***
No more drama in yo' life
Work real hard to make a dime
***
March 16, '01
Yana
"You're not coming?," I whined on the phone, not in the least ashamed of my infantile tone. "You said you'd be here."
"I know, I'm sorry, but I'm workin' on a lot of stuff today," Michael drew out, sighing. I heard the blinker of his car going, wondering what "workin' on a lot of stuff" meant.
"What are you working on? What stuff?," I interrogated him.
"Music stuff," he answered.
"Why are you being weird?"
"I'm not, you bein' weird."
"No, I just want to know what's more important than my birthday. That you promised to spend with me."
He gave a little chuckle before answering me. "Yo, you a big baby. Look, I got too much shit to take care of today, but I promise you gon' enjoy today without me."
"You can't just buy things and think that's gonna make me happy," I told him, although highly interested in what he might've gotten me this time. "And shouldn't you be saving money?"
"Don't worry 'bout it. Like I said, I been rich, Yana. It's just old money," he replied smoothly, feelin' his damn self as usual.
That's my baby, though.
I looked over my shoulder to the open door of my room, hearing my mother inviting a man inside our home. She called my name, urging me out of my room to meet her Prince Charming, James Green, for the first time. He's all she's been talking about lately. Honestly, if he made her this happy and kept her off my back, I could only be happy for the two of them.
"Ok, Mr. Hood Rich, I gotta go," I told Michael.
He answered, "Aight... aye, call me tonight, though."
"No, you call me."
"For real, Yana. You didn't call me last time and you said you would. You promised, Miss Jackson," he fake-whined, imitating my tone earlier and calling me by his new name for me.
Supposedly, it was his way of speaking things into existence.
"Good-bye," I scoffed, hanging up on him before making my way to the living room.
"Oh, there she is," Mama called out at the sight of me to the tall and handsome man beside her. He didn't look like our dad. For some reason, I'd expected that to be the reason why she liked him so much.
Stepping between him and I, she introduced us merrily. "Aiyana, I want you to meet Bishop James Green. Bishop, this is my eldest daughter, Aiyana and it's also her 20th birthday today, amen."
James chuckled and shook my hands, saying, "Now, I'm no bishop yet, Shanice, but it's nice to meet you, Aiyana. And happy birthday, dear."
I thanked him and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Green. We've been hearing a lot about lately."
My mother slapped my arm, playing cute and shy, while James laughed. "Good things only, I hope. And please, do call me James."
"Well, I decided to recreate a brunch," my mother announced, leading us to the table, that had been set and decorated with food. "Remember that brunch we had, James? I did it just like them."
They started telling us, meaning Maji, Jalen, and me, about their brunch and all the ditzy things my mother did, but all I could think of was how we were all sitting down, together, to eat a meal my mom had cooked for the first time in years. When my dad died, my mother lost a hold of herself before she resorted to religion, needing structure and guidance in her life, although I think she just needed therapy.
But she'd left my then 16-year-old self to take care of us, all the while bashing the choices I made in my life. Now, it's not like I hold any grudges against her, since I knew she was dealing with the loss of her husband and still isn't in her right mind, but I just can't find myself to respect her like I used to. She abandoned us when we needed her the most and that was something she'd have to answer to one day.
"Aiyana!," Jalen yelled out, grabbing my attention and pulling me out of my head.
"What?"
"James said he saw you on Oprah the other day," my mother said. "He said your little boyfriend is a smart man and everyone's talking about it. I said that, didn't I? Michael is a name for smart men, good Christian men."
James nodded with a smile and said to her, "Yes, of course. Good Christians, of course."
To me, he asked, "He must be very fond of you, Aiyana. That shout out of his, it was ver--"
"Mm! Yes, when he said he was gonna marry this girl? I jumped up, yelling Hallelujah! I'm sorry, Aiyana, but I didn't think you'd ever find a husband," my mother exclaimed, cutting a slightly piqued James, off.
He coughed up a dry "heh-heh", saying, "Yes, we do get it, Shanice."
Maji, catching his attitude, piped up from her side of the table. "Um, is there a problem, James?"
He looked at her for a minute, as if he were assessing her, before he lifted his hands up, feigning surrender. "I hope there isn't, Maji. I'm just tryna speak on somethin' and I'm sure you mother understands."
