Reunion Girls (5 page)

Gabby.
He was the only person in the world who had ever called her that. Hearing it again unleashed a flood of bittersweet memories. She made a promise to keep that train of thought at bay, then whispered to Baby Bear, asking him to stay in sight but to give them some space.

With a dutiful nod, Baby Bear retreated.

As a peace offering, Gabrielle leaned forward and did precisely what Baby Bear had prevented Dean Paul from doing, planting a brief but intimate kiss on the lips. "I'm sorry. He travels with me everywhere. Sometimes the fan situation gets out of control. And lately there have been threats."

Dean Paul's forehead creased. "Death threats?"

Gabrielle nodded.

His focus was on her like a laser now. "There are security firms to investigate situations like that."

She reached out to touch his forearm, her flashy pinkie ring clinking against his Tiffany and Co. cufflink. "It's being handled. There's an extreme right-wing group that thinks my lyrics are a danger to children. All bark, no bite. But still, you can't ignore these things entirely."

He stepped back to take all of her in, placing his hands on her upper arms, his long, perfectly manicured fingers digging into the luxurious pelts of her Louis Feraud mink. "Don't take this the wrong way. You look fantastic. But what happened to the girl I remember?"

"She's long gone," Gabrielle said. "This is the new and improved version." One beat. "Brown Sugar. And it tastes so sweet."

Dean Paul's eyes flashed with desire.

That's when Gabrielle gently flicked off his hands from her arms. "But you're a married man. Besides, I don't think you could handle it."

He laughed a little. "You're being a bad girl, Gabby. What are you trying to do to me? This is my wedding day."

Gabby.
The sound of it played tricks with her mind again.

Dean Paul intercepted a passing waiter for a glass of champagne, which he gallantly offered to Gabrielle. "Here. Drink this. It's the expensive stuff, Queen Bling. You'll approve."

She accepted the crystal flute and drank deep, never averting her gaze, the slight smile on her lips matching his. Obviously, he was aware of her new CD.

Dean Paul shook his head. "I need a drink. You and your hot box are too much for me. Cool down. We'll talk later." He gave her a final, sexually regretful once-over before swaggering off.

Gabrielle watched him go, letting the surprise sink in. Judging from his clever little reference, he was more aware of her than she ever imagined. "My Hot Box" was a smoking track on the new album. In fact, it was being geared up to follow "How Many Carats" and "Check His Credit" as the third single from
Queen of Bling.
AKA Bomb Threat was in the studio now, punching it up with a new remix that would feature a guest rap appearance by the ubiquitous Nicki Minaj. Next week, Gabrielle would meet with video directors to go over creative concepts.

"Too bad he's not a groomsman," Babe said, sidling up, watching Gabrielle watch Dean Paul. "It's so easy to get laid by one of them at these things."

Together, they stood silently, enjoying the view as Dean Paul kindly and gracefully engaged an effeminate teenage boy who was clearly smitten and starstruck.

"He's difficult to hate, isn't he?" Babe observed.

"Impossible," Gabrielle said.

Babe regarded her for a moment with a sweeping up-and-down glance. "You're not exactly trying to fly under the radar at this event."

Gabrielle cut her eyes to Babe's attention-getting art-deco leather pants. "Funny you should notice."

Babe grinned. "Touché." She tilted her head to the right. "I guess that makes three of us."

Gabrielle followed Babe's gaze to see a stunning Lara animatedly chatting up Sophia Mills, Dean Paul's mother. On further inspection, she noticed that Lara was tottering in her Armani heels. "How many drinks has she had?"

"Not enough," Babe said wryly. "She dated him for two years."

Since their college-drama meltdown, Gabrielle and Babe had been forced into a cautious civility by way of frequent encounters. Even if Gabrielle turned up at something random, like the opening for the revamped Jimmy Choo store on Madison Avenue, Babe was likely to be there, working the room for
212's
night beat. There had been no choice but to get over the past and behave like sophisticated women. They often talked of meeting for drinks to properly catch up, but an actual planned date, as with so many of those anemic social promises, never materialized. It was the same scenario with Lara. Gabrielle saw her semi-regularly, but only as the hip-hop-star slot filler at one of the Regrets Only extravaganzas, where all of Lara's focus was concentrated on a smooth-running event. Could guests access the bar? Were VIPs caught in a logjam at the door?

