Grown(16)

Korey leans against the wall by the various instruments—guitars, congas, drum set—face glowing, eyes following my every step. Not watching me like a kid about to break something, but more cherishing the moment as well.

“I built this after my third album went triple platinum,” Korey says, hinting at the plaques on the wall. “I wanted a place where I could create and not be on anyone’s time. A place to just . . . be myself.”

There’s a sadness in his eyes, something left unsaid between his words.

“Must be nice, so much room to . . . breathe.”

He nods then tickles his keyboard, the notes ringing out of the overhead speakers.

“You know how to play?”

“Not enough to say I really can,” I laugh. “I’ve always wanted to play that duet that everybody does. You know that ‘Dun dun DUN DUN dun dun . . .’”

He laughs. “‘Heart and Soul’? Come here. I’ll teach you. It ain’t as complicated as it looks.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re the musical genius.”

“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.”