ZAMIRA
Choreographers. Dancers. Back-up singers. Musicians. Six months ago, the four tribes lived in harmony, rehearsing for Trans(essence)'s The Eternal Fantasies World Tour. On the final day of practice, their dynamics changed. Succumbing to the spirit of buffoonery, they embraced the idea of a post-rehearsal jam session. Vibrant as an Ernie Barnes painting, the crew's euphoric energy swelled through the dance studio—until one solitary note slipped from my mouth. All necks swung in my direction as if I uttered a magical spell.
They're currently gawking at me now. If we were in the 1600s, they'd tug me out of the building by my ponytail and burn me at the nearest stake. Though no one touches me, my skin crawls with the intensity of their gazes.
"Bitch! Not you pulling a Hannah Montana!" Monty, my assistant choreographer, hollers, snapping his fingers with sass. With a disbelieving wag of his head, he flaunts his stylish yet retro parted flat top. "Why you didn't tell us you could sang, Miss Thing!"
"She's Black and from New Orleans; all of them can sing," Yaya quipped. Though the blue-haired, brown-skinned Barbie is unapologetically hood and slightly problematic, she's one of my favorite dancers. We may not be besties yet, but the 5'1" assassin will ride for me—no matter how high these gas prices get.
"What are y'all staring at?" I giggle, sleeking my edges with my fingers. "That was a lucky note. I'm not a singer."
Flori, my forever bestie and (Trans)essence's guitarist, coughs viciously into her fist. A muffled "Bullshit" emits through her feigned hacking fit. I fix her with a scowl, my eyes narrowing. Of course, she's throwing me under the bus. The exposure of my vocal talent influences her "You need to start a music career" narrative.
"No, baby, we must hear you sing. That didn't sound like a fluke to me." Monty's gaze sweeps my invested spectators. They're engaged in murmurs, acting as if I'm the second coming of Whitney Houston. "Did that sound like a fluke to y'all?" Monty asks them.
The general consensus is an assertive "Hell no!"
"Y'all are doing way too much," I disregard, shooing them with a wrist flick.
A melodic voice, laced with a distinct Inglewood accent, speaks up. "Hey guys, leave her alone," Eve interjects. She flips her long, black jumbo braids that cascade past her waist. "The girl already made it clear that she can't sing."
"Well..." I drawl, infusing a touch of honeyed funk into my tone. "I didn't say I couldn't sing, love. I only said I'm not a singer."
"Singers can sing. Non-singers cannot." Eve possesses the art of nice-nastiness in her vocal folds. With every syllable she utters, there's a mean-girl edge, as if her brain halted its development in eleventh grade. She never fails to lace her comments with a drizzle of bitchiness, especially when addressing me. After her cattish remarks, she lets out a "hee hee" giggle as if it somehow lessens the venom she spews. I wonder if she'll still be giggling after I grab her bungee cord braids and moonwalk her tiny ass across the studio, paying homage to the memory of Michael Jackson.
Whoa, Zamira, girl, cool out. That's not you—not anymore. You're a strong, spiritual, and kind Black woman now. Society wants you to be a violent time bomb. Instead of fighting your fellow Black sister, embrace and uplift her.
"I meant no shade, Zami," Eve says, surrendering her palms. "I'm only saving you from embarrassing yourself."
"Oh, darling, I assure you, I would never subject myself to embarrassment," I declare. My dirty, New Orleans Creole accent transforms into one of a deep Southern pageant queen. Flori calls it my "graceful, about to fuck a bitch up" voice.
"Good, because I'd hate for you to hit the wrong note in front of real vocalists." Eve's lips curve into a malicious smirk. Though she appears ethereal with her dainty frame, endearing dimples, and delicate "Blasian" princess facial features, she has a rotten slab of coal as a heart. Okay, I'm being dramatic. I don't know her like that...
...but she got me fucked up today! In fact, she has had me fucked up since day one. You see, I'm the top choreographer of the tour, while Eve is considered the "lead" singer of the backup vocalists. Dancers and singers are like the "cousins" of the touring crew, always near each other and communicating. Any tension between Eve and me would disrupt the chemistry and turn this year-long worldwide adventure into an earthly hellfire. That's why I've been maintaining a cordial and friendly attitude towards her, out of respect and for the security of my job.
Luckily, Jazz Amore, the tour's opening act, is my homegirl. Even luckier, Eve is tight with Jazz and the mother of Jazz's nephew. Somehow, Eve bagged a guy as humorous and laidback as Raz, who is half of (Trans)essence, and they have an adorable son together. Although they are no longer a couple, it would be foolish to think Eve would lose her position before me.
