War Zones and Paradise

Chapter Six, Part Two - Show Time

A'keem's manager was a skeeve, but the for the sake of the thousands of fans who had purchased tickets to see Tyler and A'keem perform in Times Square, I decided to wait until after the concert to tell Tyler. He would have dropped everything to mess him up. But I loved Tyler, so I couldn't let him do it.

Just hours before the concert, I watched from the audience as Tyler performed his final dress rehearsal. If Tyler was a star, he was the sun, the center of the universe. He danced and sang with his back-up, the rest of his team - his makeup artists, his stylists, his publicist, his assistant. No one was more prepared than Tyler.

And no one was more proud of him than me.

Accounted for and totally useless, I tossed popcorn in my mouth, took cheesy selfies for LipStick and Yoga Pants (my exploding Insta), and pretended I couldn't dance better than Tyler to his own music.

Twizzler dangling from the side of my mouth, I pondered which hashtags to use for the picture.

"Hashtag sugar rush, hashtag thug life, hashtag... show time!" Satisfied, I clicked post, grinning down at the silly picture on my screen.

"Aaliyah? Um. Can someone send Aaliyah down to the stage, please?" A bookish assistant was on her tiptoes, speaking into a mic stand for a much taller person.

It had been a minute since I performed on a real stage. Sometimes I scared myself into thinking it would never happen again. Puzzled, I grabbed my purse and headed for the stage, running back halfway when I realized I had forgotten my phone.

"Wow," I gushed, climbing the steps to the stage. "So much brighter up here." The back-up dancers laughed. Even Tyler's manager, Astrid, usually as tight as her dresses, had a nod for me.

"I'm so glad you're here." A relieved Tyler took my hands. He was dressed in all black, his Vans white and clean as his teeth. The back-up crew were in reverse colors, happy and shining.

I was jealous to the bone.

"You know the routine for my second song?" Glancing at his highly insulted dance coach, Tyler leaned closer and lowered his voice. "It blows. I don't know what to do."

"Stand there and look hella rich!" called one of the backup, signaling a chorus of snickers.

Brows raised in muted threat, Tyler glanced over his shoulder, sending silence across the stage.

"Can you help?" he said, turning back to me. "Pwease?"

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I blew a breath. "Well, I have been working on a routine--"

"Great! Show us!" Tyler stepped back, signaling lights to cue the music.

Spun by Tyler's last-minute decision, and how quickly I said yes, I took center stage in the spotlight. 

Performing to Tyler's music was was natural, like laying in his arms. More than familiar with the sensual hip-hop track, I modified some moves on the spot, dancing like the roles were reversed and I was Tyler. He was cocky, and crude, and charming - and completely unforgettable. As I claimed the stage for my own, those vibes were translated in every move.

Ending the song with his signature spin, I faced my audience with more than a little apprehension. 

Before the fear of falling, there was once the fear of failure.

"Is she a coach?"

"Heels! She did that in heels!"

"Yo, those moves were dope, son!"