Metaworld HopeCore

Thursday.

The Vaughan House.

Dad called at nine.

“It’s booked,” he said.

Eppie sat up in her room with the phone against her ear and the sheet in her fist.

“Which one?”

“Kimball.”

Eppie made a cute noise. “Huh. I thought they cancelled me in May.”

“They didn’t cancel you in May, sweetheart. You told Maddy to move it past LAPAGANZA, and then you happened.” Paper moved on Curon’s end. “Anyway. They want it. Johnny Kimball Live! is doing a week out of New York from Sunday, and you are on the first one. Seven-minute segment, one song, live in the room, no track and no click, which is what Maddy wanted. Make your case, impress, then get out.”

“Good.”

A drag of something. Her father was smoking his morning cigar. “They tape Sunday evening, and it airs Monday night. Maddy’s handling the questions. You’ll get the cue cards before they film. When are you going to play the song for Trent?”

“How’s Saturday? Do they want something original? I’ll give ’em original.”

“It’s your funeral,” Curon said over the phone. “You’re not one of our signed artists; he can’t compel you to perform your songs. If you don’t impress, though, that’s a big slap to the face for everyone who trusted you.”

“Dad.” Eppie made her voice sweeter. “Your child always delivers.”

Curon sneezed. “You know how many people there are? Watching?”

“Fifty?”

“It’s eleven hundred people who paid nothing to be there…” Curon informed her. “A true theatre audience.”

“Whoa.” Eppie considered the scene. On TV, the shows were deceptively intimate.

“Now, for our second agenda,” her father cleared his throat. “Looks like your movie needs you downtown.”

“For what?”

“For your building,” Curon said. “George asked me if I could help. He said that their lawyers made a mistake. They sent out a letter from the Estate with four paragraphs in legalese, a letterhead, a coat of arms, and a proper fountain pen signature.”

Eppie tried to imagine something that looked like an admission letter from Hogwarts. “Is that not good?”

Curon exhaled. “Six units called the number on the letter and harassed the receptionist of a law firm that’s almost two centuries old. Four of them called a tenants’ rights hotline.”

Eppie’s heart sank. No wonder George was worried. “They think it’s a buyout?”

“They think it is the first move of a buyout, which is not paranoia, but history. That’s how these things go.”

“But they’re on historical property!”

“They don’t know that. You’re not getting a movie made if the neighbours think you’re here to gentrify the place. You can either go put out this fire right now, or wait for Ferroni to deal with it himself. I doubt he can do it, though. He’s not even from here.”

“Ah, fuck,” Eppie cursed. “What do I do?”

“Language, young lady.”

“Do I go talk to them?”

“You and someone they trust,” Curon said. “I have no doubt a five-one blondie in an expensive dress with your face can be persuasive, but it sure as hell won’t convince a hostile neighbourhood that you’re the bearer of no rent.”

I could be persuasive… Eppie thought, and then relented. “Okay, so what happens now?”

“Hey, I told your mum that I’d get the people on-side, and I’ll do it. I’ve sent two of ours to help. Be nice to both of them, get ready to sing if you have to. You’re going as musicians, not movie stars,” Curon said. “The Sony car’s arriving soon. Get this sorted! Or no film for Mr Ferroni, even if you own the building!”

Eppie licked her lips. “Should I tell Juliana she’s been upgraded?”

“… best not,” Curon’s shameless voice came through. “The Dame’s rather thin-skinned.”

NYC.

Lower East Side.

Her “Crew” was chatting on the stoop when she got down to the East Side.

The first was in his fifties, and she recognised his iconic braids at once. He wore a tracksuit that cost four figures, and a not-very-subtle gold chain with his iconic branding. He was older now, more mellow than his persona implied, wearing an appreciative grin as Eppie stepped from the Sony town car.

The second was Kel G, looking dapper in a leather varsity jacket, styled to look like his latest music videos, which had the oxymoronic styling of Prep-in-da-hood. From what she understood, the fashion line was selling like hotcakes among his middle-class African American fans.

