Page 2 of A Little Kissing Between Friends

“She said I was lying, Daddy! But I wasn’t, so I told her that she could ask Reina herself, so we went and found Reina on the jungle gym. She was hanging upside down and her braids looked like the beaded curtain at Nana’s house. So then Britney Berry asked her if I was her girlfriend and Reina dropped down from the top, and it was really cool because she did a back flip, and when she stood up, she flipped her hair back over her head and she told Britney Berry that I was her girlfriend. And then she kissed my cheek.”

“She kissed you?”

“Yeah, Daddy. On the cheek.” Tapping my cheek, I took another breath and got to the point. “So then, Britney Berry got mad and pushed Reina down and then told me I wasn’t invited to her birthday party anymore. And that made me mad because she was having it at Celebration Station and Mommy had already sent the r-s-v-p that I was going, and we bought her a gift and everything! Actually, it was two gifts, because we bought her a Barbie and a Ken!”

Daddy tilted his head to the side. “And what did you do when you got mad, Star Shine?”

“Well...” I rubbed my hands against my thighs, using the denim to dry the sudden dampness on my palms. Shrugging, I bounced my eyes around the room as I stated, “I pushed her.”

The room was quiet for a moment, long enough for me to realize that it was serious. The front room was never quiet. There was always some sort of noise emitting from one of the instruments, or the metronome, or the hum of the amp. But this time, everything had gone silent, as if every particle in that room had bated breath while we waited for my daddy’s reaction. Marvin Thomas was a lot of things, but a violent man was not one of them. He was the epitome of being a lover, not a fighter, and because of that, he’d always tried to impress upon me and my brothers the importance of problem solving without raising our fists.

Unfortunately, the other half of our DNA derived from a woman who was known as Killa Carissa around her neighborhood. Carissa Thomas née Woodson would whoop a trick just for staring at her too long, and me, Caleb, and Cody definitely took after her in that vein, fighting like cats and dogs throughout our childhood and teenage years.

“What happened then?” asked my daddy.

“Well, after I pushed Britney Berry, she pushed me back and then we started wrestling. Then Reina ran to get Mr. Williams and he put us in time out for the rest of recess.”

“I didn’t get any calls from the school today,” he mused, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully.

“I think Mr. Williams gave Mommy a paper about it when she came to pick me up, because she asked me why me and Britney Berry were fighting and I told her that Britney Berry had uninvited me to her birthday party, but I didn’t tell her why. That’s when she said she didn’t know what to do with me.”

“So she sent you to me.”

I nodded, even though it wasn’t a question.

“You know what I’m going to tell you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. So, tell me all of the things you could have done with that anger instead of pushing Britney.”

“Britney Berry, Daddy. We have four Britneys in our class, so you have to say her whole name so everyone can know who we’re talking about.”

“Okay, Star Shine. What could you have done with that anger instead of pushing Britney Berry?”

Releasing a long-suffering sigh, I dropped back down onto my stool. “I could’ve gone for a walk or run.”

Nodding, he pointed across the room. “Mmhm. Pick up that guitar and finish tuning it while you talk.”

Doing as he said, I cradled the heavy instrument in my lap and rattled off a list of ways I could have managed my emotions. It was a list Daddy had ran down for me and my brothers countless times. He always said that he made us recite the list to him so that when we were in situations with heightened emotions, at least one alternative reaction would likely pop into our head and we could make better choices. It didn’t occur to me then, but years later, I realized that in that moment—my coming out—my father had chosen to focus on my bad behavior instead of the possibly jarring news that his only daughter had a girlfriend in the fourth grade. He normalized it by not spotlighting it, and when I was old enough to learn how that usually went for many people, the memory of that moment stuck with me forever.

I hadn’t even questioned whether or not to tell him the whole story. Where Mommy might’ve fussed at me, I knew that my daddy would hear me out first and tell me what I did wrong without making me feel bad. It was the way he was with everything, especially music. Whenever I made something new, he was the first person I went to, my stomach knotted in anticipation as I watched his face intently while he absorbed my creation.

Twenty-three years after receiving that drum machine, I still experienced butterflies in my belly when I got ready to play new music for someone. It wasn’t nerves, not really. That’s just how deep the love that I had for what I did was. It was excitement. Pure, unfettered exhilaration fluttered around inside of me ahead of the aural perfection that I was preparing to unleash unto some unsuspecting being. I wouldn’t classify Xeno in that way, but even though we’d been rockin’ since my senior year of high school, and she knew better than anyone—other than my daddy—of my capabilities, she was never not impressed when I presented my latest creation.

I hadn’t seen her in a minute—hadn’t seen anyone in a minute, for that matter—because I’d spent the last six weeks in L.A. working with Naima and other legendary songwriters to complete a full concept album for a popstar who was ready to try a different sound. I’d had to sign an NDA before even receiving the information about the album camp, and I still wasn’t informed who I was making music for until I arrived to the mini mansion in Beverly Hills. Due to the secretive nature of the artist, none of us were able to use our phones the entire trip. While the experience was unmatched and priceless, going no contact with my loved ones had been hard.

Less than a week since I’d been home, and Xeno and I had slipped right back into our routine like only a weekend had passed. We were three songs into our weekly listening session when I queued up the only track that already had vocals laid down. While rap tracks were my bread and butter, the lovey-dovey R&B stuff had my heart. Seemingly sweet songs with melodies that wrapped around you like a warm blanket—just before the sexy undertone snuck up on you like a double shot of Hennessy mixed into a tall glass of lemonade—were some of my favorite projects to create. Maybe I was lowkey a lover rather than a fighter like my daddy after all.

Silently, I watched Xeno bob her head as she stared at the soundboard, waiting patiently for her to give me something. As long as I’d known her, I understood that she needed a moment to process the music, so I gave her that because her opinion was on the short list of those that mattered to me. When the song ended, she pointed at the board.

“Aye, run that back.”

Grinning, I pressed the button that would replay the song. Her desire to give it a second listen was a great sign. I mean, I knew the song was good—the beat was immaculate and Ray’s vocals were on point—but it always felt good to get that confirmation from outside sources. When the song faded out for a second time, Xeno turned her pleased expression my way.

“Yo, you know that was dope, right?”

I nodded. “Thanks, bro.”