Not A Good Look Page 10

  I give Sam a blank stare. “Are you for real? I don’t think seven hundred dollars is enough for all that.”

  “Stop thinking about dollars and cents, Sunday. You have to pay your dues first, and this is part of it. We’re part of the entourage, remember? That’s what an entourage does.”

  “It sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It can be a lot of fun, too.”

  I narrow my eyes at Sam. “Have you done this before, Sam? What other entourages have you been a part of?”

  “None. This is my first one.”

  “So how do you know we have to do all this stuff?”

  “Because I sit back and watch stuff. I’m an observer. I know exactly what we need to do to blow Truth and Drama up to the point where we can eat, too.”

  “Humph. Dreya is not trying to share the wealth. I promise you that if she’s sitting at the top of the mountain, she’s gonna be there all by herself.”

  Sam shakes his head. “She can’t do this without you. That just reminded me of another thing you need to do when it’s time for Drama to go on her summer tour.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You need to learn all of the words to her songs on her CD, exactly the way it’s being sung on there. If there’s a run, a pause, a hitch, you need to know it, because you’re her vocal backup.”

  “Her vocal backup?”

  “Yeah, Drama’s voice is not strong enough to withstand a tour. It’s gonna give out maybe more than once. She should be cool with Truth on this promo tour, though. It’s only one song and she’s only got the hook to sing.”

  “Dang. You observed all that?”

  Sam chuckles and switches sides on the table so that he’s sitting next to me. “You know what else I observed?”

  His nose is nearly touching mine, and his breath feels hot on my face. The butterflies in my stomach are saying he’s a little bit too close.

  “What?” I ask, my voice as breathy as Sam’s.

  “This long string of cheese that you have hanging off your chin.” He wipes my face with a napkin, jumps up, and laughs.

  This tour is going to be an adventure.

  15

  “No, no, and are you kidding me? No!”

  If Dreya turns down one more outfit, I’m going to scream! She has tried on at least fifteen ensembles and still hasn’t picked one for the very first show in Atlanta. The executives at Epsilon Records want her to have at least seven outfits, including something fly for the Mystique-hosted party at the 2020 club.

  “You expect me to wear this at my debut?” Dreya says. “This looks like I got it at some bargain basement. Stop playing.”

  The boutique employees scramble trying to put together new ensembles by throwing out more accessories, switching items around, and adding different pairs of shoes. They really want the sale, I guess, since Epsilon Records is footing the bill.

  “And you’re not even helping,” Dreya snaps at me. “I thought you were supposed to be my assistant.”

  I reply by rolling my eyes. The only reason Big D sent me on this shopping expedition was to keep Dreya from spending too much money. He’d tried to explain to her that none of this was free and that the more she spent up front, the less she’d see when she got that first royalty check in the mail. But from the way she’s snapping up designer goods, I don’t think she heard him at all.

  “We’ve been here for hours, Dreya, and you haven’t chosen one thing. You’ve got rehearsal in two hours.”

  “Big D is tripping with these rehearsals. It’s Saturday! When do I get a day off?”

  A day off from what? She doesn’t go to school during the week, doesn’t do homework, and doesn’t have a part-time job other than this record deal. So, I would say that just about every day is a day off for her.

  “What are you doing over there?” Dreya asks. “Day-dreaming about your little boyfriend?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend at the present time, so I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  Dreya holds a BCBG skirt up to her body in the mirror and frowns. “You’re not fooling anyone, Sunday. Our mothers always try to act like I’m the wild one, sending you with me on tour to be my babysitter. But for real, you’re just as sneaky as I am.”

  “I don’t sneak and do anything.”

  “It’s whatever, Sunday. I won’t tell anyway, so I don’t know why you feel the need to hide stuff from me.”

  One of the store staff brought out a pink Baby Phat dress. For the first time since we’ve been in this store, Dreya smiles.

  “I like,” she says. “But what shoes am I supposed to rock with this?”

  “How about these boots?” the salesperson asks.

