My baby was sound asleep, clinging to her overstuffed teddy bear. She’d be turning nine in a few months. The thought of her getting older plucked at my heartstrings like a bass guitar. When I first found out I was having her, I hadn’t reacted well. James had just been accepted into his MBA program and my band was finally starting to get a decent following. I had all but decided to have an abortion. I sat by myself in the parking lot, and despite James’s protest, I was determined to go through with it.
Then I felt it—a flutter. It obviously wasn’t a physical manifestation from my baby, but something else. Like her soul was stirring. After I felt it, I knew I couldn’t abort the baby. I was twenty-three years old, a college graduate, and the baby was made in love. Things could’ve been a whole lot worse. I turned the ignition on, drove away, and never looked back.
“Wake up, Bria-bree.”
My mini-me smiled and lifted her arms in the air. I bent over and gave her the hug I knew she wanted.
“I had the best dream, Mommy.”
“What were you dreaming ’bout, baby girl?” I pulled at the blankets that James had tucked tight around her body.
“People were shouting your name. And you were singing, but not around the house, in a big, big place.”
My heart thudded and I furrowed my brows, trying to figure out how she knew about my old dreams of singing on a stage.
“I, um . . . yeah, baby, that’s a good dream. You go and get ready while I wake up JJ.”
“Okay, Mommy, but what should I wear today that’s different?”
Much to my chagrin, the kids attended private school. Navy blazers, knee socks, boring-ass black shoes, and an ugly-as-all-hell red Pilgrim’s bow. From the day she could form words, Bria had always been about self-expression. She wanted colorful streaks in her hair like Mommy, which I changed years ago to a respectable brown. She wanted cool, funky shoes and loved cartoon socks. But when we enrolled her in private school at age six, my normally even-keeled daughter had a tantrum. I didn’t want to stifle her like my mother had done to me, so I promised we would find fun ways to rage against the private-school machine by pushing the envelope for the uniform.
“I’m thinking we can use that vintage red and navy blue polka-dot headband.” I tapped her wrist. “And let’s debut the red bangle bracelet we found at that shop in Little Five Points.”
Bria flicked her index and little fingers. “Rock on, Mommy.”
“Rock on, baby. And remember, if you get caught, pretend like you don’t know anything. And if you get in trouble, you need to—”
“Call Mommy,” she said in a voice that told me she knew the drill. After doing this for nearly three years, we’d only been caught twice. When a teacher or principal called, I’d feigned ignorance and assured them that this wouldn’t happen again.
Our decision made, I pulled out Bria’s accessories box from her closet and laid out the headband and bracelets on her dresser. I walked next door to wake up my son.
JJ loved his sleep, and there were no sleepy smiles, hugs, or kisses when I woke him up. Lots of waahs and I don’t wanna, Mommys greeted me in the morning.
After getting him dressed, I kissed him on the head. “Okay, baby boy, let’s get you some breakfast.”
I wasn’t much of a cook. I could do the staples, and thankfully my kids weren’t food critics. My husband just appreciated the effort. Breakfast was the easiest: an omelet for James and oatmeal for the kids.
After the kids were fed, I herded them to the car. I connected my phone to the Bluetooth to play my music through the car speakers.
“Any song requests?” I asked the kids.
“‘Midnight Train to Georgia’!” Bria shouted. I smiled. I’d been humming the tune last weekend while cleaning, and she’d wanted to hear the song. Bria had then fallen in love with Gladys Knight and the Pips. My girl had good taste, just like her mama.
“ ‘The Wheels on the Bus’!” JJ yelled. He then followed up with a demanding, repetitive chant.
That fucking song. I definitely hadn’t hummed that.
“Fine. We’ll listen to ‘The Wheels on the Bus,’ ” I said, hoping to shut my four-year-old terror up. In the rearview mirror, I saw Bria pouting. I blew her a kiss. “We’ll play Gladys when I pick you up later today.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Mrs. Figueroa is picking us up today.”
“That’s right.” I nodded. “We can do a fun singing session when you get home, ’kay?”
“Okay.” She nodded reluctantly.
I scrolled through my list to find the dreaded song. Despite the composition’s simplicity, I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel and hummed along. The damn song would probably be in my head for the remainder of the day. If the songwriter were still alive, I’d make her go round and round.
I dropped JJ off first and then headed toward the elementary school. As I pulled up, I noticed Sandra, Meegan, Lynette, and some other new recruit talking outside on the curb. Like me, they were dressed in pearls, heels, and a skirt. I taught my girl about self-expression, but here I was looking like a suburban Barbie clone because I had a fear of embarrassing James if I dressed like a bum.
I illegally parked my car just beyond the curb to walk Bria into school. Lately, she’d been complaining about some little boy calling her names in the hallway. She hadn’t pointed him out yet, but I was determined to find the little asshole and figure out if he had a crush on her or if I needed to find someone to kick his ass. I wasn’t above bribing a husky fifth grader.
“He’s not here, Mommy,” Bria whispered to me as we walked down the hall. I guess I wasn’t as sly as I’d thought.
I kissed her forehead once we arrived at her homeroom. “’Kay, babe. I’ll see you later.”
The PTA warlords were still idling on the curb. They whispered among themselves and then tried to wave me down.
“Sorry ladies, I’ve got this thing I’m late for.” I gave them a two-finger salute and rushed to my Range Rover.
* * *
I pulled into the graveled parking lot of Rev and Go, a coffee shop in East Atlanta, after I dropped off the kids. I’d contacted my old classmates to see if they had any openings in their bands. No one had a vacant spot for a lead singer/guitarist, but someone’s uncle was interested in adding music to his coffee shop.
So here I was, strapped with a guitar I hadn’t touched in a year up until a few weeks ago, nerves and attitude jumbled up into all 140 pounds of me. Okay, lies, 147 pounds, but who’s counting?
Despite my internal battle, I strolled in like I owned the bitch because I was a rock-and-roll goddess, and goddesses didn’t punk out at the finish line.
I noticed a man with blond hair with sprinkles of gray. He wore a purple T-shirt that displayed a colorful sleeve of tattoos on his forearm.
I gave him a chin jerk. “I’m looking for Eric Scott.”
“You’ve got ’im,” Eric responded in a gravelly voice. “Are you Nikki?” He looked me up and down. I knew what he was thinking. Dressed like an extra on Mad Men in my hot pink cardigan, blue flared skirt, and kitten heels, I didn’t exactly blend in with the locals.
“Yup.” I extended my hand and we shook. “Dana tells me you’re looking for a musician to play in your shop once a week. Any preferences for music?”