Chapter 19
19
The first song I learned to sing was Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” I was three years old and hardly remember performing it at the 2000’s Robinson family reunion. But ten years later, my mom signed up for Facebook and the amateur performance captured on video was one of her first uploads. It went viral among her Baldwin Hills circle of friends—in the same way video tours of the next-door neighbors’ marble kitchen upgrades did.
With the memory so faint, that video serves as the only proof the performance ever happened. And I watch it still. Study it even. I was pitchy with the notes, and my articulation was muddy—what you’d expect from a toddler. But seconds into the grainy clip and it’s clear to anyone watching that this little girl loves what she’s doing. Like a sponge, she absorbs the limelight, channeling Whitney’s every move from the flick of her tiny wrists to the arch of her shoulders, to the best of her little body’s ability.
She’s a performer.
So, when Angelo got a call from Miles’s event coordinator asking what number I was going to sing for the Evelyn Foundation benefit, the choice was obvious.
Deciding on a dress was a different story. The Glam Squad is back together again at my live-in hotel on the Upper West Side, and Rodney’s currently holding up two contenders—both I’m on the fence about.
“The black one. Hands down,” Sheryl says. “But only if you’re really about that life and tryna get pregnant tonight.” She sniggles while slicking my hair up into a high pony. “Otherwise, go with the red.”
“Naaahhh,” Jamie chimes in. “I say go with the red first. It’ll remind him of the one you wore on the roof! Give ’im a little déjà vu.” She winks and thrusts her hips suggestively.
The visual sends a subtle shudder through me, along with the memory of Miles’s hips as they pressed mine against that brick wall. Although I’m tempted to want to jog his memory, I can tell by the way Rodney’s mouth is twisted and his head’s cocked to the side that he’s not feeling either of these options.
Rodney rubs his neck and walks over to the rack of gowns, speaking as he goes, “Nice gowns. Beautiful gowns.” He mumbles. “But I don’t think we need you to sizzle tonight, boo.” Pulling one off the rack, he turns back to face us. “I think we need you to sparkle.”
The dress he’s holding is a long sheath with thin straps and a high slit. The simple silhouette is cut from violet silk with elaborate beading that shimmers under the lights of my hotel room.
“Hmm,” Jamie hums, twisting her mouth. “This one says Miss View Park 2023.”
“Yeah,” Sheryl adds. “For me, it’s giving ‘pop my cherry, it’s prom night.’?”
At this, Rodney cuts them a ferocious a look that says, Damn it, I’ll bite you . I can’t help but laugh, even though I think I’m kind of in love with this dress.
“Despite those very vivid descriptions, ladies, I think I disagree,” I chime in. “This might be the one.”
“Figures,” Jamie and Sheryl both mumble in unison. Then they each stiffly return to their respective tasks. A quiet chill settles over the room and, with it, tension you could cut with safety scissors.
Rodney clears his throat. “Uhhh…y’all got a problem?”
A few seconds of tense silence pass before Jamie shrugs. “Not a problem like that…but we all know purple sparkles were not on the original mood board for tonight’s look. But I’ll just improvise the makeup, I guess,” she mumbles.
“Mm-hmm,” Sheryl adds, barely masking her irritation. “Typically I wouldn’t pair an updo with that neckline either. But this pony is already snatched to high heaven, and let me tell you it’s not budging.” She makes a show of checking her watch. “A little late to switch gears now is all I’m saying.”
I feel like a kid caught between the crosshairs of her parents’ latest battle of wills. But even I know what’s going on here is deeper than a dispute over a dress. For the first time in years, there is an elephant in the Glam Room.
“Okay, time-out,” Rodney says, making a T with the blades of his palms. He straightens to his full height and adjusts the Fendi frames that balance elegantly on the bridge of his nose. “Last time I checked this was supposed to be the Dream Team, and I never had to worry about the three of us pulling a cohesive look together at the last minute. What’s really going on?”
