“So don’t change your name,” Aunt Karla goes on. “Change your trajectory. Make Jerzie Jhames the next dumb name attached to greatness.”
“So you admit my name is dumb!”
She tugs on my mop of curls. “Do all teenagers have selective hearing, or just you?”
“Doesn’t matter anyway.” I press the side button to lock the screen on my phone as the train starts to slow again. “Because under the current circumstances, I can’t change my trajectory.”
“Why you think that? You’re about to be on Broadway.”
I give Aunt Karla a look that I hope says, You know exactly why I think that.
She tosses back a look of her own. I’d guess she’s saying, Jerzie? Stop acting like a sixteen-year-old. I’d toss back yet another look, but Aunt Karla’s now gathering her purse and tote bag.
“We get off here.” She stands.
I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder as the train screeches to a stop. Once the double doors slide open, we both hurry and step onto the platform. The terminal has an interesting odor, a mixture of sweat, must, dust—not my dad—and excitement. An energy you can literally inhale. It’s electric.
The platform is crowded, but I’m always amazed at how expertly Aunt Karla weaves through rush-hour crowds. She’s barely over five feet—I’m a good five inches taller than her—but she’s lived in New York since she was eighteen and is not the one to try. She sort of exudes that New Yorker don’t-even-think-about-effing-with-me vibe, and I swear swarms of people disperse when she approaches. Like the way the Munchkins scattered when Evilene walked through the sweatshop on The Wiz. She’s basically got it like that. But as my gaze drifts away from Aunt Karla’s Wicked Witch of the West march down the platform, I screech to a halt like somebody pulled the emergency brake on me.
It’s one of those digital posters. For Roman and Jewel. I place a hand over my chest in hopes it’ll dull the ache. It’s like my heart is in a free fall after being hurled off the roof of a building. I’ve lost track of where my aunt is, but I can’t worry much about that, because I’m not sure I can move anyway. I’m glued to the platform.
It’s real. Suddenly so real. And even though the poster isn’t much to look at—two shadowy figures and the words Roman and Jewel: A Hip-Hopera Starring CINNY. Previews begin August 18th!—it still hits me like a sucker punch from an MMA fighter.
I feel a hand rest gently on my shoulder and look over to see Aunt Karla standing beside me.
“See?” I point to the poster. “It is all in a name.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “On the hero’s journey, you’re obviously gonna run into other heroes along the way. All at different stages of a marathon. So this is the first mile of yours. Twenty-five more to go. You’re gonna get your time to shine.”
“I wanted it to be now,” I admit softly.
Aunt Karla wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean my head on top of hers. I’m glad she’s here, because my knees feel weak and the weight of my heart is working hard to drag me down. “Now is here. You’re on Broadway, baby. 1681 Broadway, to be specific.”
1681. The address to Broadway Theatre. Where Roman and Jewel will be performed live onstage. Hopefully for years to come. I force a smile. “I’m on Broadway?”
“Girl. You really are.”
I’m finally able to will my legs back into motion. Aunt Karla guides me up the stairs and away from the underbelly of Times Square. The city seems to magically swell, welcoming us as we slowly ascend.
“For Never Was a Story of More Woe”
Six weeks earlier
“Why do you think they’re taking so long with her?” I whisper. “They didn’t take that long with me.”
“Stop worrying,” Mom whispers back, scrolling through the news on her phone as if this isn’t the most exciting thing to happen to us in like...ever.
“Stop worrying? How do I do that again?” With visibly shaking hands, I grab my stainless steel S’well bottle decorated with pink and red hearts from the floor beside me, twist off the cap, and down a few gulps of water, choking on an ice cube in the process.
Mom’s eyebrows rise. “Do I need to do the Heimlich?”
I toss the tiny ice cube back into the bottle. “No, I’m good.” I pound on my chest and lift the bottle to take another sip.
“Jerzie Jhames.” Mom snatches it from my hands. “Your bladder is gonna explode. Stop.”
The door to the rehearsal room is pushed open. A girl about my age slinks into the dimly lit hallway. She flips her perfectly straightened hair over her shoulder and blinks dramatically as her mom, who was sitting across from us, stands and rushes toward her.
“Well?” her mom whispers, pulling her purse over her shoulder. “What did they say?”
The girl tugs at the sleeves of her white leotard. A leotard that makes her pretty brown skin seem to glow like liquid gold.
“First off.” She licks her lips, painted deep purple, and I notice she has a similar shade painted above her eyelids and dusted across her cheeks. “They like, literally started clapping when I finished that last song.”
The mom squeals and hugs her daughter tightly.
Clapping? They didn’t clap for me.
“And then what did they say?” the mom asks anxiously.
The girl shrugs. “They said we’re free to go. For now.” Her eyes meet mine. Shit. I look down at my hands as if they’re somehow interesting. “But they stressed that I will be hearing from them later today.”
Seriously?! I pull at my fingers. All they said to me was thanks and have a seat in the hallway.
“Thank You, God.” The mom folds her hands in prayer and stares up at the ceiling as if God is on their side alone.
“Hey.” I call out as the two move gleefully toward the elevator. They stop and look back in our direction. Actually, look isn’t the right word. They more eyeball us the way you would a family of rats in a dark corner of the subway station. “I could, uh, hear you in there.” And I could.
“Okay?” is the girl’s only reply.
“Just wanted you to know you sounded good.” And she did. “Really good.” I notice she’s wearing LaDuca dance heels. And a feather boa. Where in New York City does one purchase a lime-green feather boa? Should I have dressed up? I’m only wearing yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of old sneakers. I have LaDuca dance heels, too. Should I have worn mine?