Eternal Fantasies (FTM x Fem)

Chapter One

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.