As a member of the alphabet community, working with (Trans)essence, consisting of Raziel "Raz" Amador and Soul Valentine, is a dream manifested. Living as proud transgender men and LGBTQIA+ advocates, the duo are visionaries in the music industry, enhancing the versatile genre of R&B. While we've diligently honed our execution for the Eternal Fantasies World Tour, the unparalleled production still astonishes me and fuels my creativity. The tour may be remembered as one of the greatest of all time. I refuse to allow Eve to rob me of being attached to groundbreaking greatness. However, I am about to teach her a valuable lesson.
As I trade faux smiles with Eve, I refrain from requesting her to stop whispering as if she has stage fright whenever she sings. Instead, I shrug and say, "You know what? I'll give everyone a little tweedle since y'all liked what y'all heard."
"Oop, period," Flori cosigns, cutting her neck with her hand.
"All right now, but don't tease us," Monty warns. "I'm not trying to hear a cover of '1,2 Step,' no shadé. Show us all that vocal might we heard rumbling in those cords." Eve presses her tongue to her cheek, probably tasting nothing but sourness.
Laughing, I nod at his request. "Okay, I'll do 'Nobody's Supposed to Be Here' by Deborah Cox."
The challenge level of the belting love song rouses the anticipation to new heights. Amongst the ecstatic chatter, I employ Eve and the other vocalists to provide backup as they see fit. Everyone gives me an affirmative answer except Eve. I bet she's devising a plan to recount our testy interaction to Jazz, complete with her own spin on the narrative. No matter the details, Jazz will pledge allegiance to her nephew's mother and lecture me for my "intimidating attitude."
My "attitude" is only petrifying to people who pretend they are tough but fold when a real domineering bitch steps toward them. No one else on the crew has had a problem with me. Shit, my dancers might be a little too comfortable with me with how they expose me to all their sex escapades and roommate dramas. If Jazz wishes to give anyone advice, it should be Eve on "How to Abstain from Bitchhood." Then again, Jazz may not be the best lecturer in the course since she sometimes struggles with the same affliction.
Flori does the honors of finding an instrumental on YouTube. Everyone's eyesight burns into me, thriving in the tension and the messiness unfolding. In all my 5'4" glory, I stand tall, facing the mirrored walls, swaying as the melody swarms the studio. Usually, I choose a modest approach, singing softly at first and then gradually escalating my volume as folks adjust to my voice's richness. Today, I immediately swing with an unshakable force like Barry Bonds in his prime.
I ignore the astounded shouts of "Biittchh!" and allow the melody to take over. As I do justice to Deborah Cox's anthem, I add my unique style, becoming freer with each lyric. In the corner of my eye, I catch Eve singing through tight lips while the other singers wear enthralled smiles. Eat it, bitch. I could take your job if I wished.
The record approaches the bridge and reaches new heights. My emotions uplift with my voice as the lyrics bombard me with pellets of longing. A healthy, unshakable love has been on my wishlist since the beginning of time. My unfulfilled desire rings clear through my ferocious, crisp vibratos. Eyes closed, I'm wrapped in the spirits of heartache and hope—until my eardrums sense an itty bitty kitty purring beside me. My eyelids flutter open so I can hit Eve with a nasty side-eye.
Uh, uh, baby doll, this is not a duet! Who the hell do you think you are? The Blasian Rosa Parks? You better step your ass back to the back of the bus...
My inner diva claims her territory, stepping towards Eve as I showcase how easy it is to manipulate my divine gift. Veins aren't popping from my neck. My throat isn't growing dry from screaming. My tone remains stable, pure, and majestic. These statements cannot be said for Eve Alexis Bramwell, who may have to hang up her microphone after this demolishment. If we were battling on The Voice, she'd get nary a vote. Actually, they'd stop the battle short and save the girl from utter humiliation.
"Oooo, girl, she's eating you up! You better get her!" one of the dancers shouts to Eve.
With the pressure on, Eve has two choices: give up or take a shameful L. Mid-note, her concentrated face falters as she produces an artificial laugh. She bends forward slightly and waves her hand as if to tell me I've won. That's what I thought.
As the song concludes, my dancers engulf me in a triumphant embrace, celebrating as if I had just won a prestigious singing competition. "That girl almost had an aneurysm trying to keep up with you," Yaya yells, her Tennessee accent thicker than usual.
"Girl, shhh," I warn, placing a finger on my tucked grin. I proved my point. No need to rub it in Eve's face. I bet she won't try me again.
After the crowd thins out, Eve's gaze connects with mine, and her smile softens, revealing a newfound determination. "I'm going to get you next time, Zami. Be ready." Just as I'm about to respond, a little sweetheart rushes towards her, his laughter echoing as he embraces his mommy's legs. Rio's sheer cuteness almost makes me feel remorseful for not liking his momma. "Oh, there you are, baby boy." She focuses on his short, kinky curls, fixing them from their unruly nature. "What'd I tell you about desserts before dinner?" she asks his red popsicle-stained face.