  The silver thigh-high boots are right up Dreya’s alley, as are the chain-link belt, necklace, and bracelets that they add to the outfit.

  “This can be my first outfit. One down, six to go.”

  I look at the price tags on everything she’s already selected. Over seven hundred dollars on one outfit. Big D suggested that she not spend more than two thousand dollars on these outfits, and she’s almost halfway to the limit after one.

  “Dreya, you might want to find some other outfits to rock with these five-hundred-dollar boots. You’re spending too much money already.”

  Dreya gives me an annoyed-looking head shake. “Sunday, stop being such a lame about this. It’s all coming out of my money anyway.”

  I pick up a pair of skinny-leg Deréon jeans and a corset that are both on sale. The silver boots go perfect with the jeans and match the ribbon that ties the corset in back. Only an extra seventy-five dollars and I’ve hooked up a whole other look.

  “I guess,” Dreya says, turning up her nose at the corset.

  “Five more. Let’s go,” I say. “Sam will be back in a little bit to pick us up for your rehearsal.”

  Dreya throws a few more tops and jeans on the table, a pair of black leggings and a black corset, red thigh-high boots, and several pairs of hoop earrings. It feels like she’s bought up the store when they tell us the approximate total. She’s got over three thousand dollars in merchandise already, and she’s still rifling through the racks.

  Sam’s SUV pulls up in front of the store. A tiny smile graces my lips as he steps out of his ride. He’s looking nice in his jeans, leather jacket, and Timberland boots. He pulls his skull cap down low and walks toward the store.

  “Sam’s here,” I say. “You should probably wrap it on up. Big D will be upset if you keep him waiting.”

  “All right,” Dreya says over a sigh. “I guess this will have to do.”

  While Dreya pays for her purchases, I step to Sam. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Did she buy up the store?” he asks.

  “Pretty much. And she still thinks that she doesn’t have enough.”

  Sam points at the pile of bags on the counter. “Looks like she has more than enough.”

  Dreya snaps her fingers twice and points at the bags. “Who was that for?” I ask Sam.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she hired a butler or something, because I know she wasn’t doing that for us.”

  Dreya sucks her teeth in our direction. “Can y’all come get these bags?”

  “We’ll help you carry your bags, Drama, but you’re carrying some, too,” Sam says.

  “What? Y’all are supposed to be my assistants. I’m telling Big D.”

  “Tell him!” I say. “Epsilon Records is not paying enough money for me to be a slave.”

  Sam bursts into laughter. “Okay, I’m gonna get the bags, but not because I’m your slave, Mz. Drama. It’s because I’m a gentleman, and I won’t have my girl carrying your bags.”

  His girl? When did that happen?

  I watch silently as Sam loads up the SUV with Dreya’s many bags. She slides a pair of sunglasses on and fluffs the front of her spiky, roosterlike hair. I’m not even going to comment on the fact that there is no sun shining at all. It’s overcast and almost dark outside.

  When
Sam finishes with the last bag, he jogs up to the store and holds the door for me and Dreya to walk through. She sashays through and heads to the front seat of Sam’s truck. The ungrateful diva doesn’t even say thank you.

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  He grins. “Don’t worry about Drama. She’s just feeling herself. I think it’s funny.”

  I shrug and climb into the backseat of the SUV. Maybe Dreya would stop acting ridiculous if they’d call her by her real name. I don’t think she’s getting the point of having a stage persona.

  “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la…” Dreya sings up an entire scale and comes back down.

  “Take it up an octave,” I suggest, “and then I’ll harmonize with you.”

  Dreya whips her head around. “This is not Daddy’s Little Girls, Sunday. I don’t need you rehearsing me.”

  I shake my head. “I’m just trying to help you.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  “What’s your problem?” I ask, getting tired of her attitude.

  “You seem to have it twisted. You’re not here to be my babysitter. You’re supposed to be my assistant.”

  “And I’m trying to assist you. Maybe you didn’t know that help and assist are synonyms.”

