Free Joplin's Ghost by Tananarive Due

couple of them are weak.”
    The word weak made Phoenix’s stomach cramp with gas.
    Kendrick went on: “Truthfully, tracks five and seven could go. That’s the producer talking, not you. He drowned you out. He was putting out that same shit two years ago.”
    Damn. Phoenix tried to think of what to do about the seventeen hundred people who would hear her singing behind those recycled beats at the Osiris. They would boo her off the stage. Had Sarge given her an escape clause in her contract? Sarge usually took care of that.
    “But that one ‘Party Patrol,’ that’s gonna bump all summer,” Kendrick said. “Reminds me of Prince, or the Gap Band, but with your own flava mixed in, too, like that Middle Eastern vibe. It’s tight . Nothing on your old CD was that good. It’s gonna make you a star, girl.”
    Phoenix felt herself breathe, her heart pounding. “Party Patrol” was one of the few songs on Rising that had felt like a collaboration, at least pieces of it. At first, D’Real hadn’t liked the sound of the Egyptian-style violin intro she’d asked him to weave inside the opening measures, but he’d relented, mixing her until she sounded like a full string section. “Party Patrol” was one of their few true moments of musical collaboration.
    “But is the CD any good?” she said.
    “Yeah, mostly. It’s real good, Phoenix. It’s on for you, girl. All I’m saying is, my favorite ones are when you’re in there, too. Not your voice, but your music . The best part.”
    Phoenix’s stomach cramped again. In today’s rehearsal, she hadn’t been able to get through the choreography of “Party Patrol” without sounding breathless when she sang, and on the last song her voice was smothered beneath the exploding tracks. She wished she had a voice like her sister’s, because Serena could sing . Serena could bring it like Aretha and Patti and Whitney, from her soul-space.
    But Phoenix would have to be Phoenix. Whatever she was, she was.
    Phoenix wanted to ask Kendrick if people would think she could sing worth a damn, but she had heard enough truth for one night.
     
    M e and my crew’s gonna roll…We’re on a Party Patrol…”
    Kick-cross-step, kick-cross-step. Phoenix spun, hitting her mark a fraction behind the beat. Head cocked left, then right. And sliiiiiide…two, three, four…sliiiiiiide…two, three, four …. Hunched shoulders, snapping high. “We’re losin’ control…Out on this Party Patrol…”
    The more Phoenix concentrated on her dancing, the more sluggish her energy felt. Arturo and the other two dancers seemed to follow her lead, missing cues, stumbling over steps and performing by rote, as if they were unmoved by the music blasting from the giant club’s speakers. Phoenix’s voice cracked on the last high note, fluttering to nothing, barely audible in the speakers from her headset microphone. She was so breathless, the recorded vocals drowned her out. Her voice was worse than yesterday. And her lower back throbbed, the old injury taunting her.
    The rehearsal at Le Beat was not going well.
    “OK, guys, let’s take a deep breath,” the choreographer said, stopping the music.
    Phoenix was grateful for the break. The label hadn’t paid for backup singers on this radio tour, much less dancers—but Sarge had convinced Manny to give her dancers in St. Louis and at the Osiris. Hell, it’s all coming out of your end eventually, Phee, Sarge had reminded her. Dancers would make the concerts look better, give Phoenix more dancing practice, and give her and Sarge a chance to audition their choreographer before the video shoot began.
    But the choreographer Olympia was pushing for too much too soon, trying to show off for Sarge. Phoenix had studied a little dance in high school and had always been rhythmic, but Olympia’s finely regimented contortions took her mind away from her voice, and apparently her voice needed more attention. How could they perform this tomorrow night? How could