In Rio's second language, he replies with a mention of his "papi." As Eve expresses her disapproval with a roll of her eyes, Raz strolls toward her, his athletic 6'2" frame accompanied by a charming, playful grin. His rough and raspy voice resonates with a mellow clarity. Whatever he says to Eve is hilarious, but his baby mama's face remains stoic.
As they review Rio's day, I disengage from their conversation and head over to my duffle bag. As I get my things in order, Flori approaches and invites me over for dinner. Niko, her girlfriend, is a master at cooking Southern delicacies, and though I have a taste for some fried pork chops, I decline. I don't have the energy to saturate in their adorable, sapphic affection tonight. With no hard feelings, Flori hugs me goodbye and reminds me I "cleared the hell out of Eve." After I promise to text her when I arrive at my apartment, she leaves. As she exits, I spot Rio saying goodbye to his dad.
"I'll call you before you go to bed, mi bebé chulo," Raz coos as he bends to Rio's eye level. "You had fun with papi today?" Rio's bottom lip juts out as he nods. "Then no tears, gimme kiss." The four-year-old quickly kisses his father and giggles as Raz surprises him with tickles. Witnessing their interaction coaxes a smile from me. Raz spat that little boy out, almost as if he had created Rio on his lonesome.
Leaving hand-in-hand with his mom, Rio blabbers about his demands for dinner. I find myself laughing at him as I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder. I need to get out of here. Everyone's heading out, and I hate walking through NYC alone at night.
Once I have myself together, a throat clears. Turning, I spot Raz, a goofy yet attractive grin growing as I focus on him. He crosses his arms, standing in his wide stance. I roll my eyes playfully and analyze his outfit: a colorful, vintage New York Knicks windbreaker, black straight-fit jeans, and his "butters" (or whatever New York niggas call the OG Timberlands).
"Um, hello. Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask, squinting. I survey the room as if we're not alone.
He cocks his head, mirroring my quizzical squint. "Why didn't you tell me you could sing, mami?" Now, Raz calls every woman between the ages of 25 and 35 "mami." I've learned it's not always a sexual term, but it consistently sounds erotic in Raz's smooth Brooklyn accent.
"Oh, you heard that?" I ask with a sly smile.
"Hell yeah. I heard you give my baby mama a run for her money. I told her ass she was fired."
My laughter starts with a snort. I cover my mouth to muffle how tickled I am. Raz's voice carries an enchanting cadence, rising and falling in mesmerizing waves. When he's being silly, his pitch increases and his chiseled features take on a graceful animation. "Boy, stop. Is that why she looked so irritated with you?"
"Oh, so you were in our conversation?"
"I don't know Spanish, so not really."
"You know Spanish, mami."
"Not fluently. I read it better than listening to it or speaking it."
Raz smacks his pinkish lips with a "Psshh." I've never been one of those people obsessed with height differences. However, as he tilts his head to meet my sportful gaze, his robust, broad shoulders emanate power and protection; a new desire gets added to my "Partner Manifestation" list. The man's a natural, walking heartthrob, and so is Soul. Once we start performing for their adoring fans, I'll probably stumble over a sea of underwear in every country.
"Anyway, what do you want? I'm about to go," I say.
"To be honest, I want to sign you to Heartstring Records," he replies. I chuckle at him, attempting to calm my escalating heart rate. Raz's divinely freckled skin takes on a more serious expression, causing his gentle smile to fade. "I'm deadass. If you want to take your music seriously, I got you."
The birth of Heartstrings Records began five years ago, once Trans(essence) transitioned to independent artists. The label has nurtured and launched the careers of Jazz Amore and other talented artists. It'd be a dream to be added to their heavy-hitting roster. Butterflies flutter within my ribcage at the thought of his informal yet genuine offer. All those songs I've produced on my laptop could have a purpose other than sitting on my hard drive or getting gifted to Jazz. My "Zombie Mafia" fanbase that I created and entertained in my imagination could come to life. I've made a name for myself from choreographing and dancing for superstars, but what if I was the superstar—a fully loaded threat?
"What do you say? I can talk over with Soul, and we'll get you signed," Raz offers, a twinkle in his brown eyes.
"I appreciate the offer, Raz," I say, patting his bicep. "But choreography is my calling, and I love the direction my career's heading." Although I've always fantasized about taking control of a stage and receiving adoration like Raz, the downsides of achieving global fame outweigh the benefits. Having cameras thrust in my face and my privacy splashed across headlines is something I'm not built for. Some dreams are destined to stay as sweet fantasies, forever untouched by the breath of reality.
Raz rubs his palms, nodding as he accepts my answer. "Well, if you change your mind, all you gotta do is ask. I'll get you signed in a heartbeat." The earnestness in his russet-colored eyes cajoles my cheekbones to rise.
"Damn, I really sounded that good?" I giggle.