As for herself, she chose a tight tank top in white, premium theatre black for hosiery, a navy skirt, a pink cardigan around her waist, and her white Common Projects.

Three different styles, three different moods, three different people who had nothing in common but for a singular benefactor—Frederick Curon.

“Eppie,” announced Kel, then, realising that his senior had yet to speak up, finished up with a “Miss Fontaine.”

“Kelvin.” Eppie bowed her head, then, turning to their senior, she bowed a little deeper. “Mister Sly.”

“Euphemia Fontaine.” The rapper, who was a household name, had a cadence to his speech that made him slur melodically. “Fred said you was little. He ain’t said you was little little.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Call me Sylvester, or Mister Meeks.” He shook her hand with about four per cent of the available hand. “Or just Cat. Or Sly, whatever suits your cool, kitty cat.”

Eppie could see that the man’s mood was pharmacologically enhanced.

But he seemed in full control.

Cat Sly was one of the big four rappers who had shot the rap genre to mainstream, along with PayZEE and their colleagues who did not survive the turbulent early nineties. He had thirty years on the radio and three decades of album covers, and a syndicated MTV show, and a voice that had been sampled by people who were themselves now old, and a cartoon, and a barbecue sauce, and a walk-on in every family comedy. His music was heard in more places in America than the gospel.

“…Mr Sly.”

“Drop the mister.” He dusted his palms. “Shall we go and move some minds?”

“Let’s!” Eppie led the way.

Along the way, they were waved at by people who recognised Sly at once, and he leaned in to speak. “Baby doll, you know what mistake your big man made?”

Eppie knew, but she could see Sly wanted to wisecrack, so she shook her head.

“How long has your Estate owned this building?”

“Since 1894,” Eppie recalled the annotations from George. “I don’t own it…”

“And how many letters do you figure they sent these people in a hundred and some years?”

Eppie thought about it. She understood. It wasn’t the letterhead. It was the letter itself.

“That’s right. Not one,” said Cat Sly. “That’s what educated folks don’t understand about these here parts. Where I grew up. Landlord don’t write. Landlord never writes. Man writes you a letter, somethin’ about to happen to your home. It don’ matter what’s written. Imagine receiving a letter from a nice white lady rich as God, saying she gonna give you three months free ’cause a movie? How do you trust that?”

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“We should have just… talked to them first.”

“Right, but that train’s left Grand Central,” said Cat Sly. “Nobody in this building knows who you are, and only half this building knows who he is.” Kel smiled awkwardly at the thumb pointed his way. “So we ain’t knockin’ on no doors.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“We sittin’ down.” Sly gave her a pat on the head, his breath sweetly pungent. “We do this, the old-fashioned way.”

The word went up Rivington ahead of them.

They came out in order. Men in their fifties first, unhurried, easy in singlets. Then the women in their fast fashion. Then a boy sent down by his grandmother with a record sleeve in a plastic bag. The biggest difference between Kel and Cat, Eppie observed, was that the legendary veteran of rap stood still and let himself be approached, while Kel accosted, and was accosted by, his fans.

Nobody spoke to Eppie. She was just a cute fangirl, much like their bodyguards, two very large men in Adidas tracksuits.

The meet and greet kept happening.

People were flooding in from around the block.

Even the beat cops came and asked for autographs, and then they stayed and kept order. Everyone came for Cat Sly: the old guys and the young guys, then the older women and the young women, then whole families. A woman of about eighty was brought out onto the sidewalk in a folding chair by two of her sons specifically so that she could be introduced, and Cat Sly got down and told her she was beautiful.

Eppie watched Kel watching, and saw in the boy’s eyes the same yearning he had looking at Kellie. This—this community love, organic and wholesome and transcendent, was what Kel had expected when Trent took him from the hood and gave him the best training in the industry. Now, he had his face on bus shelters, but he couldn’t have this—

What Sly had wasn’t something commercial music could afford, no matter the marketing budget.

