Echo
Five years later...
He was also my right hand, so the rumors were that I blessed him with the best beats.
That was cap.
All my beats were fire.
Optimus had a lyrical flow that could make anything sound hypnotic. One time, he stood on stage and made a whole rap about the Muffin Man—straight bullshit—and caused a whole internet trend with people singing and rapping about a nigga from Drury Lane.
Chuckling at the memory, I stepped back to analyze the creation in front of me.
Honey-roasted turkey, pepper jack cheese, lettuce, pickles, chips, and a drizzle of hot honey all stacked between focaccia bread. That was how baby girl liked her sandwiches.
For someone who had never stepped foot in a corner store in Jersey, she somehow knew that putting chips on your sandwich was the only way to eat it. And not just any chip—gotta be the sour cream and cheddar Ruffles or the nacho cheese Doritos.
Yeah.
Baby girl had taste.
The smell of peace and innocence filled my nostrils while tiny pokes attacked my lower back.
Still packaging her lunch, I smiled and said, “I smell Heaven.” Juliet never lost that newborn baby smell, at least to me she didn’t.
Her scent always reminded me of what I lost and gained that day and the promise that I’d give her the world, by any means necessary.
Turning around, I was in awe of the vision of perfection, reminding me of her mother, Simone.
A head full of dark brown, long hair styled in a high ponytail, loosely curled and held together by a bo-bo.
No matter how my mother styled her hair, a bo-bo was a must, in honor of Simone’s signature hair accessory.
Her deep brown skin, paired with her dark eyes, complemented her brown Cat & Jack sweatsuit, layered with a tan Gucci jacket and brown-and-cream Nike Dunks.
My “Ju-Ju” had come a long way from the molded loaf of bread she used to look like.
I’d say she evened out around three months of age, and there wasn’t a doll created that could compare to her beauty.
The pictures in Simone’s obituary showed she had been a beautiful baby, so Juliet’s small episode of ugliness had to have come from her daddy’s side.
Tears threatened to pour from my eyes at the thought of Simone’s funeral.
I spared no expense. The way the crowd overlapped with the mega church—with people in attendance ranging from our classmates to celebrities—you would’ve thought my best friend stopped the world the day she was laid to rest.
And as for that nigga Sloane, I did everything in my power to get him wiped from this earth.
My last attempt had a few of my niggas from Philly kidnap Sloane’s doctor and torture him until he gave up valuable information.
You see, a little shorty I used to hook up with worked at Summit First Credit Union, and I had her watching Sloane’s debit and credit card transactions.
There was no movement for a while—at least nothing out of the ordinary.
Just a few monthly payments and streaming subscriptions, nothing worth making a move over.
One day, a prescription was paid for that was issued by Dr. Alfred Haynes.
Dr. Haynes, through a bloody mouth and swollen-shut eyes, eventually let it be known that Sloane was in a mental facility.
A judgment given by some George Jefferson-looking motherfucker, that Sloane’s parents knew.
Those political connections allowed that murderous coward to kill Simone, get charged without a public trial, and disappear into some heavily guarded mental institution that apparently only houses high-profile patients—so it’s damn near off the grid.
Bullshit.
But to keep more innocent people from being hurt or killed—and to keep Juliet protected—it was an injustice I had to swallow.
I crouched down in front of Ju-Ju and placed rapid kisses on her left rosy cheek. That usually made her fall into a fit of loud giggles, but when she only gave me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, I signed, “You good?”
She nodded yes, her brown loose curls fluttering in the air. Nodding? This wasn’t like her. Ju-Ju was bold, courageous, and loud—whether it came from her vocal cords or her hands, you knew she was there and exactly what she demanded.
Most would’ve called her a spoiled brat.
One of those kids who would throw a full-blown temper tantrum in Pandora if the charm she wanted wasn’t available.
The kind where total strangers would stop and stare at her outlandish behavior, watching her drag her parents through it, only to turn around and say, “She just needs a weekend with me,” like they had the cure.
And truth be told, that image fit Juliet perfectly.
As gorgeous as my little African American princess was—with her glowing brown skin, big expressive eyes, and those soft curls that framed her face like she was born to be admired—she had the behavior of a child who had never been told no and didn’t plan on learning anytime soon.
And I took one hundred percent of the blame for that.