We all, except for Jalen (who was comfortably finishing off the bacon), looked to my mother, waiting for her response.
Having enough sense to notice the obvious tension in the room, she waved the situation off, adding, "Oh, ignore her, James. Maji's just a little mean sometimes. Continue what you were saying."
Smiling at Maji's stank face, James did just that. "As I was saying, your boyfriend must really like you if he called you out on national television like that. Men don't claim women so publicly these days, do they?"
"I guess not," I shrugged. What did he care? "I mean, he does like me, but I guess he's not like most of the men these days."
"No?" There was a slight amusement in his voice, like he knew something I didn't. "So, why isn't he here right now?"
"Oooh, got 'em," Maji laughed out loud.
Cocking my head at him, I looked at his mocking expression; something was just mean about it. "He's busy," I shot back at him and added, just to put him in his place, "His work is very important, Bishop. I mean, no, not Bishop. Not yet, right? "
"Really? What does he do? What is he doing today?," he questioned, ignoring my jab at him.
But before I could answer him, our front door buzzer rang and a commotion could be heard happening outside, from our open windows facing the street. I went to our intercom, asking who it was.
A man spoke from the other side, monotonously stating, "I've got a Mercedes out here, a customized SLK-class. The title is to an 'Aiyana Walker'. Is there an Aiyana Walker at this address? I was told I would find her here?"
I answered yes and nodded as if he could see me, already knowing this was Michael's surprise. When he'd said he'd get me a car that night at the hotel, I didn't think he'd actually get me a car. But there it was, waiting downstairs for me.
"Did he say a car?," my mom asked from the background.
"Nah, Mama, that nigga said the SLK class Benz," Jalen shouted, jumping up from the table to follow me downstairs.
"Watch your profanity, boy," my mother chided as he walked out the door with me.
"Customized, Mama!"
We went down the stairs, the two of us, Jalen several steps ahead of me, talking excitedly, like a kid at the candy store. "Yana, always remember I've always been down for you, bro. 'Member that time I gave you that 100 dollar bill? I always had your back, 'member?"
"Yeah, Jalen, I remember," I cooed, laughing at his childish joy over a car he couldn't even drive.
We stepped out to a man in a polo, standing beside the car and hissing at random people who tried touching it, pressing their faces to the tinted windows to see what the inside looked like.
"Hi," I beamed at him. "I'm Aiyana Walker."
"Yeah? Got any ID?," he asked, going to the clipboard in his book.
"Oh, no, I left it upstairs."
"It's right here, Yana," my mother said from behind me, shaking my ID in the air as she approached me.
I took it from her and handed it to the guy, who completed a few forms, asking me to sign here, here, and here. I did so quickly, not bothering to read any of it; knowing Michael, he'd already taken care of all the complicated stuff and left me with the meaningless paperwork.
The guy handed me my title, my insurance, my keys and told me a few things about how the car worked as he handed me the manual to it.
"The top comes down on this car when you press this here, but if your cylinders ever leak, and, honestly, it will one day, you have to turn the key off, open the trunk "grocery style", open the emergency relief valve, and release--"
"I think I'll just ask my boyfriend about that," I cut him off. I was getting a headache from his explanation, but excited to hear about the top coming down.
I pressed the button he told me to press at the dash and watched in awe as the roof folded back below itself to reveal a bunch of gifted items in my diamond white convertible, with it's chrome grille and glossy black accents. It was so girly, like the kind of cars the white women drive in the chick flicks and Sex and the City.
Inside, the two-seater was upholstered with black leather and red stitching and the trim was a black laquer, like the glossy black laquer on a grand piano.
But on the seats and floor of the car was a variety of fabric rolls, boxes of various jewelry designers and handbags, orchid arrangements and a handwritten note sitting on the dash. It was horribly written, like the kind of handwriting you'd expect from someone who was dying and had to get one last word out.
I read the card a few times over, cheesing at his words, the sarcasm, the crossed out "shit" and the whole over-the-top girliness of it all, with the Hello Kitty stickers and extra pink, just for me.
I was damn near heartbroken he couldn't be here, but beyond grateful for having Michael in my life. He was right, though; I understood 100% why he couldn't be here, because like he'd said, a lot has been going on with our lives since the Oprah interview.