  She gives me a confused glare and turns back around to face the front.

  Dreya doesn’t sing another note all the way to the studio, which is completely stupid because she needs to warm up her voice. She has one of those voices that doesn’t sound good unless it’s warmed up. But since she won’t listen to me, I’ll let Big D tell her she sounds a mess.

  To my surprise, and I think Dreya’s, too, we walk into the studio and there are four girls in various shades of spandex doing dance moves with Truth. Well, Truth isn’t really dancing, he’s just standing there lip-synching the lyrics to his song.

  “It’s about time y’all got here,” Big D says as he uses his remote control to turn off his iPod speakers.

  “Sorry we kept you waiting, Big D,” Sam says. “Drama had a lot of purchases that I had to load up.”

  Big D kisses Dreya on the cheek. “It’s all good. Come on, Drama, you need to learn these moves.”

  Dreya laughs. “I don’t dance.”

  All the chuckling and side conversations immediately cease. I don’t know how many people have told Big D what they don’t do, but based on everyone’s reactions I don’t think it’s been many.

  “What do you mean, you don’t dance?”

  “I mean I’ve got two left feet,” Dreya says while looking down at her perfectly done manicure. “Ask my cousin. She knows.”

  Dreya is exaggerating a bit when she says she has two left feet. She can dance, but she has a problem with choreography. When we were in the group, Bethany would make up dance steps and Dreya could never remember them. So when we got on stage, she would just do whatever she wanted to do, which pretty much consisted of gyrating her hips and popping her booty.

  Big D says, “You need to get over here and try this. I told Epsilon Records you were the total package, so don’t mess this up.”

  “You said they thought I was the next Keyshia Cole. She doesn’t dance,” Dreya fusses.

  “Think about who else they have on their label,” Sam says. “You’ve got to keep up with Mystique, and she does it all.”

  Dreya stubbornly taps her chin with her long black fingernail. “Truth, baby, what do you think?” she asks.

  “I don’t dance either,” he chuckles. “But I’m trying out a few moves. Maybe you don’t have to do everything the dancers are doing.”

  I swallow a giggle. It’s without question that she’s not doing what these dancers can do. They’re doing splits and leg stretches while we’re deciding, and clearly they have some kind of training.

  Big D presses a button and the music comes back on. The dancers start again, and Big D gives Dreya the signal to come over and start dancing. Sam and I sit down on the love seat to watch the show. I’m 100 percent sure it’s going to be entertaining.

  Dreya stumbles around for a few minutes, trying to get into the rhythm of the dance steps. It’s pretty simple and repetitive choreography, but there’s a lot of jumps and kicks.

  “Do you think she’ll get it?” I whisper to Sam.

  “I don’t think Big D really wants her to get the choreography. She’s going to be singing the hook.”

  Now I’m confused. “So why does he have her doing this?”

  “To humble her, I think. She’s getting a big head way too soon.”

  I cover my mouth with one hand and smother my giggle. Big D’s reason for making Dreya dance is making her pathetic moves even funnier.

  Big D presses pause on his remote control again. “All right, Drama,” he says. “I want you to belt out that hook while you’re dancing.”

  “What?” Dreya shrieks. “Why do I have to sing? Truth is lip-synching.”

  “That’s because I need him to save his voice. He’s got a show tonight.”

  “He does? I’m not going?” Dreya asks.

  “This is an underground thing,” Truth explains. “Not doing radio-friendly tracks. What I’m performing tonight is pretty grimy.”

  “Well, I still want to go,” she pouts.

  Big D shakes his head. “Nah. I want your mother to be on board with everything we’re doing with the tour. I need you to act like Sunday for the next few weeks. Go home early, no drinking, no wifey. And you could try doing some homework.”

  “Homework?” Dreya asks. “I haven’t been to school in weeks.”

  “Well, you need to get yourself reenrolled. Epsilon Records is not thinking about signing a high school dropout.”

  “But my image is edgy,” Dreya counters.