Because it was my personal goal to mold her.
Now, was I aiming for Stitch from the Disney movie?
No. But I was damn proud. Juliet was smart, independent, and sure of who she was—well, as sure as a five-year-old could be.
There were no worries about her being shy, making friends, trying out for social clubs, or getting pushed around on the playground.
Her disability didn’t make her want to shrink herself or become invisible. If anything, it made her more curious to be a part of everything around her.
And maybe I overdid it a little.
But I had to.
Because I was always going to overcompensate for an irreplaceable loss she would never know she experienced—her mother.
“You should have been here,” I said unknowingly out loud, looking toward the ceiling. I returned my eyes to Juliet’s almond-brown ones, catching her staring at me like I had lost my mind before she signed, “Who should have been here?”
Fuck.
One of baby girl’s superpowers was that she could read lips exceptionally well. Didn’t matter how fast you spoke—she could recite every line, word for word, and never got it wrong. Especially when you cursed or gossiped. That was her favorite.
“Huh?” I signed.
“You looked in the sky and said, ‘you should have been here.’ Who were you talking to?” she signed.
Did I mention how intuitive this little lady was? If something didn’t sound right, she’d keep asking questions until she broke you down. You know how crazy a nigga looked, stuttering in sign language? Like I was malfunctioning or some shit. Being the terrible liar I was, I changed the subject.
“Why you nervous?” my fingers expressed.
Juliet’s little manicured hands snapped up fast. “I’m not nervous,” she signed.
I lifted one eyebrow, challenging her, and signed back, “Yes, you are.”
Her forehead wrinkled, letting me know my challenge was accepted. “How you know, smart ass?”
I leaned in closer like I was about to tell her the biggest secret in the world. I signed, “Because you’re not using your voice.”
Her mouth opened, then shut. Rolling her eyes, she signed, “Why do I have to go to kindergarten, Choo-Choo? I want to go to the studio with you.”
That was our thing—Juliet and me.
Back when I was still in high school, my parents would have the nanny bring her to the studio, and she’d sit with me for hours, quiet as hell but taking everything in.
When I graduated, Ju-Ju was around two, and from that point on, she was with me damn near every day.
She learned how to work a MIDI controller before she ever touched a tricycle.
I’d be layering drums, and she’d be right there, pressing keys like she had a placement on the track.
The studio wasn’t just where I worked—it was where we spent one-on-one time together.
My mother kept pressing me to put her in preschool so she could be around other kids with her condition, but I wasn’t going for that.
Her condition didn’t define her, and she maneuvered around perfectly fine.
My mother often got being a crippler versus a nurturer confused.
If it were up to her, Juliet would still be in a stroller, chewing on a pacifier.
Besides, I always needed my eyes on Ju-Ju because of the guilt I carried over her mother’s death.
Had I been there for Simone, she’d be here for her daughter.
Crazy how my heart knew that shit wasn’t my fault, but my brain delivered a different story.
However, no one denies Queen Olivia Everette. So, to meet her halfway, I hired a personal tutor for Ju-Ju.
Gina—a night-time college student pursuing her master’s degree in special education—taught baby girl everything. Her academics and structure are the reasons we all became fluent in ASL. Gina was solid.
But when Juliet turned five, even I had to admit they were right.
She needed more than me. More than the studio. More than just being surrounded by adults who let her get away with everything.
She needed other kids.
That was the nice way of saying her bratty ass needed to learn how to make friends, share, and not run shit everywhere she went.
“Yeah, Ju, as much as I want you with me every day, you need to be around kids your age more. Don’t you want to get a best friend?”
“I already have one—you, Choo-Choo,” she signed.
That shit melted a nigga’s heart, and I almost folded right there and told her she never had to go to school. But I stood firm in my decision against the one person who could make my 6’5, 245-pound ass put on a tutu and host the world’s biggest tea party… well, almost.
“Aight, look,” I said, straightening up. “I’ll make a deal with you. For every week you complete school, come Saturday, I’ll buy you whatever you want.”
Her eyes lit up instantly. “No limits?” she signed, slow and suspicious.
“No limits,” I confirmed.
She tilted her head, studying me like I was the real fool in the room. Then—
“Sucka ass nigga,” she said, laughing, her voice just as clear and pretty as ever.