MV

Song Ya seemed to have been worrying for nothing. That evening, Little Lowry called the house and told Tony that filming for his first music video was about to begin.

Ten days later, on Sunday at one in the afternoon, the four siblings headed out together.

Tony and his girlfriend's giggles kept drifting back to the people behind them.

"Bitch."

Connie curled her lip at the Black girl ahead of them and muttered to Song Ya, "Look at that disgusting woman. She definitely wasn't like this when she was with Tony. Who knows how many boyfriends she's had since they broke up?"

Song Ya smiled as he held Emily's little hand, but didn't reply.

Relationships here were a mess. People split up and got back together as casually as they ate or drank. Tony had just made one phone call, and the moment his ex-girlfriend heard she might appear in the music video, she'd immediately "changed her mind."

No wonder Connie was annoyed.

But after nearly a month in this new life, Song Ya had gotten a thorough understanding of Tony's rough-around-the-edges-but-sharp nature. It was anyone's guess who was playing with whose feelings.

They crossed the street and came to a building with a sign reading "XX Dance Studio." Silencer, dressed in a suit and sunglasses, stood guard at the entrance beside AK.

"Hey! Look, look who it is! I almost didn't recognize you!"

Tony went over and teased Silencer a couple of times. Silencer answered with a shy smile.

"All right, let's get down to business. We only rented the place until five, and this neighborhood gets really unsafe at night."

After greeting everyone, AK pulled out a stack of forms and briskly handed them around.

Song Ya glanced over the sheet he'd been given. It seemed to be a release granting permission to use their likenesses in the music video. "We're under eighteen. Don't we need a guardian's consent to sign this?" he asked, puzzled.

"Do you have to say something every time you open your mouth?"

Tony signed in one swift stroke, tossed the pen to Song Ya, then pointed at his own head and said to AK, "Ignore him. There's something wrong with him up here lately."

AK patted Song Ya's shoulder and explained with a smile, "People usually don't care about those little details."

While Song Ya signed, AK turned to Tony again. "Once we're inside, help Al keep things in order. After filming starts, follow the director's instructions."

"Don't worry. Leave it all to me."

Tony led the way inside, then planted a hard kiss on his ex-girlfriend's cheek. "You hear that? Starting today, I'm getting into show business!"

Connie rolled her eyes behind them.

From his very first day in this new life, Song Ya had never stopped observing everything around him. Ever since public safety had worsened, Chicago had tightened its rules for entertainment venues, especially nightclubs allowed to sell alcohol. It was safe to say that every one of them had powerful people, both on the right and the wrong side of the law, backing it—and raking in money hand over fist.

The graffiti in the entrance corridor had a distinct hippie style from the '70s and '80s. The facilities and decor were shabby and neglected, the corners smelled faintly of urine, and the central dance floor looked old-fashioned. This "dance studio" had probably once been a disco. After it went out of fashion, it had been forced to reinvent itself as a dance school.

Apart from the director and a few crew members tinkering with equipment, two or three dozen young men and women were already swaying to the music on the dance floor. The atmosphere was good.

The music playing was from Little Lowry's rap album. Song Ya's first impression was... that it really wasn't very good. It was all the same monotonous chanting, but Little Lowry's songs were clearly worse than the mediocre stuff that played on the radio all the time—especially the lyrics. You heard them once and forgot them.

"Hey, Tony!"

Al waved to Tony from the DJ booth. "Come over!"

Tony jogged over. Al hung the monitor headphones around his neck. "Don't touch any of the settings. Just remember this volume knob. When I give you the signal..." He showed Tony a few simple controls.

"Got it!"

Tony eagerly put on the headphones and immediately began dancing wildly to the music, his hands moving over the controls as if he were operating them. He even looked pretty convincing.

"Hey! Isn't that Tony?"

As soon as Al walked away, a young girl wearing heavy makeup sidled up to him. "Do you remember me? I'm from eleventh grade..."

"Bitch!"

His ex-girlfriend cursed and hurried over to stake her claim.

Song Ya watched it all, then thought of Silencer, standing at the door like some big shot. Who would've thought that just ten days ago, the two of them had been losers, fresh off getting kicked off the football team? And look at them now!

So Tony's career plan has worked out perfectly! he marveled.

"Come on!"

Connie's attention was fixed entirely on the dance floor. When she saw Al start arranging everyone's positions, she quickly tugged Song Ya and Emily over.

"Hey, APLUS!" Al winked at Song Ya. All right, after ten days, his nickname had already spread everywhere.

