Saving Michael Jackson

Breaking in Jermaine's House

"I'm not—I wasn't saying he can't sing," Bill said quickly, holding both hands up in surrender. The poor man looked as though he'd accidentally insulted the Pope. "I was only suggesting a different note."

Wanda folded her arms dramatically. "A different note," she repeated. "Imagine having the confidence to tell Michael Jackson how to sing."

A grin tugged at the corner of Michael's mouth.
"It's okay," he said through the microphone. "I don't mind."

Then, almost immediately, his attention drifted back to the song. That was the thing about Michael. The second music entered the room, everything else seemed to disappear. His mind went somewhere else entirely.

He tilted his head slightly and began pacing inside the recording booth. "Okay..." He raised a finger into the air as though conducting an invisible orchestra.

"Who is it?"
His shoulders swayed. Then he pointed dramatically toward the glass. "Is it a friend of mine?" His voice rose. "Who is it?" He spun around. "Is it my brother?"

The last line echoed through the speakers. The entire room burst out laughing. Except Michael.
Michael was too busy enjoying himself.

"Why is he singing about his brother?" Wanda asked between laughs. "Are they best friends now all of a sudden?" She grabbed a bottle of water and took a sip.

I bit my lip. "Uh..." Maybe I shouldn't say it.

I said it anyway. "He got inspired by your story with Jermaine."

The water immediately went down the wrong pipe. Wanda exploded into coughing. Violent coughing. The kind that made people question their survival.

Inside the booth, Michael stopped mid-note.

"Is everything alright in there?" he asked through the microphone.

I gave him a thumbs up while smacking Wanda repeatedly between the shoulders.

She continued coughing. "Why would he—"
Cough. "write—" Cough. "—that?" Another cough.
"I'm not cheating on Jermaine!"

"It's inspired by it," I said. "Not exactly your story."

She glared at me. Then at Michael. Then back at me. Then grabbed more water. Which was probably a mistake.

"Can Cindy sing now?" Michael suddenly asked.

Bill looked at me. Then at Michael. Then shrugged. "Why not?"

That was all I needed. I practically sprinted into the recording booth. The heavy studio door closed behind me with a soft click. Suddenly everything felt different. The room was smaller. Quieter. The microphone stood directly in front of me. A professional microphone. An actual recording microphone. Not a hairbrush. Not a deodorant bottle. Not a pretend one in my bedroom. A real one. For a second I completely forgot how breathing worked. Michael seemed amused by my panic.

"What should I do?" I asked. My smile was so wide my words barely came out properly.

"Remember that song?" he asked. Immediately I groaned. He laughed. The song. That song. The one he had been obsessed with. The one he kept singing every chance he got.

"Won't you give me some time..." He sang the line softly. "Hoo-hoo..." Then pointed at me. "That one."

Bill started the instrumental. The music filled the booth. Michael instantly transformed. His lips puckered into that exaggerated expression he always made when performing. I stared. Honestly. Someone should've warned humanity about those lips. One second he was standing there normally. The next he looked like a walking romance novel.