Still (Grip Book 2)(41)

I study the regret marking his face and his words. I don't say anything  that would counter because he did disappoint me, and I refuse to make it  easier for him.

"But I'm . . . well I'm honored that you moved here to study with me,"  he mutters. "Shocked actually. It's been really cool getting to know you  this semester, and I look forward to, uh . . . well . . . what I'm  trying to say is . . . fuck it."

He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls something out, something badly wrapped in plain paper.

"Merry Christmas." He practically spits the goodwill at me and extends the gift.

I just stare at it, and after a full five seconds, I accept it.

"I didn't get you anything," I mumble, tugging on the tatty ribbon.

"It's not much, believe me. Uh, you can open it later." He sits at his  desk and pushes his glasses up his nose. "I'm getting ready for finals,  if you could just close the door behind you."

Iz is a PhD, and he must hold at least a master's in dismissing people. I  nod, suppressing the grin that tries to break past my restraint.

"A'ight," I say casually over my shoulder. "Merry Christmas."

I walk down the hall away from his office and down the stairs. In the  stairwell, I drop my saddlebag and sit on the step, turning the gift  over in my hands for a few moments before pulling the ribbon.

It's a book.

Iz would give me a book.

I trace the aged leather, the letters pressed into the weathered cover.

Montage of a Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes.

I flip open the front cover, and my blood stands still in my veins when I note the date-1951-and the famous poet's autograph.

A signed first edition.

I turn to the spot slotted by an index card, a crisp contrast to the  worn, fragile pages. The poem is "Harlem," and the familiar refrain  asking what happens to a dream deferred stings tears in my eyes.

I can't ever read this poem without remembering the day my cousin died  in the front yard. There are some moments in life that will always haunt  us, no matter how many joys follow, and that day is one of those. I'll  never forget reciting this poem in my bedroom closet to keep Jade calm  while one of her brothers shot the other.

Iz couldn't know its personal significance to me, but as I read the card, I understand why he chose it.



Grip,

Our brothers live so long with dreams deferred, they forget how to  imagine another life. For many of them, all they know is frustration,  then rage, and for too many, the violence of finally exploding. You  symbolize hope, and I know you take that responsibility seriously. I  hope you know I believe that, and that nothing I've said led you to  think otherwise. Bristol's right-our biases are our weaknesses. Few are  as patient as she is to give people time to become wiser. Thank her for  me, for giving me time and for encouraging you to work with me.  Together, I think we will restore the dreams of many.

Merry Christmas,

Iz





23





Bristol





This isn't my first Grammys, but it's the first time two of my clients  have been nominated for multiple awards. Rhyson has won several in the  past, of course, but tonight, Grip and Kai are up, and I think Rhyson  and I are more nervous than they are.

"I'm still not sure about that lighting." Rhyson watches a video of  Kai's rehearsal from earlier today on his phone. "Can we talk to the LD  one more time?"

"Leave the lighting director alone," Kai says from the corner where she  and her stylist are consulting about her dress for the red carpet.  "Rhys, you're doing that thing again."

"What thing?" he asks absently, eyes still fixed on the video.

"The thing where you try to control the whole universe and act like a  crazy person?" She stretches her eyes wide like he should know. "That  thing."

He looks up, one dark brow cocked, and stops the video, setting the phone down on the table.

"It's your performance, Pep." He shrugs. "If you feel comfortable with  uneven lighting for the biggest performance of your life, who am I to  disagree?"

"Rhyson!" I roll my eyes at my brother. "Don't do that. The lighting was fine."         

     



 

"Fine?" His disgust is palpable. "Fine, not perfect. She should have perfect, Bris, and you know it."

Kai and I exchange a look that says we hate it when he's right.

"Okay." I grab my phone and bag from the dressing room table. "I'll go talk to the lighting director."

"It's the blue wash," Rhyson says with a satisfied smile. "The setting at the beginning of the second verse."