When Eppie finally lost patience, the meet-and-greet had been four hours and counting.

“You gonna ask?” she said, sitting down beside Cat Sly while they took a breather.

“Nah.” Cat scoffed, cool as a chilled cucumber.

“Cat, I need a building,” Eppie reminded him.

“Naw, kitty. You still don’t get it. You need a block,” he corrected her. “Buildin’s easy. You got the paper for the buildin’.” He gestured with his chin at the stoop, the landing, the people, the kids on the hydrant, the woman with the folding chair. “What you ain’t got is trust. You need that old Dominican lady there to say, hey, that cat's all right, and everyone will follow.”

Eppie saw the lady. She recognised the lady. Her name was Doña Tita, and she ran the neighbourhood association for the block. And she lives in our building. “So what do I do?”

“Keep watching.” Sly patted his pockets, then took out a tin and opened it out of habit. He had almost completed the reflexive act when he noticed her looking. “Want one?”

“What? Here? NOW?” She looked over at the police officers doing their community policing.

Sly laughed and packed away the tin.

“YO. KELVIN, that you, Mister Grant's boy?”

Both she and Sly stopped.

Someone was calling out “Kel G”.

Kelvin Grant, nineteen, of Harlem, lost his Kel G persona for a moment. The lady who spoke was none other than Doña Tita, the one lady they needed to bring over for everything to work out. There was a weight to the woman’s presence.

“What’s your mother’s name?” The crowd grew silent.

Kel G said nothing.

Kelvin Grant said, “Bernice, ma’am.”

“Shiloh. Hundred and Thirty-Eighth?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I remember you.” Doña Tita grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah, you had the voice of an angel. You still sing gospel?”

Kel G did not blush.

Kelvin Grant did.

Eppie bolted over to Kelvin before Kel G could say something cool in front of his core audience, the young men and women who made up half the hood, and ended their chances for permission forever.

“Kel’s doing God’s work!” she shouted in his stead, using her [Vocality] to throw her voice across the neighbourhood. “You’ve heard of Doves Cry, ma’am? That’s all our Kel. Organic and free range.”

The crowd laughed.

“Eppie…” Kel’s voice grew low.

“I am saving your ass here,” Eppie whispered back with her voice in a controlled line.

“Ma’am—” Eppie addressed the woman.

“Aight. Aight. We get it. You came to my building with a letter,” said Doña Tita, “and a movie, and your blonde hair looked perfect. Mister Sly there says he’s vouching for ya, so I’ll tell ya what, as someone who knew your mother—sing something, and I’ll tell the others you’re good. We’ll give your girl there the agreement.”

Eppie looked to the grinning rapper a few steps below.

Sly gave her two thumbs up.

“Nah, nah, I don’t do that,” protested Kel. “No track, no nothin’, a cappella? Nah. That ain’t — that’s not what I do, ma’am.”

Eppie stared at her partner in horror.

Doña Tita looked at the pair for a moment, and then made a small sound through her nose, then half-turned to go back up her own steps.

Cat Sly put up both hands.

And Eppie, who had just spent hours being clear and warm and precise and had moved nothing at all, understood that she had about two seconds left before everything went to the pits.

Why am I the adult in the room? She demanded of the [System], it isn’t even my movie!

But it was her movie. She had fifty-six per cent equity, and therefore, she had to put in the hard yards.

She arrested Kel by the arm, kept him locked in place with her [Strength], then opened her throat to song. She chose the first thing to come into her mind. A song that was sung in choir when she was in her prestigious girls’ school. One of the songs she had already penned for Sister Act II.

Her [Songstress], [Vocality] and [Gospel] rang out, producing a sound that really should not belong to a youthful Caucasian girl who looked like someone who could have lived in a medieval castle in Liechtenstein, conversing with forest animals.

Wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God’s gonna trouble the water

Everybody wade

She stared at him with her enormous blue eyes. So intense was her unblinking gaze that his eyes watered, whereupon she flowed to the second verse.

Wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God’s gonna trouble the water

Everybody wade