Jamie heaves a heavy sigh and makes direct eye contact with Sheryl, who drops her gaze to the floor before subtly giving her a nod of affirmation.
“Sheryl’s quitting,” Jamie says, voice slightly wobbly.
At this, the room seems to tilt, like I’ve been pushed off-balance. I look at Sheryl, and she’s frozen like stone, still eyeing the floor. “You’re not serious,” I say, eyes scanning the room and locking with three very serious-looking faces. “What’s happening?”
Sheryl clears her throat and finally meets my eyes. “I was going to come by next week and have a conversation with you,” she says, her tone bleak.
“Wh-why?” I ask. “Are you unhappy? Is it the travel? The pay? Because whatever it is, you know I can make adjus—”
“Her husband is sick,” Jamie says. And the words stop me in my tracks. Leaning back in my chair, I glance over at Rodney, who is shaking his head and mouthing the words I didn’t know .
“We found out several weeks ago,” Sheryl confesses. “And I just…I need to take some time. My family needs more from me than what I’ve been giving them while I’m here…with you.”
Her words are a flashing yellow light, a signal to pause and really weigh the gravity of the moment. It’s possible these past several weeks that I’ve been so caught up in the swirling storm of my own chaotic life I haven’t stopped to really look at the state of things for the people surrounding me. “Sheryl, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Honey, I wish I’d known too,” Rodney says, looking just about as deflated and bereft as I feel. Technically, as my glam coordinator, he’s their boss. Having hired both of them on and being in charge with keeping the schedule and directing all the looks, he’d be the first to know of any personnel changes.
“Look,” Jamie says, with her gaze directed at me. “And I’m telling you this as a real friend.” Her tone is direct. But it lacks bite. Even so, I can tell I’m in for a read. “You’re a big star and you’ve got big problems. But your problems aren’t any bigger than ours. And lately it’s started to feel that way. You and Rod have always been attached at the hip and in so deep with each other’s lives, the dynamic can be a challenge. And with everything you’ve got going on with the divorce, I don’t think Sheryl knew when the right time would be.”
I sit with that. Let it really seep in. “I hear you. I get it,” I say. Then I glance at Sheryl, whose eyes haven’t left the floor. “Sheryl, can we please have that talk next week? And take all the time you need. Anything you need. It’s yours, okay?”
She nods, then finally, she looks up at me with glassy eyes. “I know, girl. I know. And I was just playing before. The purple dress is fire.”
“I’m still partial to the red,” Jamie says. “But either way you’re gonna be a knockout.”
Rodney exhales loudly. “Woo, chile…y’all are gonna send me to an early grave, I swear.”
Then he heads into the other room arm in arm with Sheryl with her head resting on his shoulder. The visual tugs at my chest. Jamie turns to follow them, and I gently touch her wrist.
“Hey,” I say, to capture her attention. “I don’t want to be that friend who just takes and takes in her relationships.”
She stands there for a beat, regarding me with a deep emotion I can’t quite name.
“You know, you don’t only have Rodney in your corner, right?” she says. “I mean, I’m sure my time is coming when the rubber’s gonna meet the road and I’m gonna need some reinforcements. And when that time comes, I’ll be turning to y’all. I’ve been there before, and it always comes back around. But right now, I’m good. So what I’m saying is, you don’t just have Rodney. You’ve got me too.”
And for someone who feels lonely most days, even in crowded rooms, it’s exactly what I need to hear.
Coming to 30 Rock has never not made me feel like a total imposter. By now we’ve arrived, crowded together in the elevator, and are on our way up to the sixty-fifth floor for the Rainbow Room. This time feels just like the first time. Same old rain-slicked Forty-Ninth Street entrance. Same old butterflies wreaking havoc on my insides. It was almost seven years ago now that Elliot invited me to watch my first taping of Saturday Night Live . He was DJing a number for that week’s featured musical guest, and he brought me along to watch from the wings.