"Right. Blue wash, got it. I'll see you guys back at the hotel."

I pause at the door.

"And Sarah will be with you for the red carpet tonight."

"Oh, great." Kai gives me a wide smile. "What are you wearing for your first public appearance as an engaged woman?"

"Ugh." The sigh drags past my lips. "Don't remind me. As if I don't have  enough to do without having to think about getting red-carpet ready."

"It's a big night for Grip," Rhyson says. "I'm sure if it comes down to  whether he needs his manager or his fiancée more, it would be his  fiancée."

"You mean the fiancée who's running off to check the blue wash before the second verse?" I give him a well-meaning smirk.

Rhyson doesn't allow himself much guilt, but I'm pretty sure that's what flits across his face. He grabs his phone and stands.

"I'll talk to the LD," he says.

"No, you won't." I wave him back to his seat. "It's a huge night for  Grip and Kai-for Prodigy. Our little label is up for a grand total of  six nominations. I can do my job and be fabulous for the red carpet."

"You sure?" he asks, uncertainty mingling with the guilt in his expression.

"You doubt me?" I volley back with more confidence than I actually feel.

"Okay, if you say so. See you later, sis."

I'm wrapping up my conversation with the lighting director  backstage-who, at the very least, deserves a fruit basket once this is  all over-when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

"No, that worked," Qwest says. "They hit it on that last run-through.  Just make sure we strike that spot onstage, or I won't hit the mark for  camera two."

I stand perfectly still in the corner where the lighting director and I talked, hoping she'll walk on by and I'll go undetected.

"Bristol?"

There goes hope.

"Qwest, hey." I step forward, a smile pasted on my lips that feels like it's made of plastic. "Good to see you."

"Hmmm." Qwest waves her choreographer on her way. Her eyes roam over me  as they usually do, like she sees several things lacking before reaching  my face. "I guess I should have known you'd be here."

As friendly greetings go, it's not one.

"Well, congratulations on your nomination." I give her another stiff smile and start to walk off.

"Did you lobby for Grip and me not to perform ‘Queen'?"

Her question startles me enough to turn around and face her again. Her  one Grammy nomination is for collaborating with Grip on "Queen," for  best rap performance.

"No. I-I don't remember it even coming up. The producers of the show  were very clear that they wanted Grip to perform ‘Bruise.'" I meet her  eyes with nothing to hide. "It's up for song of the year, and it's  pretty standard to ask the artists nominated for that award to perform,  well, the song they're nominated for."

Qwest looks unconvinced for a moment before resignation clears her pretty face.

"It's fine." She shrugs. "I'm performing one of my other songs anyway."

"Good." I hesitate before speaking again. "I would never meddle that way, Qwest-in Grip's career, I mean."

"Awwww," she says sarcastically. "I guess that's one of the many reasons he loves you-that and your pretty hair and golden tan."

I don't reply, but instead let her stew in her own petty silence. I don't have the time or patience for this shit today.

"I'm sorry, too, about all the drama with Angie Black." Qwest watches me  closely. I know she wants a reaction I'm determined not to give her.  "And that picture on Instagram. I can imagine how I'd feel if I saw my  boyfriend's ex with her hands all over him."

"Then why did you have your hands all over him?"

So much for not giving her a reaction.

"There she is." Her smile is immediate and knowing. "I figured your claws would come out soon enough."         

     



 

"I don't want my claws out, Qwest. I wish you well. I know you don't believe that, but I do."

"Oh, spare me." The mask falls away, and Qwest's ire is on full display.  "You wish me well because you got nothing to worry about. I'm not a  threat to you, and you know it."

"You think I don't feel threatened by you?" My scoffing laugh bounces  between us. "Many of Grip's family, friends, and fans would dance in the  streets if he dumped me for you. Do you know how many people have told  him that being with me discredits the work he does for the black  community? And that you ‘make sense' and I don't? That if he wanted to  have a real impact, he would choose you?"