Can't Stop the Shine (7 page)

“Thanks. What kind is this?” Mari asked, taking a bottled water from Asha.

“That water is enhanced with minerals. It's the only kind I drink. You never know what's in tap water, girl. Let's go upstairs.”

“Cool. And hey, you've got one more time to bring up track, and it's gonna be you and me. I'm in a slump, but that's how I set up my prey.”

“Umm, hmm…
okay.
This is my room,” said Asha, flinging open the door with a grand sweeping gesture.

Mari felt like she was in a fairy tale. Asha's room had everything any teenager could ever want. First of all there was so much space in it, Mari knew she could do three back flips and not hit a wall or a piece of furniture. Asha's huge cherrywood four-poster bed, draped with a butter-yellow spread and yellow curtainlike material over the posts, sat in the center of the room on an expansive plush yellow rug into which her feet were disappearing. There were butter-yellow window treatments that matched the cushions in the rocking chair and ottoman set in the corner and the window seats in the side window that nearly rose to the ceiling.

Every piece of furniture was a rich cherrywood, including several overflowing bookcases against the walls, an old-fashioned stand-alone rounded full-length mirror, an entertainment center that held a flat-screen television, a DVD player, a stereo and tons of CDs and DVDs, and the intricately designed desk and chair where Asha did her homework. The multicolored throws and blankets draped across the bottom of the bed and on the window seats matched the green, orange and red throw pillows on the bed, the rocking chair and the cushions of another couple of comfortable oversized chairs placed on either side of a huge walk-in closet that was filled with designer clothes, shoes and bags.

“I can't believe this,” said Mari, walking around the room. “Asha, you've got everything in here, plus, enough space to host a track meet. I bet I could run the 100 in here. At least I could long jump.”

“I thought we weren't talking about track.” Asha laughed.

“Shut up.”

Asha kicked off her shoes into the closet and fell backward onto the bed, observing Mari looking at the different paintings on the wall of young black women and then walking over to a wall-mounted photograph of a field with wild yellow flowers growing for miles and miles. The flowers seemed to meet the horizon. Something about the photo gave Mari the feeling it was taken in another country.

“Where was this taken?” she asked, then noticed the outside through what she'd thought were floor-to-ceiling wood-trimmed windows. “You have a balcony, too?” asked Mari, switching gears and swinging open the floor-to-ceiling glass-and-wood doors to step on a balcony that overlooked the side of the house where the gardener maintained a beautiful spread of flowers. Asha joined her on the balcony, and they both sat in a swing that was suspended from the ceiling of the overhang.

“The photo was taken in a little town not too far from Paris,” said Asha.

“You've been to Paris? Like overseas?”

“Yep.” They were swinging back and forth now.

“So what was it like?”

“The shopping was crazy. I mean, everything in Europe is like three years ahead in terms of fashion. We racked up on all kinds of gear, and of course everybody smoked a lot and spoke French. Thank God I speak French, too.”

“Paris! That's what's up. When did you go? Was it cold? Were there any black people? How was the food?” Mari was excited.

“We went last spring. Yes, it was kinda cold, but not too bad because my mama got us these beautiful Burberry wool coats, and we were chauffeured around, so we hardly felt the cold at all. The food
was
different—really rich with lots of creamy sauces. Paris has way more white people than black people, but we saw a lot of blacks, especially Africans. Probably because my mama was there to scout out models for Wright Touch.”

“Did she find one?”

“She found a ton. I think they are going to choose one soon to do some kind of European marketing campaign. We've been to Jamaica tons of times and London, too. I think she's trying to go to Brazil later on this year. I'll probably get to go.”

“That's really cool that you get to travel like that.”

“Well, you know that's how it is when you're a baller,” said Asha. “One day we'll probably have a private jet and everything.”

“A lot of people wish they could have a life like yours. I mean I've never been out of the country,” said Mari, closing her eyes to think. “Well, I take that back. When we went to a wedding in Detroit when I was young, we drove across the border to Canada, but we were only there for a few hours. We used to go on a family vacation every summer to places like Disney World and Washington, D.C. We did go to L.A. and New York City, but I don't think I really know any black people who live like you.”

“There are a bunch of us, just not all in one place. Maybe you can come back sometime when my mama is throwing one of her fabulous affairs. You'll really see how the grown and sexy get down then. It's catered, and there's a live band and champagne flowing everywhere.”

“That sounds like a video.”

“Well, there are usually celebrities everywhere,” said Asha, hopping off the swing to lean against the wood railing of the balcony.

“Ooh, like who?”

“Just some singers, rappers and a few actors and models—the regulars. I'm going to take a shower,” said Asha, changing the subject. “I'll use the one down the hall and you can use mine. Towels are in the closet, and just get a T-shirt and shorts out of the top drawer.” Asha grabbed a towel and some clothes and disappeared from the room.

 

After dinner, Asha took Mari on a tour of the Wrights' home. Every room, all sixteen, not including the full basement and the four bathrooms, were just as impressive as Asha's room. There was all kinds of art—from sculptures to paintings and state-of-the-art technology all over the house. When they entered the foyer, Mari noticed the grand piano between two sets of spiral staircases and asked Asha who played.

“Not me,” she said.

“I play,” said Roxie, coming around the corner, “and Asha sings.”

“You sing, Asha?” said Mari, a bit surprised.

“Well, I can do a little something,” said Asha.

“Sing a little something for Mari, baby. I'll play,” said Roxie, sitting down at the piano.

“Mama, I'm kinda tired from practice, plus, I don't know what to sing,” said Asha, moving closer to the piano.

“Girl, please. You know you wanna sing. Stop all that fake modesty,” said Roxie.