After meeting her, I learned I probably didn't like Oprah as much as I thought I did after I'd seen the way she tried to play him on TV. With that being said, Michael answered all quick and witty, so he made a really good impression on all of her viewers, which was a lot of people, from all backgrounds. Ever since then, Michael's has been working around the clock doing stuff to start his record label.
On my end, I'd received some e-mails and phone calls from richer people who wanted the "MJ coat". I wasn't sure how they'd gotten my number or my emails, but I also wasn't complaining.
I remembered what Michael had told me about pushing my humility aside to grow, so I took 5 orders, 50,000 dollars for each. I made the clients pay for the gems they chose for their coats and pulled an even 250 grand.
I took $50,000 and paid all 5 people who glued the precious stones to the coats in my design, even though I'd learned to do it myself by the 3rd jacket, so they only actually did the first 2. Still, they'd worked hard and I was in a giving spirit.
I told Michael about the money I'd made, which he'd praised me for, happy to hear that I was making money doing what I did best. After I told him how I'd have to go to the bank and put it into an account, he'd stopped me, saying I'd get flagged by the IRS if I opened an account and just deposited 250k into it, so I ended up giving it to him. He had multiple accounts open with a private bank and would hold my money for me until whenever I needed it.
Since I'd made more than I'd ever made in a year, I quit all my little jobs and decided to focus solely on my craft, which I'd perfect in school. With a few strings pulled her and there, and the newfound respect for me at my college, I moved out of night school and into regular morning and afternoon courses.
On top of all this, I finally had the financial security I needed to really start planning out my career. I knew I wanted to have my own company one day and join the greats that came before me, but as I studied their paths, I found out that you never start at the top. If I was gonna be big, then I was gonna have to start from the bottom.
I collected a large bulk of my design in sketches and made prints of them, placing them into a portfolio, along with a picture of Michael's coat and that of the 5 others I'd made after his. For the pieces that I'd actually sewed in my room over the years, I got Gigi, Ray, and a bunch of girls from my building to model my clothing at Central Park, where the lighting was good enough so I didn't need to hire a photographer.
I added the pictures into my portfolio, had my mom pray over them, and sent them out to various houses of fashion by hand at their NYC headquarters, including Moschino, Versace, and Gucci.
Michael said I'd regret sending my work to "the white sharks" and warned me about how they'd steal my work, but I shut him down, knowing one of them would like my work enough to call me in. All I needed to do now was wait.
"He got 'chu the good grills and wheels, LED lights lined up under the legroom and door sills and shit, plus you got the sports wheel. You could race wit this whip, bro," Jalen cried out, listing car features I'd never heard of before.
"And you got the dashtop analog clock. It don't get more Benzy than this."
"Okay Jalen, I'll get you one when you graduate," I promised him, tired of hearing him talk.
"Hell no! This a girl car. I'm just sayin', you got a nice car. You need to get me a Lambo. Or a Hummer. Some' like that."
"Sure... Anything you want. Now, help me take all this stuff to my room."
***
I put my phone down, having finished a quick talk with Michael, thanking him for the gifts and telling him about my day, including Mama's new man, who he was hoping would keep her happy forever cuz he didn't need "no crazy mother-in-law problems."
He was joking, I think.
I heard the door to my room open and saw Maji stroll into my room, plopping herself right at the end of my bed.
Confused, I asked her, "You don't knock?"
"Nope."
I sighed. She wasn't going to ruin my day. "Why are you here?"
She mused to herself for a moment, before saying, "I'm sorry for the way I been actin' lately. It's O.D. disrespectful and you deserve better since you do all the shit I can't do for myself, for me. And don't nobody pay you to do it."
Shocked, at a loss for words, and still very shocked, I faced her with a questioning look. "Is this some kind of prank or...?"
She kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes to the sky. "I can do nice things every now and then, Yana."
"Well..."
"Bro, stop. I'm apologizing. Maybe someone made me see how much I don't appreciate stuff. Now, I know."
So that's what it was. My last gift.
Michael must've spoken to her when she'd left earlier to spend the day outside, which got her to come back here and apologize. Maybe he paid her. Maybe he promised her something.
Either way, Maji apologizing was an event you couldn't miss. Her pain was palpable; you could swear she was getting her teeth pulled right out her mouth.
