a Black thing, you know? Like how Black people always seem to find one another and congregate, regardless of where they are. We were two of the few Black girls at McKibben. But now I see how she would find ways to ask about my parents, to ask about Gigi.
Like on my fifteenth birthday, when Simone came to my house and was surprised to see that it was just a dinner for the two of us and my parents. “Where’s your grandma?” were the first words out of her mouth, instead of “happy birthday.”
I was just so desperate and grateful to finally have a friend that I ignored all the signs. And it cost me my career.
“You okay?” Milo shouts over the music, angling his face toward mine.
I didn’t realize that I zoned out. And we’re still holding hands. I should probably let go, but then I might lose him. This place is really packed.
I nod, then shout back, “Yeah!”
We stop at a corner of the room, near one of the bars. It’s a great vantage point to scope out the entire club. All the way to the right, there are roped-off sections with tables, and that’s where James Jenkins is sitting. It looks like he’s only surrounded by his team. There aren’t any other actors up there with him.
Do men in their seventies usually go to after-parties for their films? I don’t know. But I guess most men in their seventies aren’t like James Jenkins. I have to find a way to get up there and talk to him.
Beside me, Milo sings along to the song that’s playing. It’s not one I recognize. I pull on his arm to get his attention, and that’s when I realize there are three boys standing a few feet away and they’re staring at us. They don’t stop staring when I make eye contact with them either. They whisper to one another, and then, as if gathering confidence, they start to walk over.
Crap. They know who I am. The wig and sunglasses aren’t enough. Are they Paul Christopher superfans, coming to get revenge?
“Milo,” I say, pulling harder on his sleeve, nodding my head at the boys.
They approach, and I ready myself. No, I’m not who you think I am, I’ll say.
But they don’t even look at me. One boy says to Milo, “Yo, are you in that group Doves Have Pride?”
Milo blinks, then his mouth splits into a huge grin. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“That EP you dropped over the summer was lit,” another boy says. The others nod enthusiastically.
I stare at them in complete silence. My jaw is on the floor.
The boys turn around and beckon over more friends. Like bees to honey, they flock to Milo until a small crowd has surrounded us, and they all want to know more about Doves Have Pride. When is their next show? Why is Milo here? Were they included on the Aliens Attack Earth 4 soundtrack? Answers: Two weeks. He’s chilling with his friend (me). No, but he wishes they were.
After all the questions are answered and Milo autographs one girl’s hand, the small crowd disperses. Milo has a dreamy-eyed look on his face. Meanwhile, I’m astounded. I mean, from the amount of people at their show last night, I could tell they had a following, but I didn’t realize it went past Brooklyn.
I guess this is what happens when you avoid social media. You miss everything.
Milo is practically glowing.
“I really need to see your music video,” I say.
He turns to me, shocked. “You haven’t seen it yet?”
“No,” I say sheepishly.
“Wowww, that’s messed up.”
I start to tell him about my social media hiatus, but two of his fans return and excitedly ask if Milo will take a picture with them. As he pulls out his phone, he moves his arm wide, and his drink splashes down the front of my dress.
“Oh no,” I groan. Gigi is going to kill me. This dress is vintage silk!
“I’m so sorry,” the boy says. He reaches out to, I don’t know, attempt to help me or something, but I shake my head.
“It’s okay.” I turn to Milo. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and rinse this off.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he says, but I shake my head at this too.
“No, no, stay and take your pictures. I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t look happy about it, but he also doesn’t want to disappoint his new fans either. “I’ll wait for you here.”
I nod and make my way to the bathroom, which is