“Okay, I'll do a short something,” said Asha, grinning.

“What do you want me to play?” asked Roxie.

“No, Mama, I don't need accompaniment. I'll just do something a cappella,” said Asha.

“All right, Mari. Get ready,” said Roxie. “You're gonna get the real deal now.”

Asha opened her mouth and a whole 'nother person came out—one who clearly was blessed with such natural vocal abilities that it seemed eerie. She sang Mariah Carey's “Vision of Love.” When Asha sang, she seemed to reach deep down in herself, and her emotion drove the song. Her voice was rich, like that of a seasoned singer's, and her range was wide. There were no falsettos in her high notes, and her low ones scraped the bottom of the barrel. Nearing the end of her short performance, Asha was leaning so far back to get those last notes that she was holding her stomach and the banister behind her simultaneously, seemingly needing to steady herself.

“Damn my baby is good,” said Roxie, standing up and clapping furiously before Asha finished singing the last word.

Mari was shocked. She didn't expect that much soul to come from Asha. “You can really blow,” she said. “How long have you been singing?”

“Oh, I had Miss Asha in vocal classes when she was four years old. She can sing anything, anytime, anywhere,” bragged Roxie. “I don't know why she wants to sing that old stuff though. She needs to be singing something more contemporary, like Mary J. She can do it, too.”

“Mama, you know I don't like to sing that stuff. That old-school Mariah is a great ballad,” said Asha.

“Fine, sing some Jill Scott. I know you like her,” said Roxie.

“Okaaaay,” Asha gave in—again.

Sitting down again at the piano, Roxie started playing “He Loves Me,” and Asha sang effortlessly. As she got into the song, Mari couldn't tell that there was ever any reluctance in Asha. She was ripping it, not as well as Jill, but close.

“I didn't even know you could sing. You should enter the talent show,” said Mari.

“She is,” said Roxie, “and she's gonna win.”

“No I'm not,” said Asha. “I am not singing in a talent show.”

“Why not? You've definitely got the talent,” asked Mari. “You know my sister sings. I've been trying to convince her to get in the show, too. What is it with you singers? Y'all can sing and you don't want to. That is so weird.”

“I'm sorry for your sister 'cause my baby's gonna run away with that contest,” said Roxie. “Anyway, Asha, you're entering that contest, and that's final.”

“I don't want to, Mama,” Asha whined. Mari couldn't really tell if she was serious.

“You'll have some great competition if I can get my sister to enter,” said Mari. “You should go ahead and do it.”

“So your sister sings what? Jazz? R & B?” asked Roxie. Happy for the opportunity to brag about her sister, Mari wasn't going to miss this chance to let Asha know she wasn't going to be able to win easily.

“Kalia's incredible. She can sing anything—classical, jazz, R&B—anything you throw at her. She goes to Williams High, downtown.”

“Crunk High? That's where your sister goes to school?” Asha huffed. “I hope she's in the performing arts program because that's the only reason to go to Crunk High.”

“Of course she's in the PA program, and I don't know what you have against Williams. It's the livest school in the city. It's sure got way more going on than East Boredom,” countered Mari.

“Anyway.” Asha waved off Mari and turned to her mother, suddenly changing her mind. “I'm picking out what I wear and definitely what I'm gonna sing.”

“Sure, baby,” said Roxie, winking at Mari. “Whatever you want, we'll talk about it.”

“Umm, hmm,” said Asha. “Don't think I didn't see that. Mari, don't let her suck you in. She's convincing. She's a marketer. That's what they do.”

“Uh, they also make money, Miss Thing, which is why you get to eat so well and live so well and get such an expensive private school education,” said Roxie, ascending the spiral staircase on the right. “I just want you to see what a great position you're in, Asha. All you have to do is study and sing and have some fun. I wish I had it that easy when I was a kid.”

“All right, Mama, you don't have to guilt me to death,” shouted Asha up the staircase after her mother. “I'm grateful.”

She turned to Mari. “And I'm gonna whip your sister's butt, just as bad as I've been whipping yours.”

“Whatever,” said Mari, sending up a silent prayer to God to start working on convincing Kalia to enter the contest. There was no way Asha was going to beat her
and
Kalia. She'd do anything to see Asha lose, even if she had to get dirty making it happen.

 

“So how was dinner?” Elaine asked Mari, handing Kalia the glass part of the blender to fill with ice.

“It was cool. They have a big ol' house,” said Mari, “and everything is spacious and wood and looks expensive, but is still kinda chill. I liked it…And hey…they have a piano, too—a white grand piano—in their entryway, uh, foyer, between two spiral staircases.”

“Two spiral staircases, huh?” mumbled Elaine. She was cutting up fruit to make one of her famous smoothies.

Mari tried to keep talking about the Wrights' house, but every time she opened her mouth, her mother turned on the blender. Finally she was done, and Kalia asked who played the piano in the house.

“Roxie can play,” said Mari, “but get this, Asha sings…I mean really sings.”

“Who is Roxie? Asha's sister?” Elaine asked.

“No, Ma. Roxie is her mother. She won't let me call her Mrs. Wright. I tried a couple times, but she said Mrs. Wright was her mother and everybody she knows calls her Roxie. I felt kinda funny, but…”

“Hmm,” said Elaine, frowning.

“Asha can sing?” mused Kalia.

“And she's entering the talent contest, too, Kalia. I told her you'd give her some stiff competition,” said Mari.

“You said what? Why did you tell her I was going to enter the contest? I told you I wasn't going to do it,” said Kalia and stomped out of the kitchen.

Elaine poured a coral-colored smoothie to share with her younger daughter and sat at the kitchen table across from her.