"Thank you," I answered sincerely.
The room filled with silence as we sat there, the two of us, thinking of who would say what first. In the end, I did, cuz I had questions.
"I heard you and Cam have been hanging out. How come?"
"Oh, we write songs together. He's like a mentor, just stays teachin' me stuff about writing songs. I'm getting better than him, though."
"Oh word? Lemme see, then."
She got up to get a worndown notebook filled with writing. She opened the book to the later pages and had me read her newer work against her old one, showing me how her pen game had improved throughout the time she'd been working with Cam.
I could see from the dates at the top that she had a lot more writing in the time of her suspension, which told me she'd been spending a lot of time with him then, which was weird because she should've been in community service.
But there was a real joy in her eyes that I couldn't deny, so I didn't pry. I didn't dig into her business. I complimented her work in the way she deserved to be complimented, for once. I encouraged her to pursue her music, on the condition that she stayed in school and pursued it with Michael. I told her to promise me she'd be a smart, strong girl, to not let people change who she was and hurt her. To not spend every chance she got alone with Cam.
And she nodded, saying yes, and she understood, but it really wasn't like that, and I'd see that one day, before we wished each other a good night.
And I thought to myself if I'd said enough. I wondered if I'd told her enough. I wondered if I should've banned her from spending time with him. I wondered a lot of things before I fell asleep, with prayers for my little sister in mind.
Would any of it be enough?
***
March 16, '01
Twiggy
"Yeah, so we paid the 1 million in cash they asked for upfront and now, they'll just need a 750k plus interest every month, for a year. But since your 60 days are almost done, I spoke to them about the option to pay off the property of Hotel Theresa, and they said if you do within the next two months, you can get it for 5 instead of 9," a new lawyer of mine, who worked alongside my accountant, told me.
The day after my interview, I'd asked my accountant, Andrew Lawson, about finding a loophole around my 60 day "probation" of sorts, since I'd have to spend money to get a few things started to move along with my label. Life moves fast and you gotta keep up by any means necessary.
He explained the best way to get into the game and find a profitable loophole would be to start by owning property, which I could do by taking any money I'd saved from before (about a good 3 mill) and put an offer for my property of choice, a rundown has-been joint, Hotel Theresa, which I'd turn into my label's HQ and recording studio.
It had once been the "Waldorf of Harlem", but the hype died as Harlem got poor and it fell into the hands of white Jewish and non-Jewish (but still white) landlords who didn't give a fuck about the preservation of black history.
I wanted it back.
For the right price, they were more than happy to sell it to me, and since I'd sent in a beast of a lawyer, Simeon Dichter, to negotiate with them, it was a steady 12 payments away from being mine, with the option to pay it off whenever, at less than I would've paid over the actual 12 months.
Sounded like someone was strapped for cash, but if it ain't me...
This real estate shit seemed boring from the outside, but once you in the club, it starts lookin' like the best segue from whatever you was doin' before. I was really about to own a whole ass building in Harlem that took up half the block in length and rose above all the other buildings.
I hung up with the lawyer and got into my car, getting a call from Yana about her birthday I had to miss, a call from the Mercedes dealership about her address, and a voicemail from Sean, sayin' the auditions were about to start.
Besides trying to acquire Hotel Theresa, I had been organizing auditions to be held in a school auditorium, courtesy of Willis knowing the staff there so well. I bought a few ads in the Harlem papers and posters, announcing New Jack Records was looking for talent in the neighborhood, targeting the churches, the youngins, and the underground 20-something year olds.
I pulled up to the building and found what seemed like half the city in front of the building, including some newsreporters and the police, most likely there to find out why a bunch of people were standing in front of a school building at half past ten in the morning on Friday.
I stepped out the car and made my way to the building before some guy came running to me with a mic in hand, yelling "I'm with ABC". The fuck? My arm jerked before my mind could even think twice about it and slapped it out his hand to the ground.
I kept walking, looking back to see him looking at me with a dumb look on his face, before I shrugged. He would do it, too, if my black ass pulled the same shit.
I stepped into the school building, getting some hellos and praise from some of the people I passed in the line. I dapped some of the kids up, a high five here and there, but the grown niggas and bitches could suck my dick from the back. I ain't forget the shit a group of 'em I didn't know had pulled on Oprah's show. Anyone of these niggas coulda/woulda done it. I'm good.
