On the Come Up(90)

Supreme squeezes my shoulders. “You done made it, Li’l Law. This the big time!”

He’s more chill as he tells the receptionist who we are and who we’re here to see. I look around at the plaques. Legendary songs and albums have been recorded at this place. Aunt Pooh would lose her mind if she saw some of these.

It doesn’t feel right, being here without her.

There’s also the fact that I lied to my mom. I texted her and said I was staying after school to do some additional ACT prep. I’ll tell her the truth soon as I go home. Because if this meeting goes like I hope it goes, I’m about to change our lives.

The receptionist leads us to a studio in the back. The whole way, I tug at my hoodie strings and wipe my palms along my jeans. They’re sweaty as hell. My lunch churns in my stomach, too. I don’t know if I wanna puke or run into that studio.

“Be cool,” Supreme says to me under his breath. “Record the song like you’d normally do and everything will be fine, all right? Just follow my lead on the other stuff.”

Other stuff? “What other stuff?”

He simply pats my back with a smile.

The receptionist opens the last door in the hallway, and I swear, I stop breathing. She opened the door to heaven.

Okay, that’s a giant overstatement, but this is the closest I’ve ever been to those pearly gates. It’s a studio. Not a nice setup in somebody’s shed, but an actual, professional studio. There’s a soundboard that has hundreds of buttons, gigantic speakers in the walls, a large window that reveals a recording booth on the other side. Not a mic in a corner, but a real recording booth with a real microphone.

An older white man in a polo shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap meets Supreme at the doorway with a handshake. “Clarence! It’s been a while!”

Clarence? Who the hell is Clarence?

“Hella long, James,” Supreme says.

“Indeed,” says the man who must be James. He turns to me and clasps my hand with both of his. “The superstar! James Irving, CEO of Vine Records. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bri.”

Oh, shit. “I’ve heard of you.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulder, pointing me out to this tatted Latino guy who sits at the soundboard and a white woman with a ponytail. “See? I like this one already. She’s heard of me.”

He chuckles. It’s not until he does that Supreme and the other two laugh as well.

James makes himself comfortable on a leather sofa across the room. “This is my head of A&R, Liz.” He points at the woman, who nods at me. “I gotta tell you, Bri. I’m so glad you agreed to let me see this studio session. So, so glad. You can learn a shit ton about an artist by watching how they work, you know? I’ve seen some goddamn geniuses in my day. Blows me away every fucking time, I swear.”

He talks super fast. It’s almost hard to keep up with him.

Supreme seems to keep up just fine. “Dawg, I’m telling you, you ’bout to witness some dope shit. Phenomenal even.”

I look at him. Why is he talking like that?

“Oh, I believe it. We heard your interview, Bri,” James goes on. “I already loved the song, but that? It sealed the goddamn deal for us, no bullshit. Only thing I like more than good rappers are good rappers who get people talking.”

“Fa’sho,” Supreme says for me. “We knew Hype was gon’ push shorty’s buttons from jump. I told her if she lost her shit, everybody would be talking, ya know?”

James chugs back some of his drink. “That’s why you’re a goddamn genius, Clarence. I still remember what you did with Lawless. God, that guy could’ve gone far. Such a tragedy, you know? I always tell folks, rap about that street shit but leave it in the streets. You can act like a fucking hoodlum and not be one.”

Every inch of me has tensed up. “My dad wasn’t a hoodlum.”

The words come out so tight and cold that they silence the room.

Supreme tries to laugh again, but it’s forced. He grabs my shoulder and squeezes it a little too hard. “Grief lingers, nah’mean?” he explains me to James.

I move my shoulder away. I don’t need him to explain. I meant what I said.

But James takes his words as truth. “Understandably. Jesus, I can’t imagine. Some of the bullshit you inner-city kids gotta deal with.”

Or I’m just a daughter who doesn’t let people disrespect her dad. What the hell?

There’s a knock at the door, and the receptionist peeks in. “Mr. Irving, the other guest has arrived.”

“Let him in!” James says, motioning her to do so. She opens the door all the way, and Dee-Nice steps into the studio.

He slaps palms with Supreme. He shakes James’s hand. He shuffles a folder from under one arm to the other so that he can half-hug me. “Whaddup, baby girl? You ready to do this song?”

“Oh, yeah, she is,” Supreme says.

Dee-Nice holds up the folder. “I got these bars ready.”

So we’re doing a song together. Okay, cool. “Damn, I’m slacking,” I say. “I haven’t decided what song I wanna do from my notebook. If y’all just give me about twenty minutes, I can write—”

Supreme laughs, and once again it brings on a chorus of laughter. “Nah, baby girl. Dee wrote your song for you.”