The night has stuck with me as a first look behind a gilded curtain. Getting into the infamous and exclusive after-party with the cast was something Rodney and I had only dreamed of on late nights out in Boston, during our first weeks of freshman year. But that night, I got to live out those dreams and more—doing pickleback shots with Kenan Thompson and RuPaul, dancing on a table with Cara Delevingne, and somehow finding myself roped into an hour-long conversation on Italian neorealism with Alden Ehrenreich. Occupying even the smallest space on this ultra exclusive tapestry felt like reaching the summit of New York’s celebrity culture.
But in hindsight, and with another half dozen SNL cast parties now under my belt, it was really just a slightly more sophisticated version of a frat party. The biggest distinction being that instead of jocks and legacy recruits, the crowd was more like a mixed bag of up-and-comers, offbeat creatives, and comedic legends sprinkled with some bona fide stars. Then of course there are the ones just lucky enough to score an invite, along for the wild ride.
Then, two years ago, I was asked to be the featured musical guest on Saturday Night Live myself. This, of course, being a major milestone in any recording artist’s career, was a near out-of-body experience for me. Also, of course, Elliot and I had already started to show our cracks by then. So on the big night, he was not there watching from the wings.
Tonight, however, the butterflies have emerged for a different reason—one having to do with a certain six-foot-three-inch LA Dodger. In the days since Miles and I spoke on the phone, the sounds of his soft but deep voice, even the subtle riffs of his stammer, have all gone triple platinum in my mind.
I know there’s a strong possibility that I won’t even see the man tonight, and that if I do, it would be from across a crowded room. Not to mention the very likely prospect of him bringing a date—someone he wouldn’t hesitate to be seen in public with because she doesn’t have all that stuff going on in the press right now . Someone without my baggage. But the slightest chance we will get a moment to reconnect has sent me spinning with anticipation.
Ping!
The elevator doors glide open on the sixty-fifth floor, and Sanders leads me and Jamie out while Angelo and Rodney bring up the rear. They’re all dressed to the nines in black-tie attire, just like the invitation requested. Sheryl’s got the rest of the night off. I granted her an indefinite hiatus from the glam team so she can spend more time with family and support her husband through his treatment. Besides, I think between me, Rodney, Jamie, and a jar of edge control, we can maintain a sleek ponytail for one night.
A few steps into the hallway, we’re met by a sharply dressed woman with a golden halo of curls. “Hello, Miss Simone,” she says, before nodding to greet the rest of my team. “I’m Shelea Smith, Mr. Westbrook’s event coordinator.”
Next to her stands a man in a blue velvet tux. He steps forward to shake my hand. “And I’m Edward Yap, the hospitality director here at the Rainbow Room. It’s an honor to have you with us tonight. May we show you to your dressing room?”
“So nice to meet you both,” I say, giving them my most gracious smile. “But first, I’d really love to get a quick sound check in with my band…if that’s okay?”
Ennio, my musical director, sent me a text while we were en route to let me know he and the rest of our six-piece ensemble had arrived and had already set up. We were up until the wee hours of the morning working on a special jazz arrangement of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” and tonight, we’ll perform it for the first time.
“Of course, Miss Simone. Right this way,” Edward says.
He leads us into the ballroom, and when I step through the double doors and catch sight of my band members onstage, the nerves from before morph into excitement. This is the feeling I’m constantly chasing—like fairy dust dancing around me. The feeling that only takes hold when I’m onstage in front of a crowd whose applause makes me feel like I could fly if I wanted to.
Jamie takes my phone and clutch to head to the dressing room while Sanders goes to touch base with event security. Rodney and Angelo stay on to watch the sound check and take photos for my socials.
Once I’ve greeted everyone onstage and we’re all situated, I give Ennio the customary nod, and he signals the band to begin. His opening chords on the piano give way to a seductively melodic acoustic guitar sound that wraps around the percussion section. I open my mouth to sing…and then we’re off to the races.
“You’re gonna knock ’em off their feet,” Angelo says, leaning close and looping my arm through his. We’ve just completed sound check, and after thanking the band, I hopped down from the stage to meet my boys.
