The voices drew closer to the entrance. Song Ya hurriedly lightened his steps and quietly retraced his way.
Since crossing over, he'd visited a few record stores. Unless it was a superstar or a deluxe-edition tape, a single cassette rarely cost more than five bucks. Even if all seven thousand sold, the most they'd bring in was thirty-five thousand—before accounting for any costs. No wonder the people in the office had been shouting, "We're doomed."
"So..."
Hidden in the shadows behind the DJ booth, he looked toward the dance floor. It was still noisy, the men and women's silhouettes washed in the camera lights' pure white glow. The director told them to dance, and they danced, sweat flying as they focused so intently they didn't even have time to wipe it away.
Emily's smile was pure, untouched by anything but happiness. When the director called for a break, she quickly bent over, hands braced on her knees as she panted. She was too young, and her frail stamina was already giving out.
Connie had taken off her coat ages ago. Her evening dress, barely more than a scrap of fabric, was one she'd rented from the Thrift Shop that morning. The cameraman deliberately pushed the lens toward her, and she took the hint, shaking her body like an electric motor, looking pleased with herself.
Al kept puffing out his cheeks, his face red. The explosive bursts of beatboxing took serious lung capacity. Besides rapping, he devoted nearly all his spare time to working as a waiter at a restaurant just to make ends meet.
The star, Little Lowry, swaggered around, swinging his microphone and striking poses he thought were cool and handsome. Two years ago, after a music company discovered and signed him, he'd chosen to drop out of school. Since then, he'd spent most of his time on dull lyric-writing, composing, and vocal practice. Playing basketball was his only real recreation, and he'd written the lyrics for every song on his album himself.
Beside him, Tony gazed at the dance floor with joy and longing. "Making it," "striking it rich," and "getting out of this damn ghetto" were phrases he'd been repeating these past few days. Song Ya usually mocked his little dream of becoming someone else's "sidekick" in his mind, but...
Song Ya thought back to the disastrous week he'd just had.
On Monday, ET had collapsed by the roadside two blocks from home, shot five times. Song Ya had gone with Tony to leave flowers at the spot where ET had died. Supposedly, ET's gang had sworn revenge, but what would that accomplish? Apart from making the neighborhood residents even more afraid, it would amount to nothing but a few more pairs of shoes hanging from the wires at the corner.
At band rehearsal, Song Ya had still played the wrong note on his Triangle, and barely managed to save his grade by acting pitiful in front of the furious music teacher. Then he hit a wall in math, too. The advanced class actually covered calculus, and his classmates had become much more competitive. He couldn't breeze through it anymore like he had in the standard classes.
Ever since the nickname APLUS had caught on and Song Ya had accepted it, there'd been a little less teasing and bullying. But the biggest problem at this public school was that there was nowhere quiet and peaceful to study. If he tried to find a secluded spot to read, some punk in a hurry to smoke weed would chase him off, or he'd accidentally stumble across a couple of lovers in the middle of something.
Yesterday, under Aunt Susie's direction, the whole family split up their tasks and set out early to line up at various charities for free donations. Song Ya clutched his food vouchers and waited five hours before finally exchanging them for enough flour and other food to last the family a week, in a store fortified with layer upon layer of metal grating, with only a single checkout window exposed. Then the family met outside a church and lined up all over again for a free, simple lunch of bread and soup. In the afternoon, they stood in more lines, and finally waited at Walmart for discounted eggs and meat nearing their expiration dates. After night fell, the family, who had no car, lugged their bags and stood in line for half an hour to catch the bus home.
After getting through the adjustment period following his crossing over, Song Ya had thought he'd be ready to spread his wings and fly. Instead, he felt as if this hopeless life was wearing him down and turning him into one of its own. If things stayed like this for another year or two, then all it would take was some minor celebrity beckoning him with a finger, and he'd never resist the temptation. Fine, he'd be a sidekick. It was still better than staying here and, one day, impulsively picking up a gun to sell drugs.
