“Ha, ‘genius’ got a nice ring to it, don’t it?”
He stands behind me, laying my fingers on the board, guiding me, and it almost feels like he’s caressing my hand, but I could be imagining it.
“You play this note and I’ll play the other.”
With a few strokes, I’m playing. But the way his chest lies against my back, sandwiching me into the keyboard, my fingers trip up.
“Oh, um sorry,” I mumble at the floor.
“That’s OK.”
He stares down at me, fireflies sizzling in his eyes.
“Um, shouldn’t we be recording or something?”
He shrugs. “In a minute. You can’t walk up in a studio and expect to lay down a hit! You have to ease into the vibe. Melt into it.”
He picks up his guitar and plops down on the black leather sofa, stringing a couple of notes. I want to sit with him, to crawl into that space under his arm, rest my head on his chest . . . but nerves keep me frozen. Be respectful. Act like a lady, Mom said.
“So how do we melt?”
“Aight, rules for the studio. One, no one can know what goes down in here. This is where the magic happens, and you can’t be giving away our secrets, you feel me? So you can’t tell no one, not even your moms.”
I start to question how I’d go about doing that, but even the thought seems childish and he’s already trusting me with so much. I nod.
“Two, we don’t just make music in here. We make love, you feel me? So all that uptight shit, you gotta leave at the door and free yourself.”
“OK.”
“And you gotta start by shedding some of them layers.”
I glance down at my sweater. He couldn’t mean . . .
He laughs. “Get loose. Get comfortable. See me? I don’t even walk in here with shoes on.”
Listen to him. Be respectful, I think again, and unzip my hoodie, tossing it on the sofa. I stressed all morning on what to wear, but the simple white V-neck T-shirt that snugs my frame seemed like the best option. Less is more.
“OK. Any other rules?”
Korey’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide, sweeping over me.
“Wow. You are . . . so beautiful.”
The blushing hurts my cheeks as the room spins and he cracks a bashful smile.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that . . . I mean, you’re mad gorgeous! Them eyes . . . every time you look at me, I forget myself.”
I lace my fingers together.
“Um, thanks.”
No one has ever called me beautiful. Pretty, sure. But beautiful . . . that word transcends.
Next, Korey is all business. We go over vocal warm-ups, how to sing in the booth, how to use the mic and headsets, and how music is recorded. Every passing minute feels unreal. Like at any moment I’m going to wake up from this dream and go back to facing my overcrowded home.
There’s a light knock at the door before it swings open. A fair-skinned woman with long dark hair combed with a side part walks in, her eyes down.
“Her mother will be here in forty-five minutes.”
“Thanks, Jess,” he says, with an approving nod.
Jessica’s almond-shaped eyes flicker up to mine, before she leaves as quick as she had come.
“Aight, since you love the classics so much, thinking we sing some oldies tunes together,” Korey says from behind an audio board. “You know, like we did in Jersey.”
“Can we do that same song?”
He grins. “Aight, Bright Eyes. Whatever you want.”
I bite my lip until I can’t hold it in any longer.
“You know I know that song, right?” I burst, voice cracking.
He cocks his head to the side. “Huh?”
I sing, “Turn around, bright eyes.”
Korey cackles. That smile . . . how have I lived so long without it?
“Oh, word! Look at you, knowing even the white-folk classics!” He muses to himself for a moment. “My grandma loved white-folk music.”
“Mine did too,” I gush. We have even more in common.
Korey leans back in his chair. “Yo, real talk, if I could have my way, I’d do like a whole cover album of all the great white hits. But . . . that’ll never happen. They’d never let me sing that shit.”
“They?”
“My label.”
“Oh. Right, sorry,” I mumble. “But this is your space. Thought you could do what you want here.”
Korey has a pensiveness about him that I wouldn’t expect from such a superstar. There’s so much warmth in his eyes under those long lashes.
“Yo, you right,” he says. “Man, I don’t know, Enchanted, there’s something about you. You just . . . different. Real mature.”
He sits behind the keyboard, plays a few notes and sings.
I giggle and join him.
“Turn around, bright eyes.
Every now and then I fall apart.”
When we sing, our voices make love in the air.
“Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time.”
Chapter 19
Cradle Robber
“Thanks again for the ride,” I say, jumping into Gabriela’s car.
“It’s cool,” she says, reversing out of my driveway. “Don’t have to be at work till six today, but check this out!”
Gab passes me her phone, screen on an ad listing—FOR RENT: One-bedroom apartment. $1100/month.
“You’re moving?”
“Yeah! Well, not until graduation. But look at that spot, it’s perfect for me and Jay! And it’s close to Fordham. Jay’s been introducing me to some of the professors in the education department. Think I’m gonna like it there.”
One thing about Gab: she has her life figured out and is fearless about it. I so badly wanted to tell her I had good news of my own. But . . . Korey said it was “our thang.” Not like Gab tells me everything.
Gab raps along to a Bad Bunny song, tapping her steering wheel.
“Hey, why don’t you want to be a singer?” I ask, suddenly curious. “You have a nice voice.”
She shrugs. “I like to sing, but I don’t want to BE a singer. That’s your job.” She snorts to herself. “Except, Jay and I write these goofy-ass songs together. It be so hilarious sometimes! We need our own comedy special on Netflix.”
It’s something like a fairy tale, the way Jay and Gabriela first met. Three years ago, while attending her cousin’s high school graduation party, Gab stepped into her tía’s backyard and noticed a light-brown boy with a dimpled smile. Jay met her eyes, watched her click down the patio steps in a pink Forever 21 dress, hair hanging nearly to her butt . . . and the stars devoured him whole. It was love at first sight.
Gab was fourteen, and Jay had just turned seventeen.
After a year-long friendship, they couldn’t deny it: they were in love, fitting together like peanut butter and jelly. Bonding over reggaeton and sneakers, Jay encouraged Gab to embrace her Latin roots, and Gab encouraged him to apply for college.
But the moment he turned eighteen, everything seemed to change. Folks threw around words like “fresh meat,” called him a cradle robber and a pedophile.
Even though they’d met when they were both still in high school and built off a friendship, the comments made Gab feel dirty. But Jay didn’t care what people had to say, and continues to be the doting, patient, supportive boyfriend of her dreams. I’ve never met him, but the way Gab talks about him, he sounds . . . like everything I’ve ever wanted. Someone to be silly with, to sing with, to share dreams with, to have your own “thang” with. That one person who is really YOURS.