Bliss by Danyel Smith Page A

many in the audience hurried to copy Sunny. They folded themselves into
balasana
, the Child’s Pose. The most submissive yoga position of all.
    They’ll say it, and they’ll be right—they’ll say Sunny is the Real Thing
.
    “Close your mouth, girl.” Hakeem ran a knuckle down the back of Eva’s neck.
    Eva had been standing there with her mouth open. The crowd was multiracial, young. College kids and street kids. Parents with pre-teens. At least half of the spectators were down, foreheads on the pier.
    When Sunny rose, Eva came out of her daze. Whoops and applause came from people still on their knees.
    Time to work
. “Clearly you know the deal,” Eva said to Hakeem.
    “Your boy Ron’s here,” Hakeem said. “Throwing money, sending Sunny all this macrobiotic food. And he sent her a limo that burns natural gas.”
    “She doesn’t seem the type to be impressed by all that.”
Ron’s not my boy
.
    “She’ll be impressed by
you
,” Hakeem said, animated.
“Young
sister! Getting it
done
in the business world! Little Miss Eva Executive. You and Sunny can take over the music business together. Make it a better place!”
    “What is she?” Though it made her feel good, Eva had no time for Hakeem’s rigmarole.
    “She’s black, stupid. They’re from Louisiana. Her people, I mean. Her brother’s brown-skinned.”
    “She’s twenty-nine?” Eva had done some research.
A bit older than ideal, but doable
.
    “On her birth certificate.” Hakeem leaned his butt against the pier railing. “These white boys is sweating her hard. They’re all here. In fucking Monterey. We need to do this.”
    “I’m about to.”
    Hakeem read her pronoun usage. He had no worries, though. He knew Eva would need him, or at least feel she did at some point, and would call him then. Hakeem knew Eva’s strength was her weakness and her weakness her strength: She always felt like she was falling off, so she worked like a demon. Eva acted the student when it was wise, but calculated people’s motivations like a physics professor. She fired her looks like warning shots, used sex like tuition and thermometer. But occasionally she surprised with wildly spontaneous moves. And Eva almost always succeeded. “Make this yours, Evey,” Hakeem taunted her. “Be ahead. Be on some new shit.”
    “Why are you here, anyway?”
Had he heard Sunny sing? Heard her, for real?
    Hakeem had gotten himself more organic wine. He had money and the time that came with it. “Waiting on you, sweetheart, as always. Trying to get on
your
train.”
    Eva began walking toward whatever ragged backstage existed.
    “I know her,” Hakeem called out, still leaning on the pier railing. “And her manager. Told ’em I had someone they should meet. The
right
person, person who’d make Sunny the kind of star she’s supposed to be.”
    “You said that?”
You could’ve said those things to Sunny—except about Ron. You could’ve said all that you’ve been saying to me—to Ron
.
    “Yes, Pretty Girl. Something like it,” he said with a bit of lust.
    Eva kept walking. Hakeem was cute, but he talked too much.
    Hakeem said, “What you smell like today, Evey?”
    From twenty feet away, Hakeem leaned a bit in Eva’s direction. People who knew Eva, or who’d slept with her, or danced with her, often leaned in to catch her scent. She never wore enough to perfume the air around her, but as Eva straightened an arm, or turned her head, pungent tuberose was released, or lilac. As the nineties rushed toward their midpoint, and the perfumes at the glassy counters became more gastronomic, Hakeem would lean in to catch sweet basil, or ripe fig, or apricot. The scents reminded him of an almost forgotten song, or at least a long ago voice. Reminded him that Eva was not so preternaturally perfect, that she gilded the lily.
    “You won’t know nothin’ about that, ever again,” she said with a big smile. Eva had turned to face him.
    “Biding my time.”
    Go home
, Eva