Rodney joins me on the other side, and we snake through the tables, heading for the ballroom exit. “I think even Whitney felt that one,” he says, and it gives me the best kind of satisfaction.
I want this performance to be special. Not just because an unspoken rule of show business is that you’ve got no business covering Whitney if you don’t have the literal and figurative range, but because of what tonight means to Miles.
The Evelyn Foundation exists to carry out his grandmother’s legacy. And as far as I can tell, Evelyn Garcia-Westbrook is the woman who made him the man he is today. She’s the woman who showed Miles how to cut fabric on the bias and properly thread a sewing machine. And reading between the lines tells me she’s the woman who’s responsible for his kind, gentle presence.
He’s never mentioned his own mom to me, and it hasn’t felt right to look up what others have to say about her online. Heaven knows I duck and dodge any journalist looking to dig into my family background. But I get the feeling that the Evelyn Foundation’s mission to support teen moms may have something to do with her.
“Sooo…” Rodney hums, drawing me out of my deep thoughts. “Has the man of the hour reached out at all since that late-night booty call?”
“For the fifty-leventh time, that’s not what it was,” I snap.
“Well, not with that attitude!” he replies, rearing his head back. “All depends on how you look at it, love.”
“Oh, the plight…” Angelo deadpans, while scanning his emails.
I won’t lie, the adrenaline rush from being onstage totally eclipsed any stress over not hearing from Miles, at least until Rodney mentioned him just now. With those familiar, tiny electric sparks coursing through my veins and my heart racing at the rhythm of the congas, I was squarely in my Ella-fierce zone.
But now, I’m replaying the too few times Miles and I were alone—out on the baseball diamond, backstage at the Grammys—and I’m wondering if we’ll ever get the chance to be like that again.
“Ella.” I hear my name in a dulcet baritone, and it makes me stop short. Rodney and Angelo follow suit, both dropping my arms when I turn in the direction of the sound.
What I find standing there leaves me speechless…it’s Miles in a tux. And the view is decadent bordering on sinful. Like a cherry dipped in dark chocolate and dusted with gold flakes.
Sensing a sudden hot flash, I flap a palm in front of my face and clear my throat. “Oh hey, you!” I say, a bit too loud and a little wobbly. “Didn’t think you’d be here so early.”
Miles jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I, uh…caught the end of your rehearsal and couldn’t look away,” he says. He swallows, and when his jaw clenches, I get a vivid flashback of that five-o’clock shadow gently scraping against my face and neck as he breathed against my skin under the rain.
Miles’s eyes quickly scan me from head to toe—a cursory look, unlike those languid, thirsty glances on set that made me feel exposed but also desired. In only leggings and a zip up, I suppose my ensemble isn’t quite giving what it needs to give at the moment.
“Oh, don’t worry, I got the dress code memo,” I say, barely masking how self-conscious I feel. “There’s an actual gown I’m going to change into before…the thing . It’s nicer than, well…this.” I gesture toward my getup.
“And trust,” Rodney chimes in, startling me because I’d honestly forgotten he was standing there, “it’s a good one. Very expensive too. And on loan so…” Rodney points at Miles and mouths, I’m watching you, and I wish I had something tiny and sharp to stab him with.
Miles laughs, rubbing his hands together and flashing his bright, sense-stealing smile. “Consider me properly warned. I’ll be sure to keep my distance.” At what must read like disappointment on my face, he rushes in with a save: “Or who knows…maybe we can behave ourselves long enough for one dance?”
“I think I’d like that,” I say, shamelessly hoping he intends to follow through.
And I might be imagining this, but Rodney and Angelo seem to have disappeared, like they slowly backed away unnoticed to give us a moment of privacy.
“But for real though. I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” Miles says. “The band sounds amazing. And you…you’re gonna make people fall in love tonight.”
I thank him for the compliment. And when I turn to head for my dressing room, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I already have.