Chapter 30
THIRTY
After watching household-name celebrities snort lines of coke off video vixens’ asses in the VIP area at various MC RedHot parties, I thought I was unshockable.
But getting Lucinda’s card was even more astounding than seeing the star of last summer’s box office blockbuster lift his white powder–covered face from a dancer’s nether regions and yodel over Big Pun’s “I’m Not a Player.
” I ripped open the black envelope to find a brief note in barely legible cursive. I could hear Lucinda’s voice as I read:
Dear Nicole,
I feel compelled to reach out after perusing your Bobbie Washington tribute.
You certainly learned a lot under my tutelage.
If you had adequate resources, your November issue would have been an even better homage to an artist that you obviously held in high regard.
Just this year, Bobbie refused to shoot an inside feature for StyleList because we didn’t have a Black editor to work on her story.
It was a questionable career move for her (much like your decision to leave Park Ave Pub), but she displayed considerable integrity.
I also read your editor’s letter with some interest, as I believe I know to whom you were referring … It was courageous to write about a situation that so many women have faced. You always did have more nerve than you gave yourself credit for.
I’ve been asked to put forth suggestions for new ASME members, and I’ve sent them your name. I’m sure the organization will reach out shortly. I hope that you appreciate this opportunity and will not squander it as you have others. Marie says hello.
Fare thee well,
Lucinda
When I got to the end, I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and placed the card face down on my desk.
Lucinda’s name was a verb, and as I sat there, feeling anxious, insulted, and honored at the same time, I realized that I’d been Lucinda-ed.
Still, there could be no question that the woman was a goddamned industry legend.
And she’d given the American Society of Magazine Editors, the most prestigious organization in our industry, my name?
I was floored. You had to be at the top of the masthead at a “respected” publication to even be considered for ASME membership.
That it had even reached Lucinda’s marble desk was a testament to the amount of attention the November issue had generated. The October issue with Sliq Bishopp’s provocative cover had sold well, but the November tribute to Bobbie was gone from newsstands within days.
People in the industry suddenly reached out with what I now understood were the real invitations.
I had assumed you could spot the power brokers by who occupied a VIP banquette at a party.
But then I started hearing about the other gatherings—the intimate dinner cooked by a celebrity chef at a platinum artist’s Alpine, New Jersey, mansion; the leadership retreat for the fifty most powerful women in music and media; the private jet a label CEO was chartering to fly three hundred of his closest industry friends to Jamaica for his birthday.
That’s when I realized: The party scene was only the surface layer.
There were levels to this kind of cultural power: At the outermost layer, you might hear about an MC RedHot party.
A step deeper, you might actually get an invitation.
Securing a VIP banquette at that party meant you had some influence.
But true power existed much further in, in the spaces you wouldn’t even know existed unless you were part of them—where invitations weren’t about being seen but about being counted among the real players.
Getting a seat on that jet to Jamaica wasn’t just another level; it was five layers deeper into a world where real decisions, alliances, and deals were made.
As much as the industry was taking notice, so was Sugar’s audience.
I’d been recognized a few times by excited fans of the magazine in the corner bodega and in the drugstore (where I’d been on an inglorious errand to buy tampons and Tums).
When I went to a music festival in Marcus Garvey Park, so many people came up to me, I almost felt like one of the performers.
DMX was the headliner and Ruff Ryders Entertainment had given me access to the VIP tent along with four extra tickets, so I invited Teresa, Denyse, Sofie, and Kiara.
While my besties had acknowledged that they may have rushed to judgment, they still needed to get to know her.
When Kiara showed up with a couple fat joints, I knew we were about to bond for real.
Sofie and Teresa lit up right away while Denyse took some convincing. By the time DMX hit “Ruff Ryder’s Anthem,” we were all toasted and singing “Stop, drop, shut ’em down, open up shop. Oh, no, that’s how Ruff Ryders roll” at the top of our lungs.
When the song ended, Denyse poked me and murmured, “Nik, I think people are staring at you.”
