Page 73 of Score
Of course it is.
I paste on a smile and approach.
“Hey.” I split a glance between Canon and the woman, not acknowledging Monk.
“This is Linh.” Canon nods to the petite woman standing with them. “She’s our costume designer.”
“Oh, you’re gonna have a good time with this one,” I tell her, smiling. “This period’s fashion is some of my favorite.”
“Yes,” she agrees in a voice deeper than I would have expected from such a tiny woman, slim and no taller than five-two. “It’ll be like a playground.”
She’s the kind of beautiful that makes people run into things because they can’t stop looking at her. The lines of her face are delicate, molded in amber-glazed porcelain, eyes tilted and long-lashed, but her nose is so bold it should overpower the rest of her face. It doesn’t and all her features seem to have reached an agreement that none of them would detract from her loveliness. The dark hair falls in gently textured waves to her elbows.
“And I think you know Monk,” Canon says, a dry smile touching his lips as he looks between Monk and me like he just rang the bell for a boxing match.
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“We actually dated in college.”
We speak at the same time, and my jaw falls when he just casually drops that we dated in front of Linh. My eyes slit into a glare, and the crease of a smile he flashes tells me the comment was as intentional as his attire.
How fucking dare he?
Linh, who carries an air so placid she could probably serve high tea in a hurricane, studies us with piqued interest.
“We should get started,” Canon says, the slightest bit of amusement threading his voice. He turns to the team scattered in the theater. “Everybody, find a seat.”
The air between Monk and me vibrates with animosity. I want to crack that amicable mask he has donned for the world over the last decade, let him know he doesn’t fool me. He’s still the same broody son of a bitch I used to have to tease and lure away from his piano. It’s not worth it. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how his comment about our shared past rattled me.
Monk has taken the seat on one side of Canon, and the seat on the other side is empty. Wordlessly and without looking Monk’s way, I take the empty seat.
“Thank you all for coming,” Canon says, standing and looking back over the small theater. “On a Saturday, no less. I especially appreciate you sacrificing this time since soon your whole life will belong toDessi Blue.”
He’s only half joking. This film’s scale is massive, with elaborate set design, lavish costuming, difficult choreography, and challenging musical numbers. Monk is not only overseeing the film’s score, but will also be intricately involved in the musical numbers and performances, even writing some original songs.
“I cannot overstate the privilege we have in this film,” Canon says. “Historically, Black creatives have been mined for our gifts and not adequately rewarded, compensated, or acknowledged. Most of them never met their earning or career potential. How could they have in this country at thattime? We’re making a biopic about Dessi Blue, but we’ll also be giving voice to many other lesser-known artists and historical figures.”
He gestures to me.
“One of the huge advantages Verity brings to this story is her love of and background in African American history, which has added so many layers to the script. I’ve found some rare clips of Dessi from performances during that time for us to watch, which will tell you some things, but I also encourage you to use Verity as a resource. We have drafted a script, but it’s a living document. It’s like a coloring page with outlined images. I fully expect you to help color in the most vivid parts through music, dance, costuming, set design. Each of you brings something unique that will help this film meet its full potential.”
Canon signals someone in the back, who lowers the lights.
“We’ve pulled the few existing clips from Dessi’s life and career to inspire you. We’re going to do her life justice.”
God, she was beautiful.
And radiant.
And monstrously talented.
That’s all I can think as, transfixed, we watch mere slivers of Dessi’s life. Cal is there beside her in nearly every photo and grainy video clip. I can’t help but wonder about Tilda. How, in another time, it could have been her and Dessi. Based on the letters and journal entries we found in Alabama, Dessi would have been willing to brave public scorn and would have chosen Tilda, but while Dessi toured Europe with Cal’s band, Tilda married a nightclub owner named Hezekiah Moore. Tilda made the safe choice. The conventional one. She did her best with what she had in the time she lived. How could I—someone who grew up with essentially two mother figures and knew she liked girls before she knew she liked boys, too, and was accepted unconditionally—judge Tilda? A woman who was a prisoner of an age when living her life authentically would have cost her everything?
“Questions?” Canon asks when the footage concludes. “Comments? Ideas?”
“Just one comment,” Lucia, the choreographer, says.
“Yeah, Lucia?” Canon folds his arms over his chest and studies the dark-haired woman.