Connie got her wish and stood with Song Ya in a prominent spot. Tony's ex-girlfriend moved up beside them, while Emily and a few kids her age were placed in the front row.

"Everyone! Everyone!"

The director was the only white person there. Once he'd finished adjusting the equipment, he stood behind the camera, spread his arms, and called out.

Al snapped his fingers at Tony, and Tony turned off the music.

"Once we start filming, keep your eyes focused on me..." The director launched into a long list of instructions and things to keep in mind.

This was the cheapest kind of music video: the singer performed up front while everyone behind him danced to the music. That was all there was to it.

"Okay, get ready to start." After finishing his instructions, the director went back to peer through the viewfinder.

Several powerful fill lights switched on at once.

At Al's signal, Tony started the music again. "Action!" the director called.

You really couldn't deny their natural rhythm. Everyone danced like they knew what they were doing, and they could all improvise. The atmosphere on the dance floor kept getting livelier.

"Cut!" the director suddenly called. The music stopped, and he pointed at Song Ya. "You! Yes, you—stop looking from side to side! Find the beat! The beat!"

"Oh! Okay, okay, sorry." Song Ya had a bad feeling about this.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before the director called cut again. It was still Song Ya.

"Move to the back row!"

"Cut!"

"You! You again! Move farther back!"

Song Ya was getting annoyed. He couldn't dance to begin with, and the mix of body odor and perfume in the crowd was so overpowering that he could barely breathe. "Forget it. I'm not dancing." He simply left the dance floor and retreated to Tony's side.

"What's wrong with you? There's something seriously wrong with you!" Tony glared at him, furious. "Do you think you get opportunities like this every day?"

Song Ya shrugged. "I'm not used to this kind of place."

The director was happy to let him go. Just then, Little Lowry appeared at the edge of the floor, immediately diverting everyone's attention.

"Let's hear it for Low-low-low-lowry!" Al shouted, working up the crowd.

All the young women began screaming...

Little Lowry was already made up and dressed to the nines. Unlike other rappers, he had no tattoos and wore no gang insignia. His lyrics weren't about killing or guns, and he barely used any particularly offensive language.

Aside from being a little self-centered, Song Ya had a good impression of him.

Little Lowry took center stage, and the director announced that filming was officially beginning.

Dancing on the floor hadn't seemed so bad, but standing off to the side made time drag. "I'm going outside for some air," he told Tony.

Tony was dancing away with the headphones on, his eyes fixed on Al in the middle of the floor. He'd remembered that Al had told him to watch for signals and was concentrating hard.

But Al was busy right now. He was responsible for the beatboxing in the rap—the sounds of drums and other instruments. That style of performance seemed to be in fashion lately. He stood beside Little Lowry, facing the camera and going "boom, tss, boom, tss." Of course, he was only mouthing the sounds.

So Song Ya kept out of the camera's way and headed out alone. He took a wrong turn, though, and followed the corridor to an office inside the building.

"DJs in all the major cities have received the unofficial album we mailed them. Want to know how they responded?"

A deep, resonant Black baritone came from inside the office.

"Go on," someone else replied.

"Philby in Philadelphia says if a man sings like a girl, looks like a girl, and writes lyrics like a girl, then he's a girl. Lute in Miami says he won't acknowledge it as rap music. BOI in Atlanta told us to stay up north and eat shit. The people in New York said the music in a Brooklyn dumpster was better than ours. Los Angeles mailed us a few records and said we should listen to what real music sounds like!"

"This is your fault! You wouldn't listen to me, your manager. I clearly planned for us to build a name in Chicago first, then go national..."

"What name? Every DJ in Chicago only supported us because of my connections and my money!"

"We can pay people in Philadelphia and New York, too..."

"Fuck! That's a bottomless pit! And it's too late to pay them now. That might stop them from being the first to jump on us, but those shameless bastards who kick you when you're down will smell blood and come out to mock Lowry, you, me, and everyone else without holding back!"

"Then... then forget about them. Once the music video comes out, we can focus on the young female market. Girls really like Lowry's image."

"That's our only option. But my record company runs on a shoestring, and I can't take any more big risks. Cut the first run of cassettes to five thousand and distribute them only in Chicago. Put production of the vinyl records and CDs on hold until the music video gets promoted on TV. Then we'll make a new plan."

"Fuck! Five thousand? That's admitting defeat before we've even started. It's like admitting we're finished!"

"We're already finished!"

"No way. At least ten thousand. Even a dog can sell ten thousand records these days."

"Six thousand."

"Eight thousand..."

"Seven thousand! Fuck, why are we haggling over this!?"