I made my way to the auditorium, where Sean was waiting for me, playing around with a Rubik's cube. "You that bored?," I asked him, sitting down beside him in the 1st row.
"It was under the seat," he answered. "I used to know how to do all of 'em."
"Coo'. You gon' start bringin' 'em in?"
He sighed, putting the Rubik's down and calling out to the entrance for the first person, who came runnin' in.
"Okay, go to the stage and give your name, age, and do whatchu' gotta do," I stated, giving her the rundown. I signaled to Sean, so he'd tell the rest of the people on the line what to do when they got in.
"I'm Sarah O'Connor, I'm 28 years old, and I rap," she answered.
I looked at her skeptically, because she looked like a Sarah O'Connor, but I gave her the benefit of doubt, remembering Teena Marie could rap circles around a lot of rappers back in her day.
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath.
"Yo, uh, yo, uh, so, so, so, yeah, uh," she ad libbed, for a good 30 seconds.
"Whenever you want," Sean called out to her.
"Yeah, uh, O Boogie up in hea', I get mad frustrated when I rhyme, thinkin' of all them ghouls that try to do this--"
"Nah, we not doin' this," I announced. "You can go."
"But--"
"It was a pleasure to have you," Sean cut in, waving her to the exit. "Next!"
One by one, more people came in without a gram of talent in their body. They didn't even practice some shit at home. Was this all I had to work with?
I know I had kicked rock and country artists out my list, since they were both a dying breed, along with duos, trios, and groups, who were too concentrated in the industry, but it looked like I'd have to consider them if this kept up.
By the 20th person, a skinny, mixed-race woman with a crazy punk aesthetic, blue braids, and over the top makeup, walked to the auditorium.
"Whaddup, I'm Rico Nasty, I'm 24, and I can rap," she announced brashly, with attitude. With her hair, clothes, and demeanor, she was the first person to step in and have a presence.
"Let's hear it," Sean announced. After the 5th person had disappointed me, I'd given up on even talkin' to anyone, so he took over.
She started spitting some shit with an aggressive, raspy, shouting and her flow was even paced. Her lyrics were funny, over-the-top, hyper-violent, sexual, and basically shock rap.
Since she didn't wrap too fast, her punchlines hit when they needed to and her words sunk in at the right time. Personally, I didn't like the yelling, but I knew she was the first person today to make me listen to her.
When she finished, she looked at Sean, who looked over to me. "Whatchu' wanna do?," he asked me. I nodded, looking to her and stating, "Congratulations on being first choice."
"Aye!," she shouted, doin' a lil dance off the stage, coming over to shake our hands. "Y'all really made the right choice, I promise. A bitch came all the way from the Bronx, okay?"
I had her sit with us, so she'd get to see who would be joining her. If I was gonna build a label through a select group of individuals, they were gonna be a team and family.
Now that we'd found our first artist out of the 5 or 6 I planned on starting out with, the hope she'd given us pulled us through the next dozen of jokes before a certain 15 year old came up on stage.
"I'm Christopher Maurice Brown, but everybody calls me Chris. I'm 15 and I can dance and sing better than Usher."
He proceeded to sing and dance to an Usher song, showing us he lied about the singing part, but he really could see Usher on the dance floor anyday. He joined Rico's side, who dapped him up and praised him.
The next person called in was a fresh baby-faced, brown haired, brown eyed Mexican teen. "Oh my God, hi," she gaped. "I saw your interview on TV with my mom."
"We all did," Rico muttered.
Not hearing Rico, she continued, "My name is Heidi Mendez. I just turned 18, and I like to sing, so that's what I'm gonna do today."
She began singing, belting some really big vocals, a rasp present in her voice. She had a hard time changing keys on demand, her voice cracking when she tried, but she was trying her best.
She sounded like a lot of the R&B artists, but if I changed her whole look and demeanor, she could lean towards the bubblegum pop girls.
When she finished, I told her, "We're gonna have to find where you go in the industry, if it's R&B, pop, or a whole new thing just for you."
"So," she drew out, "I'm in?"
"Yeah, come join us down here."