"That's it, we're done!"
It wasn't even past four when the director announced that filming for the music video was officially complete. The people on the dance floor burst into cheers.
"Thanks, Tony. You're so sweet."
Tony's ex-girlfriend rushed over and threw herself into his arms, thanking him over and over.
"No big deal." Tony was practically floating. "There's still time..." He took off his headphones, took her by the hand, and left with her.
Connie rolled her eyes at their backs again, then handed the exhausted Emily in her arms to Song Ya. "Forget them. Come with me to return the dress." She spoke as she put on her coat.
Like the crowd after a movie, people exchanged a few words and began to leave.
Song Ya turned and saw Little Lowry and Al talking to two older Black men, one fat and one thin. Judging by their voices, they were indeed the two men he'd accidentally overheard in the office.
The heavier man was the baritone from earlier. Judging by their conversation, he was probably the record company owner. He had the air of a big shot, and even a flashy pink suit couldn't make him look effeminate. He had the full set of gold chains, rings, and watch—the three essentials of Black style.
The thin man was probably Little Lowry's manager. He wore a dark suit that fit him perfectly, spoke elegantly, and had a slicked-back hairstyle without a hair out of place. He looked like a thoroughly old-school sort.
Little Lowry and Al surely had no time for him now, and there was no need to wait for Tony anymore. Holding Emily, Song Ya left with Connie.
"Hey, APLUS!"
Outside, Silencer was helping the cameraman carry equipment. While they were greeting each other, AK came running out and stopped them.
"And Connie, right? Come here! Both of you."
AK called Song Ya and Connie over, blocking them from everyone else's view. He pulled three twenty-dollar bills from the stack in his hand and gave one each to Connie and Song Ya. "Little Emily gets one too." Smiling, he slipped the last bill into Emily's tiny hand.
"Doesn't everyone get one?" Connie tucked the money into her cleavage.
"Only our people. Those guys should be happy just to appear in the music video," AK replied.
"Uh..." Song Ya felt he hadn't done anything to deserve it. "But I didn't dance. This money..." He tried to hand the bill back to AK.
"Hahaha, Tony was right. There is something wrong with you." AK laughed and tapped Song Ya on the forehead. "Don't be stupid. It's not my money. You're Tony's brother, so we're family. We look out for each other, okay?"
"Don't mind him."
Connie shot Song Ya a glare. "Say thank you." She got little Emily to say thanks, then announced, "Come on. I'm going shopping today!" She sounded delighted.
"I want a princess dress!" Emily yelled along with her.
Song Ya could only hold on to the money, say goodbye to AK, and then go with Connie to wait for the bus.
Twenty dollars was the biggest "fortune" he'd had in his hands since crossing over. Of course, it wasn't wrong to call it a fortune. On the black market in China, one U.S. dollar could exchange for about ten yuan. Twenty dollars was more than an ordinary Chinese person's monthly salary.
Thrift shops that rented out evening dresses were usually pretty large. "A princess dress!" Emily, already familiar with the place, slid off Song Ya and raced toward her target.
"Keep an eye on her. I'm going to change," Connie said, heading for the fitting rooms in the back.
Song Ya followed Emily past row after row of clothing racks, suddenly feeling as if he'd seen this scene somewhere before.
"But I've never been to this shop..."
Puzzled, he glanced toward a pink suit hanging on the wall. It looked a little like the one the record company owner had worn earlier.
"Hm?"
He racked his brains, then suddenly reached into his pocket for the twenty-dollar bill. "Twenty dollars, shopping, a pink suit, a baritone, rap... Put them together, and it's..."
His body shook violently, as if struck by a revelation from heaven. Countless music-video images, accompanied by an intensely rhythmic rap and beat, surged into his mind.
I'm gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket
I'm, I'm, I'm hunting, looking for a come up
this is FXXXing awesome!
"This is Thrift Shop! This is it! The Thrift Shop!"
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