Page 4 of A Little Kissing Between Friends

Back when I was making beats in high school for whoever was willing to drop a few Benjamins into my hand. Back when Cyn Tha Starr was thought up as homage to my dearest daddy and attached to an AOL email. Back when the only fight I had in high school was when a boy called me a “fat bull dagger” during our grade level lunch because I declined to give him a free beat after his sob story about having his money stolen on the walk to school that morning. That time, my daddy did get a call from the teacher, but when we sat in the principal’s office and he heard what had been said, he grabbed me by the arm, carted me out of that school, and just before we got in the car, he called my name.

“Cyndi,” he said, breaking my heart and instantly bringing tears to my eyes. I looked across the roof of the car at him, lip trembling with shame at having disappointed him. “You did the right thing” was all he said before opening the driver’s side door and climbing behind the wheel.

I stood there, crying like a baby, because my daddy the pacifist had shown me understanding, and while that wasn’t uncommon of him, he tended to be more strict when it came to physical altercations. He was, once again, showing me what mattered.

At that time, Xeno and I hadn’t met in person but were already pretty close after connecting on Tumblr and talking damn near every day. I remember detailing the incident to her that night, and even back then she was always cool-headed and mellow. She was also incredibly goofy, then and now.

“Am I even still invited to the barbecue on Sunday,” Xeno asked laughingly, “or is it a one-best-friend limit this time around? Let me know now before I get my hopes up.”

Laughing, I pushed back in my chair, shaking my head in amusement. “Does Trisha know you got this mean jealous streak?”

Trisha was Xeno’s girlfriend and I was curious to know if this was something I needed to share with her asap. A half-empty water bottle flew through the air, aimed right for my head. I ducked, cracking up as the bottle hit the wall and fell to the floor.

“Whatever, man!” she laughed. “Just tell me what you’re about to do with this track, ’cause it’s too good to sit on.”

“Uh huh,” I muttered, cool to let it go if she was. “I’m thinking of just uploading it to the streaming sites and letting radio catch wind of it organically.” I had a large enough following on social media to get a buzz going without paying for a spot in the rotation during peak hours on the radio. If enough people liked it, they’d call the stations and tag them online enough that it’d be in rotation without me having to do a thing.

That was also where Jucee came in. Her sets were damn near legendary among the city’s club scene, and someone was bound to post a clip of it online. The song was guaranteed to go viral if that happened. And even if I discouraged her, Jucee was bound to help it along. It was one of the things I loved about her. I’d met her three years ago, just when I was starting to get national recognition for my work behind the soundboard. I already had a name for me in Houston, and the work I did with local artists was enough for me to live comfortably and never have to ask my parents for money. It wasn’t until a clip of Xeno performing went viral that so many eyes turned onto her, and by extension, as her producer, onto me as well.

Houston has a vibrant strip club culture—something that I loved about my city—and the women I encountered there showed me love because they recognized my name. Jucee never tried to get at me after finding out who I was. Before we’d even officially met, she would make videos with my music playing in the background, tag me, and never ask for anything in return. Her support was because she respected the music, and that fueled me to meet her in person. Even when I reached out in her DMs, she was never on no flirting shit, and she stayed that way when we met up for lunch. It was unexpected but refreshing, and I knew from the moment she first hugged me and kissed my cheek that she would be the homie.

And a year later when my daddy suffered a heart attack, she was right by my side, along with Xeno, giving me support and helping me take care of myself when I felt like I couldn’t do anything. After that, we became attached at the hip. When she broke up with her boyfriend, I extended her that same care she had shown me, pulling her and her son into my family to offer them community since the only blood relatives she had were back in Dallas.

With my two best friends, my family, and my music, my life was fantastic, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Chapter Two

Jucee

Go BesFren, Das My BesFren

No less than forty-five minutes after giving birth, a memo is sent out informing the life-bringer that their time as a bad bitch has expired and they are henceforth Somebody’s Mama and must act accordingly. It comes with a pamphlet that spells out, in no uncertain terms, what all “act accordingly” entails. Wardrobe, career, relationships, extracurriculars. All of that shit is supposed to change. And although the memo is sent directly to Somebody’s Mama, the rest of the world also, somehow, has received the list of rules, memorized them, and pledged to be a constant reminder for when Somebody’s Mama has forgotten her role.