He strokes the groomed hair on the sides of his mustache. "Shit, even Rio thought you were an angel."
My voice rises to a high, girly pitch. "Awww, he did? He's so cute!"
"He gets it from me."
"You're corny for saying that, but y'all are twins, so it's somewhat true."
As he chuckles, his attention flickers to my duffle bag. "I know you said you're about to go, but are you hungry?"
The answer's automatic and bordering on rude as hell. "No."
"Damn...you really don't fuck with me outside of rehearsals, huh?" Although he's smiling, a hint of irony rests in it. "What's up with that?"
"With what?"
"I feel like we've constantly clicked since we started prepping for the tour. Despite having a few mutual friends, we've never taken the time to cultivate a deeper bond between us." He shrugs, palm rubbing the back of his tapered fade. "I'd love to learn more about you, Mir." His eye contact, both gentle and intense, reveals a vulnerable sincerity in his words. "If you want to keep things professional, that's cool, but I just wanted you to know I'm...interested in you."
Oh, he's coming at me like a grown man. This straightforwardness is a phenomenon I've never encountered, regardless of gender. "Interested?"
"I might be catchin' a little vibe, na' mean, a little crush or whatnot," he admits, his smile slowly sweetening.
Despite my lips naturally replicating his, cautionary alarms blare inside my brain.
Code: Stop it right there, bitch. This nigga is an R&B singer.
Code: Stop it right there, bitch. This nigga is an R&B singer.
Code: Stop it right there, bitch. This nigga is an R&B singer.
"Ummm..." I say. When I began rehearsing for the tour, I had no expectations to develop a crush on Raz. I've always thought he was absolutely gorgeous. Precisely groomed mustache and chin facial hair. 180-degree hairline with coils long enough to twirl your fingers in. Lean, but not skinny. Muscular, but not a walking brick of protein. Charming and confident but not overly cocky. Though his brown skin is on the lighter side, he doesn't have the typical fuckboy, tatted light skin qualities. Everything has always been physically stellar, but his personality has grown on me over time, matching his handsomeness.
At the same time, I don't know him. I've dated guys who presented themselves as golden eggs, only to turn rotten when I let down my guard.
"You can tell me if you're not into me. It's cool," Raz says with a soft chuckle. "I'm not gonna cry or anything. I'll be a little dejected, though, 'cause I deadass want to dive deeper into who Zamira McBride is."
I kiss my teeth, glancing to the side as warmth creeps up my cheeks. "What about Jazz?"
"What about her?"
"She's your sister and my best friend. You don't think that'd be messy?"
"Nah. I'm not worried about my little sister. If she takes issue, then I'll solve it."
"Well," I say, giggling at his directness. The heat in the room becomes more noticeable as his passionate gaze bores into me.
"Same shit with Eve," he adds. "Don't worry about anyone else, just you and me. I apologize if I'm being direct, but I'll be thirty soon, so I'm taking my shot at every promising opportunity."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot you're old."
He snickers and then licks his luscious lips. "I'm older, wiser, better than any other nigga you've given a chance to. I can promise you that."
"Hmm...you're making a convincing case for yourself, don Raziel." "Don" means "sir" in Spanish. Since Raz is always so mannerly and appealing, he's adopted the endearing nickname from me. Every time he hears it, he lights up and shows off his stunning teeth. I serve him my thinking face, wrinkling my nose. "I might give you a chance. But before I do, I must warn you...I'm hard work."
"I graduated from Princeton summa cum laude. Ain't nothing hard for your boy." He and Soul are so down to earth that I forget they're lowkey geniuses. While I knew he went to a distinguished university, I had no idea he finished at the tip-top of his class. Now, that's sexy.
"Okay, smart guy. But, if I let you shoot your shot, you better come with Michael Jordan-level offense because I'm coming with the Kawhi Leonard defense."
"Oh, it's like that?"
"I'm gonna full-court press your ass."
"Bring it on." He carefully removes my duffle bag from my shoulder and transfers it to his. "So, you're gonna let me romance you."
"Depends on this dinner. It better be good."
"It will be. I'm cooking." I tilt my ear towards him, beckoning him to repeat his bold statement. He does that howl he does when something's humorous to him. It never fails to make me laugh. "I know my sister can't cook for shit, but I can. Trust me."
Trust is a strong word that I typically have a hard time applying to men, but something about Raz sets him apart. Unlike the past dudes I dated, he seems cultured and honest, too put-together to be a heartbreaking disguise.
So, I link my arm with him and inhale the alluring notes of his cologne. "You better put Gordon Ramsay to shame," I caution. "I don't play about my food."
"We already got something in common."
His mischievous wink sends a jolt through me, making my feet lose coordination and stumble. Bitch, no! Get your ass back on defense!
***
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Thank you for reading.
- Taylen (he/him)