Chapter 3 Rhythm Brooks
RHYTHM brOOKS
Groaning, I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and winced. My back ached from falling asleep in the chair at the dining room table again. I had been painting until almost two in the morning.
The apartment was quiet, except for the soft roar of the heat and somebody’s TV playing through the wall next door.
Our place was a small two-bedroom on the South Side.
The kids technically shared a room, but KJ was seven now and needed his own space, so Kinsley had migrated into my room.
The dining room was mostly art supplies and canvases.
Laundry was piled in a basket near the door.
I made a mental note to wash it tonight and tried not to think about the last time I had made that same mental note.
I went to KJ’s room. He lay sprawled sideways across his bed, with one sock off and his mouth slightly open.
“KJ,” I called, shaking him gently. “Baby, get up.”
He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. “Five more minutes.”
“It’s already six. You gotta be dressed in forty-five minutes or I’m going to be late for work.”
He peeked out from under the pillow, then flopped his arm dramatically. “I hate school.”
“You love school. You just hate mornings.”
He thought about it, then nodded. “I hate mornings.”
I smiled. “Same. Come on.”
I laid his school uniform out. Then I went to get Kinsley. She was awake now, standing in the bed with her hair all over her head.
“Good morning, sweetie.”
“Good morning, mommy,” she whispered sweetly in her toddler dialect. She wrapped her arms around my neck as I scooped her up. She laid her head on my shoulder like she wasn’t ready to wake up either.
The next forty-five minutes were a blur of brushing teeth, doing Kinsley’s hair, wrestling her into leggings and a sweater, pouring cereal, wiping up spilled cereal, and digging through the clean laundry basket for a pair of socks that actually matched.
I managed to drop KJ off just in time. Then I dropped Kinsley off at daycare.
By seven-thirty, I was at my desk. I worked as a medical coder. It sounded more important than it was. Mostly, I read charts and typed in numbers so insurance companies could find new ways not to pay.
I’d gotten a certification in medical billing/coding after high school.
I’d been working in the field ever since, so the pay was decent.
But my passion was art. The first time I picked up a pencil, I was five years old.
I copied a cartoon off the TV. When I finished, my drawing looked almost exactly like the character.
My mother couldn’t believe how good it was.
From then on, I drew on everything. The older I got, I would save my allowance to buy drawing supplies. In high school, when other girls were practicing makeup in the bathroom, I was sketching their faces.
Eventually, I moved from notebook paper to real canvases, teaching myself how to work with paint. Between social media and word of mouth, I had sold a few pieces and even painted a couple of murals in some small businesses in the city. It was never enough for me to quit my job, though.
Being a full-time artist was all I really wanted. Now, my “studio” was a corner of my dining room. After KJ and Kinsley went to sleep, I created until my eyes crossed. Some nights I cried while I painted because I was so tired. But those nights I felt more alive than I did all day.
I would have loved to feel that freedom all day, to have my art pay my bills, but that wasn’t an option. I had two kids to feed and bills to pay, so there wasn’t an option to be a starving artist.
Me and Kodi, my children’s father, weren’t together, but we still slept together.
Things between us had fizzled out about a year after Kinsley was born.
He was a good father. He showed up for the kids, bought what they needed, and was the best father he knew how to be.
The problem was he never grew up. He was still in the streets.
In his late twenties, he still acted like that teenage boy who flashed wads of cash on social media like that was cute.
Kodi had the gangster persona and the trouble that came with it, but not the kind of money that made all that risk worth it.
So, I broke up with him. But the sex was good, and on the nights when I was lonely, I let him come over.
Because I was still sleeping with him, Kodi still thought I was his.
In his mind, we were just on a break. He still acted like he had some kind of claim over me, and I let him believe it.
I knew I deserved more than that. I wanted a man with bigger dreams than ducking police and posting selfies with money he might not even have next week. I wanted stability and partnership.
Around 10AM, I slipped my phone out under my desk and checked it for the first time since I started work.
There was a message from my mother asking me to go to a town hall meeting with her that evening. I playfully rolled my eyes. My mama loved our neighborhood too much. She was at every block meeting, every school council, and every protest.
Then I saw an Instagram DM notification from Voss Contemporary House.
For a second, my brain didn’t process what I was seeing. Then I opened it and read the message: Hi Rhythm, this is Aria from Voss Contemporary. I’d love to talk about your work.
I almost dropped the phone.
I knew exactly who Aria was. I followed Voss Contemporary House’s page. I had seen the photos from their shows. I had scrolled through, studying the artists they posted, wishing one day my name could be on a tag in that space.
And now they had messaged me.
My hands shook.
Right then, my phone lit up with Kodi’s name.
I answered it through my AirPods. “Hey.”
“What you doing?” He sounded like he was still in bed.
“Working, nigga. It’s a weekday, isn’t it?”
He chuckled. “Relax.”
“Guess what.”
“What’s up?”
“I just got a DM from Aria Cartier at Voss Contemporary House. She wants to talk about my work.”
“Who?”
“Voss Contemporary House. It’s a gallery in Bronzeville—”
“Oh,” he cut in with a scoff of disinterest. “That art shit.”
Rolling my eyes, I felt my excitement deflate a little. “Yeah. That ‘art shit.’ This is big, Kodi. They don’t just DM everybody.”
“Well, that’s cool or whatever. But art don’t pay no bills, Rhythm. You better keep clockin’ in at that lil’ job. Don’t let nobody gas you up and have you quitting to go paint for free.”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I didn’t say I was quitting.”
“Good. Anyway, hit me when you go to lunch.”
Before I could reply, the line went dead.
I stared at my phone for a second. “You don’t pay bills either, nigga,” I muttered.
I hadn’t expected a parade, but I expected him to be at least excited. He knew art was my true passion. He’d watched me paint in that dining room corner for years. So, it hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It felt like he’d blown out my spark that fast.
I went back to the DM from Voss.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. My heart raced. Fear and hope ran wildly through my veins. I could hear Kodi’s dismissive voice in my head as I replied: Hi Aria. Thank you so much for reaching out. I’d love the chance to meet with you and talk about my work.