I’d been Amani Jones’s mama for five years, and had been proudly bucking the system from day one. It’s not that I missed that memo; I simply ignored that shit. There was no way in hell I was going to trade in my crop tops and short shorts for the latest Amish fashions just because I moaned “Yessssss!” when Samir asked if he could nut in me one Wednesday night after hot yoga had me feeling all limber and horny. Aht aht! I was going to live a life that I loved now so that I didn’t have an overgrown man-child puffing up his chest because I informed him that “Mama gotta have a life too, Jody.”

I was younger than my son when I took up dancing, and after years spent contorting my body in ballet, I joined a contemporary dance troupe shortly after my eighteenth birthday. All I’d done was trade in one group of judgmental assholes for another. And here I’d thought contemporary had also meant progressive. The thing about change that never failed to piss me off is just how slow it was to make a difference in the everyday life of the average person. While the ideal type of woman in music videos and on every social media platform is the hypersexualized version of the ultra-voluptuous BBW, fat women with less desirable shapes—those of us with family-sized chicken dinner bodies full of thighs and breasts and wings and rolls—were still getting harassed because fatphobia ran rampant in the streets like crack in the eighties.

Which is why Sanity had been the goal before I’d even set foot in Houston. The move for me was a no-brainer, since the only thing in Dallas worth caring about was my granny’s gravesite. Samir came to me with a job offer he’d received that was too good to pass up—as the assistant director for a dance team at an HBCU in Houston—and that was all I needed to hear. I’d had enough of being passed over for roles where I was over-qualified, and I was ready to do something different. Within the next week, I’d scoured the review websites for the highest-rated clubs that were queer-friendly, Black-owned, and Black-operated. That left me with Sanity. I contacted the club and inquired if they were hiring for new dancers. After I received confirmation that they were, I scheduled my audition and headed down to Houston.

There were three people present for my audition: the owner of the club, Mal, her assistant, Josey, and the choreographer and dance mother, Milly. Although I was unfamiliar with pole, Josey had assured me over the phone that they would teach me that skill if I was hired. Thanks to Samir quickly helping me put together a routine, I gave a damn good performance. Keeping my limitations at the forefront of my mind, I didn’t try anything advanced on the pole, but I did include it in my routine, pretending it was a stern Samir watching to make sure I didn’t fuck up his moves as I grooved to the beat of Xeno’s “Drown Me.”

When the song came to an end, I smiled in satisfaction. I could tell from the expression on everyone’s face that I’d killed that shit. I’d done enough auditions to know how that looked.

In Sanity, I’d surprisingly found not only some bomb-ass coworkers, but also a group of people I grew to love fiercely, who cherished me just as much as I did them. They became my family, and Mal was like the older sibling that I never knew I needed. She wasn’t just my boss, but she was a mentor, a consultant, and confidante when I truly needed one.

My phone chimed and I reached over my laptop where I was working on my quarterly budget to pluck the noisemaker off of the coffee table. The movement brought the screen to life. Mercedes had texted me. Opening the message, I gasped at the high-definition photo of a plate of loaded French fries that took up the entire screen. Immediately, I typed out a response.

Me: Oh my Goooood!

Cedes: These fries are so damn good. Nobody else would appreciate it like you.

I looked at the picture again and whimpered a little bit. The golden potatoes were overflowing with cubed brisket, crispy bacon, melted cheddar, chives, and barbecue sauce. I loved when the brisket was chopped instead of shredded and I could still see the smoke ring. Dropping my head back, I groaned. Had it only been a couple of hours since I’d had a bowl of cereal, buttered Texas toast, and an iced caramel latte? Yes. Was I being greedy and already thinking about my next meal? Yes! But was I ashamed? Absolutely not!

Me: Save me some!

Another picture came through, this one of a second container with my name scrolled across the top in black marker.

Cedes: I had them put the toppings on the side since I won’t see you until later.