Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [24]
“That’s deep, Windsor. I’ve always focused on making someone love me more,” I said as Windsor placed her hand on top of mine.
We sat in silence for a moment and then I said, “Windsor, there’s a lot of stuff about Basil you and the public don’t know. That boy has lots of secrets, and my new song might just tip off the world.”
“What secrets does Basil have that the world needs to know?” Windsor asked.
I looked at Windsor with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin and said, “If either one of us had a good-looking brother, we would be wise to keep him away from Basil.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s put it this way. If Basil were still in high school, he’d fit right in at that school where you teach.” I laughed.
“Are you telling me Basil’s gay?”
“Not really all the way. I guess you could call him gay-lite.”
“No, that’s called bisexual. Which should surprise me, considering how fine and masculine he is, but teaching at Harvey Milk has taught me a lot about stereotypes. Still, I don’t think that’s something you need to tell the world. Basil has enough trouble, because no matter how gorgeous he is, he’s still a black man. That’s burden enough. Let him keep his secrets if he chooses.”
“I hear ya talking, but his little secret might help my singing career get off to the right start,” I said defiantly.
“Yancey! Why would you want to act so ugly? Great things are happening for you. Your voice will sell itself. Release the thought of revenge and you’ll be blessed,” Windsor said.
It was no wonder Windsor was pregnant—she was always acting like someone’s mama. But I couldn’t be too mad at her, since she did have a point. So I just looked down a moment and said, “I don’t know, Windsor. His secret hurt me a lot, and I learned as a child not to let people mess over me. When they strike, you’ve got to strike back. Catch them unaware, after they’ve forgotten the pain they’ve caused.”
Windsor took my hand in hers, looked into my eyes and said, “Whoever taught you that, Yancey, was flat-out wrong.”
• • •
The traffic surrounding Carnegie Hall was hopelessly congested with limos and taxis, but I didn’t care. I was floating on a magic carpet after witnessing my peers put on a show, each trying to outsing the others: Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige, Macy, Beyoncé and her backups, Stevie Wonder, Marc Anthony and Eric Clapton.
But they were not the main reason I was floating. When I walked down the red carpet to enter the hall with Michel, photographers started screaming out my name, “Yancey B, would you stop for me, please?” “Who designed your dress?” “How does it feel to be the new pop diva?” “Why aren’t you performing tonight?”
It was wonderful as I turned this way and then the other way, smiling all the time while flashes blinded my view. When Patrick Stinson from the E! channel pulled me off the red carpet for a live interview, I knew I had arrived. When he asked me about my song and if the lyrics were based on a personal experience, I looked at him, smiled and said, “Patrick, that’s a great question, and I will answer it very soon, but right now I’m just here to support Wyclef and his kids.” Who said beauty pageants don’t serve a useful purpose?
When Wyclef himself invited me to a private after-party at Lotus, I politely declined, telling him I had an interview with Deborah Gregory of Essence the next morning and I wanted to be fresh. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Next time.”
As I pulled up in front of my town house, a thin dusting of snow was beginning to cover the city.
“My name is Ruland; here’s my card. It was nice driving you. Call me if you need me,” he said.
“Thank you, Ruland, and I will,” I said as I put my fur on and headed for my door.
Inside my house, it was dark as asphalt, and I figured Windsor was asleep. I was tempted to wake her up and tell her about all the stars I’d met, but instead I headed to the kitchen, when I heard the sounds of someone whimpering.