Still (Grip Book 2)(43)

The applause dies down before I step to the mic. I'm determined to keep  this short and simple. I still have to perform "Bruise," and the sooner I  get backstage, the sooner I can start mentally preparing for that, but I  don't want to cheat this moment because I'll never get it back.

"This is amazing." I look out at the crowd, peers and fans and industry  professionals, taking it all in. "There's a lot of people to thank. I'll  try not to screw this up. Um, where's Rhyson?"

I shield my eyes from the bright lights and search the first few rows where I remember he and Kai were supposed to be seated.

"I absolutely wouldn't be standing here without you." There are a  thousand memories in the glance we exchange. With all the jubilation  going on around him, his eyes remain sober. He knows what this has cost  me, knows how hard I've been grinding, how hard we've been grinding  since high school. He knows, probably more than anyone, what it means.  "You and the Prodigy team always have my back, and I couldn't ask for a  better friend. Love you, dude, like a brother. To all the fans who  humble me daily, this doesn't happen without your support. Thank you so  much."

I stare down at the trophy before continuing.

"A lot of people speculate about who I wrote this song for, what I'm  talking about." I pause to chuckle. "My mom will tell you unequivocally  that she is #GripzQueen."

The audience laughs, and I know my mom is somewhere in the Staples Center loving this.

"A lot of people think I wrote it for Qwest." I glance at her beside me.  "Writing a song like this and not having a strong woman help me perform  it, give voice to it, would have been a travesty. You are an amazing  representative for powerful women everywhere, Q."

She nods and smiles, but I can tell this moment is affecting her in ways  she didn't anticipate. I hope the emotion in her eyes has more to do  with the gravity of the achievement than with me and our past  relationship.

"Some think it's for black women or women in general." I shrug, a subtle  smile playing on my lips. "You're all right. It's for my mom, who  taught me what love is, what strength looks like, how to not just  survive difficult circumstances, but to thrive in them. It's for women  like Qwest, who dream big and work hard. It's for my aunties in the  neighborhood who took it upon themselves to straighten me out if my mom,  working two jobs, wasn't around when I was acting the fool. It's for  all of you girls who aren't sure you're worthy of respect when we,  especially in hip-hop, sometimes don't give you your due. It's fitting  that my first Grammy would be for ‘Queen' since I wouldn't be here if it  hadn't been for all the incredible women who kept pushing me forward."

I find Bristol sitting where I left her, pride and love shining in the  eyes that never leave my face. I can already see the Coming to America  GIFs that will be everywhere if I call her my queen, so I force myself  to stop short of that. She would be fine if I didn't say a word about  her. Hell, she'd probably prefer it after all the media shit-storms  we've been through, but there's no way this moment even happens without  her.

"It's for you, Bris," I say softly, even though my words are amplified  throughout Staples and in millions of homes. "You're the best thing in  my life. None of this would mean anything without you."

Our eyes hold in an extraordinary recognition I could only share with  her, of the sacrifices we've made and the risks we've taken together,  all while falling in love. I want to call her my girl, my fiancée, my  wife in front of the whole world, but we've agreed we don't want our  engagement to be a lightning rod or some sideshow, a hot potato people  toss around to gain more followers, get more likes and retweets. So, I  don't tell these people anything that's none of their business. I just  hold up the gold statue and don't give Black Twitter or Angie Black or  any of my critics more to work with than necessary.         

     



 

"Thank you."

I don't return to my seat because I still have to perform. Once I'm  backstage, that tunnel vision that comes with such a huge performance  consumes me completely, not just because it's so significant for my  career, but because of the nature of the song, which has been  significant for my cause. I've performed "Bruise" in larger venues, but  this is the Grammys. It doesn't get any bigger than this, and I want to  be a megaphone for this moment. It's a perfect convergence of my gifts  and my passions, and I don't want to blow it.

From the first note, I know it's a special performance, a demarcation in  my journey as an artist. The lights and imagery, a moody wash of black  and blue, coordinate with typography of the song's most powerful lyrics  onscreen. As many times as I've performed this song, the words have  never felt as meaningful as they do tonight, with the names of slain  black men and fallen police officers scrolling behind me.

We all bruise,

It's that black and blue

A dream deferred,

Nightmare come true

In another man's shoes,

Walk a mile or two

Might learn a couple things

I'm no different than you!



As I'm performing, the faces of the men on that wall behind me flash  through my mind on a reel, their lives cut short. I remember the day  each of them died-how I heard, what I was doing, how it felt to know  things this fucked up could still happen in our country. The same  coalition of anger and pain and hope that led me to write the song  compels me to perform it like the next life depends on it. Like this  song might save somebody, even though it came too late for these men.  Like my art has no limits and love has no walls.

As hard as I try, I can't keep my voice from wobbling, can't keep the  hurt and the outrage from reverberating through each lyric. Despite my  best efforts, tears-fucking tears streak down my face, defying any show  of strength. My tears are for the mothers and the sisters and fathers  and wives and daughters and sons watching this show tonight with an  empty seat at their table, watching me perform this song with a hole in  their hearts. I shed tears for the tragedy of bias and the futility of  revenge. None of it bears any fruit, and it could feel hopeless, except  when I look out, I see the same emotion that's commanding me has command  of the audience, compelling them to their feet and streaking their  faces with tears, too. White, black, brown, all of them-a mosaic of the  emotions warring inside of me. Though I could be cynical, though I could  doubt that it means anything, that they mean it, in this moment, even  with the hurt and the anger and the frustration, I make room in my heart  for faith that one day, no matter how long it takes, we'll get it  right.





25





Bristol





"Two out of three ain't bad." I meet Grip's eyes in the bathroom mirror. "You're officially a Grammy winner now."

"And losing best new artist to Kai is no loss at all." He grins at me,  brushing his teeth as we get ready for bed. "Least we kept it in the  family."

"Yeah, Kai had a huge night. Three trophies." I yawn while removing the  makeup from my face with a wipe. "I think Rhyson was on a higher cloud  than she was."

"He's proud of her, and he should be." Grip leans against the marble  counter in my bathroom. "Grammys, movies, endorsements . . ."

"And Broadway," I insert, running a brush through my unruly hair. "Just give me a little time."

"Yeah. Kai's on that world domination trip. She's on the come up big time."

"You are, too." I lean into him, pressing my chest to his. "Song of the year's nothing to sneeze at."

Grip palms my head and lays a kiss in the hair at my temple without acknowledging my compliment.

"And best rap song." I lower my lashes to study our feet, almost touching. "With Qwest."

He tips my chin up, searching my eyes.

"Did it bother you to see us up there together?"

"It bothers me to see you with anyone who isn't me." A tired, self-deprecating laugh rumbles over my lips. "But I was okay."

I hesitate, biting my lip before going on.

"She still has feelings for you, ya know."

Grip runs his tongue over his teeth, a thoughtful frown disrupting the strong line of his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I know."

I tip up on my toes and kiss his chin, slipping a hand to the back of  his neck. He rubs my back and we appreciate the closeness of each  other's bodies for a minute, the silence swelling with a tenderness, an  intimacy I can't imagine sharing with anyone else.         

     



 

"Your performance tonight . . ." My words evaporate because I can't find  the right ones to express how moved I was when he performed "Bruise."  It wasn't just me, either-he ushered the entire crowd to another plane  during that performance, and I still feel like I'm coming off a high.  "I've seen you be amazing, but this was something else. It was on  another level, from a different place."