taste both butter and bacon in addition to the beef. For a second I forget what I was about to say.
“Jesus, that’s good. But . . . you actually did say you’re still scared of me. Or at least that it was scary to see me,” I say, covering my full mouth with the back of my hand. “What’s so scary about me? Then or now?”
“Hmm,” he says. “It’s kinda complicated.” He scratches his chin and adjusts himself on the couch so that he’s sitting all the way back. He yawns and stretches, and the smoky-sweet scent of him wafts across the length of the sofa. “Sorry, I’m wiped. Gimme a minute.” His face looks like he’s concentrating, thinking hard about how best to answer my question, and I admire his willingness to be so open. I eat more of my empada while I wait.
“I guess it’s like this,” he begins. “Even then you knew what you wanted. You knew poetry, and you wrote and performed it with no filter. You knew you wanted to sing, so you were always singing. You knew you liked me,” he says, and I freeze, empada in midair, only halfway to my mouth. He looks away a little when he says that part, like he’s feeling shy about saying it out loud. “Or at least I think you did. And then you kissed me. I was shook. It was a lot to take in. Not just the kiss and the . . . feelings, but that you knew all that stuff about yourself. We were thirteen. But you knew who you were and what you wanted. I didn’t. Still don’t. And that was scary to realize. Still is. How much you know about you. How little I know about me.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “Oh,” I say. I make a mental note that he didn’t mention the song I wrote. And it occurs to me for the first time that maybe he never got it. Or that if he did, maybe he was too intimidated by it—by me—to respond. I pop the last of the empada into my mouth and I chew it slowly, a million different thoughts colliding in my head at once.
“I guess I feel like everything in my life just happens to me, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Mmmm . . . not really,” I admit. I rub my hands on my jeans and scoot closer to him, fascinated, because he keeps saying things I don’t expect him to and it just makes me want to listen to his rumbling voice, to be surprised by his ideas and feelings, indefinitely. “What do you mean?”
“Like being sent here to live with Vovó, and the whole music thing. With the stuff I wear. My parents said, ‘You’re moving to the States,’ and I said okay, even though I was terrified. I just liked writing poetry and recording stuff for fun with my friends, but when the same friends entered me into that freestyle competition, I went with it. My manager or some designer picks out my clothes, I put them on. It all just kinda happens, but I don’t feel like I choose any of it. Then, if things go well, I feel like I owe everyone, and I work my ass off to make sure they know I appreciate it all.”
I pause mid-nod, because I can see what he’s saying. But I also disagree.
“I’m sorry, Téo, but I gotta call bullshit. Because isn’t going with the flow also a choice?” I ask. “You didn’t fight your parents on their decision to send you away. You decided to go to the freestyle competition and to sign a contract. You choose to put on the clothes. Maybe you go with it, with all of it, so you don’t have to think about what you really want. Especially if you’re afraid that what you want won’t matter in the end anyway.”
He blinks slowly, like he’s thinking about what I’ve said. “Wow, Jimi Jam. You ain’t have to take me to church like that.” He’s quiet again, looking around the green room like he’s lost. I feel a little bad.
“Sorry if that was harsh. As you know, I can come on strong sometimes. I guess, if I’m being honest, I don’t like you thinking that you’re powerless. That this stuff is happening and you can’t do anything to stop it. So, tell me, Téo, do you know what you want?”
His bright, wide eyes circle back and land on me. He bites his bottom lip, and when his chest heaves with a deep breath, I smile to let him know it’s okay if he’s unsure.
“Some quiet, maybe. Some time and space to think, to create. To help my family in every way I can. I think . . . I think I want someone who sees me. Who sees past Kinsey to Téo. And I guess a nap would be nice too.”
His nostrils flare, and he smiles a little crookedly. He looks down at his hands, then he asks, “What about you? What do you want?”
“Oh, me?” I say, thinking about my band and fame and my name in lights. I imagine Rescuing Midnight back together at the New Year’s Eve party and then us playing a thousand other gigs. I wonder what it might feel like to perform here, inside the Fox Theatre, or to sing in the rain (now that I have in the snow), and what it would be like to finally kiss Téo again. I smirk. “I want it all.”
Téo grins and shakes his head like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream, and his locs flop all over the place. “Today has been the longest. I need to get up. Move around before I pass out.” He stands, and I’m surprised when he grabs my hand and pulls me up too.
He leans closer to me, like he’s got a secret.
“Wanna see the stage?” he says.
It feels illegal to be inside the concert hall all on our own. But as I jog down one of the long aisles, Téo’s right behind me. When we get to a side door that leads to a narrow hallway, he opens it, and we follow the dimly lit corridor past black-and-white photographs of Prince, Patti LaBelle, Mariah Carey, and countless others who have performed here over the years until it empties us at the entrance to the stage. I blow a kiss at a neon sign above the doorframe that reads PLAY IT PRETTY FOR ATLANTA. It’s hot pink, like it was made for me.
When I step out onto the dark stage, I die a little. The theater is cavernous and shadowed, the walls stacked with elaborate brick architecture that resembles the facade of a castle, and each side of the stage is draped with heavy velvet curtains. The ceiling is an otherworldly shade of blue that makes it feel like the room has no roof and I’m staring up at an endless sky. Everything about it is ornate and gorgeous and I can’t believe I’m here. The only thing that would make this moment better is if Rakeem and Kennedy were here too.
I open my gig bag, grab Delilah, and slip the shoulder strap over my head. I strum a few times, marveling at the room’s amazing acoustics, and I close my eyes imagining a crowd chanting my name. I can hear the roar of imaginary applause, and I can almost taste what it would be like for this particular dream of mine to come true. It’s sweeter than pouring Pixy Stix into my Granny Vee’s already-sweet tea.
“Tell me about the first time you performed somewhere like this,” I say.
“Hmm,” Téo murmurs. He had been hanging back, letting me have the whole stage to myself, but now he steps out of the shadows, comes to stand beside me in the center of everything.
“It was probably when I opened for Lil Yatchy. I was scared shitless. I actually puked three times before curtain, so my whole dressing room smelled like ass. When my manager walked in, she thought I was dying.”
I laugh and turn to look for him, but I can barely make him out since none of the stage lights are on. Just the leftover light from the hall spills out across us, like a pretty voice from far away—we can hardly hear its brightness.
“So she brings me a liter of ginger ale and I drink more than half the bottle. I’m burping so much by the time I need to go on that everyone’s on their phones, looking for someone to replace me.”