I’d just laughed. “It’s the weed, girl. You’re not used to being high and you’re paranoid!”
But I glanced around to see a few women looking my way.
I’d been questioning how strong that joint was when a woman who looked young enough to still be in college padded up to me.
“Hey, Nikki. Sorry to bug you,” she said, so low I had to put my ear next to her lips to hear her.
I must have frowned as I strained to hear her because her volume increased as she blurted, “Your Bobbie Washington issue was da bomb!”
Before I could properly thank her, another young woman hesitantly approached. “Excuse me, Ms. Rose,” she mumbled. “Just wanted to say that I have every one of your editor’s letters.”
My friends had watched bemusedly as more women wandered over to me while I struggled to sober up enough to respond. This was different from the industry crowd at Ricky Matsumoro’s VMAs after party; these were my readers, my Sugar girls.
The mail that referenced Nikki’s Notes had also increased every month, and with the tribute issue, my editor’s letter generated almost as many letters as the articles on Bobbie.
I’d ignited a firestorm as people debated which industry was worse for women and who the powerful man I’d referenced was.
Women wrote to me from every state in the country with their own tales of being hit on, overlooked, objectified, assaulted, afraid, and pissed off.
As we were flooded with letters and emails, I questioned my promise to read every one of them.
At least much of the December issue had been pushed from November, so it would be less work to produce.
But I still found myself in the office late every night, going through story after story that many of the women said they’d never shared with anyone before.
One of those nights, I decided to take a break from sifting through the tens of letters we’d received just that day to check my insistently buzzing two-way pager. It was an ominous message from Barbara: I’d like to see you first thing in the morning. Please be in my office at 10 am.
The next day, Tisha was blasting a local hip hop station in the NuVoices reception area like she did every morning.
As I crept by her desk, hoping I’d beat Barbara to the office, I heard a familiar voice.
It was Betty Brown’s first single, its catchy, driving beat instantly distinctive whenever it came on the radio—which felt like every thirty minutes.
Eternal Records’ marketing machine had finally kicked in, and Betty’s song had been rapidly climbing the charts, like I thought it would.
Tisha was bopping her head and warbling along, snapping her fingers to the syncopated rhythm. “Hey, Nik, have you heard the second single yet?” she called out when she saw me. “They played it a few minutes ago. I guess it’s Betty day!”
I gave her a thin smile. I was reserving energy for my conversation with Barbara.
It felt as if I were running a gauntlet as I walked the NuVoices floor to my office: Congratulations on the prescience of Sugar’s August cover were coming from every side, but the words were like blows, highlighting my success identifying a rising star but also my failure to translate it into newsstand sales.
The August issue had been like an indie movie at an artsy film festival, a critically acclaimed tour de force with precious little actual audience.
I dropped onto the sofa in my office with a yawn, resisting the urge to close my eyes.
Sleep had eluded me as I played out all the possible scenarios of the 10 AM meeting while staring up at the dark ceiling.
Barbara hadn’t commented on any of my Nikki’s Notes but had been openly begrudging my presence ever since I’d obliquely called her a “bean counter” in my September letter; she’d loudly exhale every time she had to address me in the office but still crowed about how well Sugar was doing during every call with NuVoices’ board.
Von stuck his head in my door, but I dismissed him with a small head shake.
I’d emailed him to cancel my morning appointments sans mentioning that Barbara had summoned me.
My mind was racing enough without having to manage the whirling dervish Von would have become had he known about my meeting with our CEO.
When the clock ticked to 9:59, I dusted off the white pantsuit I’d broken out for the occasion (though I now had the sleeves rolled up and was wearing it with orange dunks and a Knicks tank top) and trudged toward Barbara’s closed door.
I heard Barbara’s muffled voice, talking low into the phone as I knocked. I made out the barely audible words “She’s here, be ready” before opening the door.
I flung my low braid over my shoulder and tried a bright smile and brighter tone. “Morning, Barbara. Have you heard Betty’s new single? It’s all over the radio and the whole office is buzzing about it.”