Listening to Babe's smart-ass commentary and seeing Lara drowning her distress in champagne, it all of a sudden struck Gabrielle how much she missed them. There was nothing like deep, emotional, and uproarious female companionship. And she knew. Because, since college, she had been living without it . . .

Nobody knew what had happened the night Dean Paul broke up with her. Gabrielle preferred it that way. The incident was between her, God, and the bigoted lowlifes who had opened up her eyes to how evil the world could be.

Leaving Brown University had been easy. The campus had come to signify so many endings. Her friendship with Lara and Babe. Her relationship with Dean Paul. Her innocence about race in America. So it was time to find a place where she could find some beginnings.

Enter New York. Relocating there had been a no-brainer. Her tenure at WBRU, the campus radio station, all but secured her a job in the music business. The industry was chockablock full of Brown alumni, from artists to behind-the-scenes executives.

Gabrielle signed on with MTV as an assistant to the senior vice president of music and talent. It meant long hours, a crappy little cubicle, and an insulting salary, but she soaked up everything available to her. Still, as early as the first day, she knew that working behind the curtain would not satisfy her. Gabrielle wanted to be center stage.

She had been scouting potential new acts for
Everything But the Deal,
a pilot series in development about musicians who were talented, polished, and ready for the big time—but not yet signed to a major label. One night her search took her to Vibeology, an eclectic urban club known among the city's music insiders as
the
place to go to discover new black artists. Gabrielle had assumed that open mike night would mean acoustic sets from people who saw themselves as the next Pharrell Williams.

But it had been something else entirely. No music. Only words. Fiery, passionate, provocative words. Poets had taken the mike and spoken their truth, wowing the crowd and inspiring Gabrielle. It was as if the world had opened up and shown her a pathway to emotional sanctuary. Deep down, she knew that this underground black poetry renaissance was her ticket. She had no interest in listening passively when she could be reciting actively.
Her words.
There was a reason why she had been filling notebooks and journals with her most intimate thoughts. This was it. Since the worst night of her life, it had been her private therapy. Now it could be her public training ground. She never worried about exposing herself emotionally, because that was the whole point. In a strange way, that mike, in that environment, represented one of the safest places she had ever known. It was a venue for being heard and understood.

Gabrielle had tried to pass on to the powers-that-be at MTV her excitement about this secret revolution. Each week at Vibeology, there were brilliant wordsmiths at work who deserved national attention. But the poetry factor generated little interest. "Find a bohemian rapper with good beats," her immediate boss had told her. "Sounds cool. But what we really need is the next Drake,” another executive had said.

Gabrielle had returned to Vibeology to participate on her own terms. Her first slot was fifth from the top, and she received a warm introduction from Theory, the sexy master of ceremonies.

"Can I interest anybody out there in some
new
blood?" Theory had bellowed.

The crowd had erupted with wild approval.

"I don't know about you, but I want to hear what this sister has to say. And I have to be honest. I'm already crushing hard over her green, green eyes."

There had been whistles and catcalls from the audience.

Theory had flashed her a smile, his immaculate Chicklets teeth as blinding as alpine snow against his dark chocolate skin. He sported a white peasant shirt over tattered vintage jeans. A multicolored do-rag covered a head of short dreadlocks, and dirty espadrilles adorned his feet. Despite the lack of effort, Theory was stop-and-look gorgeous, an anti-establishment Blair Underwood.

"If I do say so myself, she's beautiful," he had cooed to the crowd. "And this is her first time at the mike, so we already know the sister's brave. Make some noise for...
Gabrielle."

With a strange mixture of terror and excitement, she had stepped into the bright spotlight on the small stage, taking her position in front of the microphone. Looking out, she had discovered a sea of black faces, dark-skinned, light-skinned, different styles, varied backgrounds, but everyone in that space shared one thing in common: They were all black.