She let out the highest pitched scream, jumping up and down, before she calmed down enough to come down and take a seat.
We went through two more hell-nos when a short, brownskinned girl came in, with black hair down her back and a big smile on her face.
"She's so pretty, oh my God," I heard Heidi whisper to the group behind Sean and I.
"Hey y'all, I'm Jada Imani Turner, or JT, or just Jada. Um, I'm 17 years old, but I got permission from my mom to be here, so it's okay. And I like to sing, I like to dance. That's it."
After her introduction, she gave us a rendition of Britney Spear's "Baby, One More Time", which she danced to as well.
She could sing, obviously a talent she'd been honing since she was young, since she changed her keys much easier than Heidi. Her dancing was good, but she couldn't sing and dance. She'd have to work for that, but of course, she joined us.
An undiscovered producer, Salaam Remi, came along a little while after, playing tracks he'd done, ranging from rap to R&B to a hybrid of R&B and pop. He was joining us within the first 5 minutes.
Finally, Cam had made his way up the line and Maji followed behind him. After Cam joined us with his 22 year old hype man and protégé, "Pretty Flacko", Maji took the stage next and actually surprised me.
She rapped, sang, and even bust a move every now and then. Everything she did was unpolished, but had still managed to get everyone's attention. I thought I didn't know what to do with Heidi, but it was Maji who really had a lot goin' on.
Despite all that, I decided she would be the golden child. I liked the whole group and considered driving the label on Jada and Heidi's backs for the mainstream appeal, but Maji would be my main focus when it came to building the brand.
The wheels in my head started turnin', a whole plan on how to put her out to the public forming in it, before Sean asked me: "Yo, is she in?"
"Yeah, for sure," I confirmed. "Get down here, Maji. I ain't know your mean ass could sing and dance. And rap."
"I been tryna tell you, bozo."
"Welcome to la familia," I extended my hand out to her, pulling her in for a side hug, my arm resting on her shoulder. "Ya know she came up with the name, too?," I told the group, bigging her up.
They praised and congratulated her before she asked, "And what do I get for that?"
I thought for a second and answered, "Publishing."
"Which is?"
I paused and repeated: "Publishing," getting a laugh from Sean, who knew I was messin' wit her.
Maji kissed her teeth before moving towards her label mates, all of them socializing together.
Sean came by my side with a journal full of notes. "So, what's the plan? For Maji?," he asked, his neck jerking slightly.
"She doesn't have a sound yet, but I don't want to just drop an album when she finds her sound; that might take a while. I want everyone to know she can sing, rap, and dance."
"So, what, should I work on getting her a feature with someone?"
"Nah, we'll start the features within the group. She can do singin' features wit Cam, Heidi, Jada, and Chris. Then we could get her features outside the label."
"Ok, what about rapping?"
"Same thing, she can do a feature for Cam and Jada. And I want her on songwriting."
"You want that in the contract?"
"Not as a requirement, but she gets credit and royalties. Make sure you write that. She gets credit, no matter who she wrote for, in or out the label."
Sean scribbled a few more of his notes, nodding and humming in confirmation. "So," he concluded, "Maji gets a flooded rollout, features for rap and singing, and songwriting credits. Am I missin' anything?"
"Yeah, while all that is happening, Salaam and I gon' have to sit wit' her to find her sound and place in the industry so we can get a start on her album while she's doin' features. And I gotta talk wit Yana and her mother about her image and schooling. We can't find her sound or style if she doesn't have a stable image or time."
"Got it," he mumbled, writing what I said down.
I looked back to the group of people who'd represent my label.
I said we'd be a family, no matter how blended and they looked like a bunch of mixed matched socks, without a clue as to what their lives would be like now. But one thing's for sure....
Nothing would ever be the same.
***
***
A/N: THE BOOK HAS BEGUN.
Like, this was a short chapter, informational for the most part, but the story's really getting started now.
I'm about to start adding a lot of strings to the plot and it might look like a lot of stuff is just being thrown in, but I promise you I have an ending for every mess I start. Now they might not all be cuteee but ... 🥴
Also, there might be a 2nd book cuz I'm cutting this one in half and the second books ending is going to be what was originally for this one. The endings are very similar 😗 but you'll see what I mean as we go forward.
Thanks for still sticking around !! ❤️