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“Amen.” She squeezes her eyes shut.
I chuckle.
One eye pops open. “Why are you laughing? Didn’t you say grace?”
“Not in the Western sense.” I stir the noodles in my soup. “It is a way of showing gratitude for the food.”
“Oh.” Her mouth forms a perfect circle.
“Go ahead and eat.” I gesture to her.
She hesitantly picks up her chopsticks. When she takes her first bite, her eyes brighten. “Whoa. This is insane.”
I smile, enjoying her delight. The more time I spend with her, the more I appreciate her candidness. Miss Williams does not hide her feelings, whether they are anger, fear, indecision, or happiness. I find her transparency refreshing.
We eat quietly for a while and, for the first time in a long time, I realize I want to break the silence during a meal.
I set my chopsticks down. “What made you decide to become a songwriter?”
“Me?” She chokes on the food still in her mouth.
I pour her a glass of water and hand it over.
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine. Dejonae does not seem to notice, as occupied as she is with regaining her breath.
“I,” she coughs cutely, “was into music from a young age, but I didn’t have the discipline to learn notes. I wanted to be a DJ. I figured it would be easier to blend two ready-made songs together than try to create my own.”
“That seems like a fair assessment.”
She smiles. “After my sister started going deaf, our lives changed completely, but what I didn’t expect to change was the way people interacted with us. Suddenly, my sister was being bullied. Kids made fun of her right to her face thinking she couldn’t understand because she couldn’t hear.”
“And you decided to kill them with music?”
“Something like that.” She laughs. “I broke someone’s nose and got suspended from school. My dad sat me down on the porch swings and told me that I could beat a thousand people and not change one person’s mind or I could change a thousand minds with one song.”
“Wise words. However, it’s a little optimistic for a child to be so influential.”
“Hey!” She wads a napkin and throws it at me.
It sinks to the table harmlessly.
I smile. “Your father is a musician too?”
“Only an admirer. His dad was the musician. A saxophone player in underground jazz clubs.”
“Exciting.” I lean forward, eager for more. “Did you follow your father’s advice?”
“I did. I wrote a song for the summer talent show and dedicated it to my sister. It was about how strong she was and, simultaneously, how awful bullies are. I made sure to include all the awful things people had done to her in the song and I used their names too.”
“Name and shame. Very effective. You were not dragged off the stage?”
“The complete opposite. I got a standing ovation.”
“The song was that good?” I arch an eyebrow, impressed.
She snorts. “Oh, no, it was horrible. I’m pretty sure I stole the chords fromI Will Survive’s bridge section. And I was cramming rhymes like a baby ramming a circle building block into a square hole.”
I laugh quietly.