  “You can be edgy with your hair and clothes. Having no high school diploma makes you a bad influence, and then guess what happens?”

  “What?”

  “Parents don’t buy your record for their kids. School for you, ma.”

  Big D’s broken it down so it could forever be broke! Dreya looks so twisted right now that it almost makes me feel sorry for her. She’s got this image of what a celebrity should be, and Big D keeps bursting her bubble.

  Sam hooks his arm through mine and pulls me up from the love seat. “Big D, me and Sunday are going down to the lab. I’ve got a track I want her to hear. You need us for anything?”

  Big D grins at Sam. “Nah, dog. Get your game on.”

  Sam’s blush reveals that he wants to do more in the lab than listen to some hot tracks. He’s not slick at all.

  The tiny room seems even smaller with Big D’s remarks making the both of us tense. I take a seat on the piano bench while Sam turns on the keyboard and boots up his Mac.

  “So when did I become your girl?” I ask.

  Sam looks perplexed, kind of like a kid who bites into an onion thinking it’s an apple. “What are you talking about? When did I say that?”

  “Back at that boutique with Dreya. You said you didn’t want your girl to carry her bags.”

  “Oh!” Sam says. “I didn’t mean my girl like that. I meant like my homegirl, you know?”

  “Oh…”

  “Unless you wanted me to mean it that way.”

  I roll my eyes, I guess because I’m irritated and embarrassed. I thought that was just a slip when he called me his girl, and that he was thinking out loud about how he really felt. I guess I read the signs all wrong.

  “I wanted you to mean what you meant. It’s cool. You’re my boy. Let’s hear this track.”

  Sam pauses as if he wants to say something more, but clicks a few folders open on his Mac until the music file opens. The music fills the tiny room and practically bombards my ears with the strong bass line and syncopated drums. The mid-tempo tune makes you want to bob your head and chill at the same time.

  “That sounds like a Mystique track.”

  Sam beams. “I’m so glad you said that! I want us to write a song for Mystique that we can give her when we me
et her in New York City.”

  “Do you think we could write something that she’d want? She’s big-time, Sam.”

  “Sunday, you write better than a lot of these songwriters out here. They write bubblegum stuff and your songs are soulful and deep.”

  With all these compliments, I can’t help but smile. “Well, if we do this for Mystique, I wanna take my time on it.”

  “That’s what’s up.”

  “It’s gonna be hot, though, I can feel it.”

  “It is. I know we can do this.”

  “We can totally do this.”

  “Sunday…”

  “Yeah?”

  “So when I said you were my girl earlier, I did mean it. I didn’t just mean my homegirl.”

  I smile. “I knew you meant it.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know if I’m ready to be somebody’s girl.”

  “’Cause I’m not a pretty boy like your ex?”

  “What? No! That has nothing to do with it!”

  “Oh. So what, then? Why aren’t you trying to be my girl?”

  I run my hands over the keys on Sam’s keyboard. “When am I having my first piano lesson?”

  “You changing the subject?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Sam sits next to me on the bench and strikes a key. “That’s middle C.”

  I strike the key. “Middle C.”

  “Here’s a very easy scale.”

  Sam’s fingers fly quickly over the keys as he plays the eight notes of the scale. I try to pretend that his face isn’t looking twisted as he does it.

  “Sam…”

  He looks at me, but doesn’t open his mouth to say a word.

  I continue. “I’ve got too much going on right now for a boyfriend, I think. But I do like you.”

  He nods and runs through another scale. “Now you try.”

  Sam takes my hand and places it on the keys. I try to imitate what he just did, and I almost do it perfectly, except for the last couple of notes.

  “Good, Sunday.”

  “You’re changing the subject?” I ask.

  “Yes, I am. Let’s just do the piano thing, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  16

  It’s been two weeks since Dreya started going to school again, and a little over two weeks away from the Truth and Drama promotional tour. I think class is getting on Dreya’s nerves, although she won’t say it out loud. She’s sitting at our dining room table struggling through her algebra II math homework.