In that moment, the realization had struck Gabrielle like a thunderbolt. Never in her life had she been in a room with so many of her own people. She had been raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, an enclave fifteen minutes from Detroit and nestled along the shores of Lake St. Clair. It was an elegant suburb for the well-heeled. Gabrielle's family home had been a five-thousand-square-foot Colonial with five bedrooms, five full baths, a finished basement that doubled as a recreational haven, and two garages. All for a family of just three. Her father was a high-level auto executive, her mother a full-time social butterfly and board president for the Edsel and Eleanor Ford House, the stately early-twentieth-century mansion that had been transformed into a premier community cultural center.

Growing up, she had never thought of herself as black. She was simply Gabrielle. Her house became the hub for all neighborhood play. The Fosters had a pool with a slide and a diving board. Their recreational room featured video games, a full-sized pool table, Ping-Pong, a kitchen stocked with junk food, a telephone with Mama Rosa's Pizzeria on speed dial, and a cookie jar stuffed with cash to pay the delivery driver. For Gabrielle's friends, the Foster house was a home away from home.

Looking back now, Gabrielle realized how her parents eschewed black culture. All of her mother's friends were white, and her father had gone further up the Ford Motor corporate chain than any black man in history. None of this had been a result of assimilation. It was simply who they were. Matthew and Diahann Foster lived in a white world. They just happened to be black.

Gabrielle had never questioned it. There had never been a reason to. Her childhood had been a plastic bubble of loving arms, safety, friends, and constant fun. The same held true for her adolescent years. She was among the most popular at Grosse Pointe Academy, involved in every conceivable activity and envied by many as the girl who had everything. That included one of the hottest guys. Morgan Atwood had been her boyfriend for three years. He was white, a star student and athlete, and from one of the area's oldest and most prominent families. Yet the issue of race was never raised. The union of Morgan and Gabrielle was not viewed as interracial. They were simply seen as a perfect couple. During the summer leading up to their freshman year in college, they sweetly parted company. He was on his way to Stanford in California; she, to Brown in Rhode Island. They were young. The distance was immense. To break up was sad but obvious.

In the beginning, Gabrielle's experience at Brown had continued more of the same. She immediately fell in with the elite crowd, bonding quickly with Lara. A bit later, the salty Babe joined the clique, adding a certain Rizzo factor to the mix. For over two years, it had been sisterly bliss. Until the Biltmore incident.

Babe had broken ranks. It was one thing to covet Dean Paul from afar, as practically every woman on campus—and certain men—openly did. But she had taken it to the nth degree, to the ultimate betrayal. Still, in her heart of hearts, Gabrielle found it difficult to judge Babe too harshly. Because she understood the temptation. If the circumstances had been reversed, and she was faced with the same opportunity, Gabrielle couldn't say with all certainty that she would walk away from it. Dean Paul was that desirable. And a few months later, she discovered for herself that he lived up to every bit of the hype.

"Speak on it, girl!" a female voice from the Vibeology crowd had shouted.

"That's right," another said. "Tell it!"

Gabrielle's smile had come from the deepest part of her. They were cheering her on, lifting her up with love and support, and she had yet to utter a single syllable. Even today, she could pinpoint the feeling that had come over her, and only one word could describe it: spiritual. Impulsively, she had left the printed words in her pocket, closed her eyes, and performed her piece from memory.

He Was

He was a god, a myth, an object of desire.

But he was hers, and she was a friend.

So I played like the girl in the candy store—Baby can look, but baby can't touch.

He was so hot that all you could do was get burned.

And I wanted to be trapped in the fire, He was blazing that much.

But he was hers, and she was a friend. Until he belonged to another girl—

But he was hers, and she was a friend. Until he belonged to me—And he was more than the fantasy.

I went to the waterfall at the end of the world Because he was that good, and I had it that bad.

And he was mine, and I was his girlfriend.

But all I did was wonder, am I enough?

Until he was gone.

And then I knew the answer—I wasn’t. But he was.