Page 96 of Score
Who knows if things would have been different had we really discussed it then, when I stormed out of Top Dog and she left Finley so abruptlybefore we got to talk? There was no chance for explanations. No time to forgive, so my fury and betrayal have been preserved in ice like some prehistoric creature that no longer belongs in this era. But tonight, it’s not the residual bitterness or the anger gnawing at me. It’s a desire that I’m not sure ever went away. A perverse wanting. I’m still desperate to drink her down, even knowing that first sip was laced with poison.
I have no idea what to say in the face of her brave vulnerability. It feels like something between us is being repaired, and my frontal lobe may be good and developed, but I’m still liable to get this wrong so I take the coward’s way out.
“Well, uh,” I say, turning my attention to the screen. “Looks like the movie’s starting.”
TWENTY-NINE
Verity
I can’t believe we pulled this together so quickly.
Over the last two weeks, Monk has been in the studio with the musicians recording songs for today’s Savoy number. We haven’t been in the same place since the showing at Hollywood Forever. We walked down memory lane that night, and not just watching the movie. We talked things through in a way we haven’t before. When he asked about my “hard time,” I wasthisclose to telling him everything. My monumental meltdown in the fine arts building, the cops, the hospital stay. The diagnosis. But even though we’ve made progress, I’m not sure I can fully trust him with that yet.
Enough of that. Today is about work, and what we’ve accomplished together. We continued coordinating the elements needed for the Slim Gaillard cameo and spotlight. Fortunately, Canon loved the idea but left the execution completely to us.
And we were off.
Technically, I don’t have to be on set today, but I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Seeing the history I love so much come to life, a cast and crew full of Black and brown folks, and this story unfolding in a way that is even more extraordinary than I could have imagined—I don’t want to be anywhere else.
We’ve been shooting this dance number for two days. It’s one of the biggest of the entire film. After today, we break for Thanksgiving and can get some rest. But right now everyone’s on edge. God bless Neevah. Lucia, our choreographer, is a tyrant, and almost as bad as Canon when it comesto getting every single thing right. She has worked that girl and the other dancerspastthe bone.
Canon, Jill, and Kenneth, the assistant director, huddle around a table at the other end of the tent, prepping for the scene. Inevitably, the band breaks out their instruments and begin to play while we wait. I watch on the monitors as the actors and even some of the crew gravitate toward the Savoy’s bandstand. A trumpet player keeps pushing Monk toward the piano, but he laughingly waves him off. Eventually he acquiesces and takes the bench. I used to love seeing Monk with other musicians. He’s at ease in a way that speaks of the connectedness and community he feels with musicians as an extension of what he feels for music itself. Monk’s fingers fly over the keys, innate confidence squares his shoulders, and most tellingly, awe settles on the faces of those gathered around.
Especially the women.
Ladies, I get it.
The man is fine just breathing, but put an instrument or a mic in his hand, and it’s just unfair. One of the scantily clad dancers boldly sits beside him on the bench, and he flicks her a distracted smile, never missing a beat. He’s so caught up in the tune, in the synergy of the band, the melding of the sounds, he seems unaware that the beautiful woman is sending signals that he could get it.
A surge of possessiveness surprises me. It’s misplaced and unfair and unreasonable. I have no claim to Monk.
Still, something twists in my gut when the dancer runs her hand up and down his back, caresses his nape.
Pushy bitch.
“No,” I chide under my breath. “You don’t get to do this, Verity.”
“Talking to yourself?” The question from Canon jolts me.
“No!” I shake my head a little too vehemently. My response is over the top, but once you’ve actually been in a mental institution and labeled unstable because… well, youareunstable… you become sensitive about people thinking you’re crazy.
“Well you’re talking tosomebody,” Canon laughs, and walks to his director’s chair. “Glad you’re here to see this. Your Slim cameo idea was such a great add.”
My eyes wander back to the screen. Monk offers the dancer a polite smile, but nothing about his body language encourages her, and when he stands from the piano and walks away, disappointment colors her pretty face. He says a few words to the band and walks offscreen.
A few minutes later, he enters video village and chats with Canon and then searches the tent for a place to sit. I train my eyes on the monitor when he takes the seat beside me.
“This is gonna be good,” he says. “Neevah and the dancers look great, and so does Clyde. Teamwork, huh?”
He extends his fist for a bump, and after an almost imperceptible pause, I touch my fist to his.
“Teamwork,” I agree.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He reaches over and brushes his knuckle over the back of my hand, where it rests on my bare leg. The touch so startles me, I jerk, half expecting my skirt to spontaneously burst into flame, my skin feels so hot where he touched me. When he doesn’t move his hand, I side-eye him. He’s not smiling. Not frowning. Just observing my response, like a flame test—tossing things my way and watching, waiting to see how brightly I might burn.
I flick my gaze up to meet his searching, unblinking stare. He used to tell me he loved watching me in a group because I couldn’t disguise how I wanted him. He would find ways to caress my leg, or tangle his fingers in the curls at the base of my neck, or if he was really bold, under a table, slip his fingers beneath my skirt and into my panties.
I shift in my seat so that his hand falls away, and he smiles faintly as if I’ve passed a test. Or maybe I’ve failed. I’m not sure, but I believe he got the response he wanted.
