𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

BEGIN AGAIN

NEW YORK CITY,
OCTOBER 1978

"Michael, sweat any harder and you'll drown us all."

God knows he was trying his best not to, but no amount of deep breathing or self-soothing exercises had been enough to stop the beads of sweat from dripping down his temples.

Michael swiped his hand across his brow. Janet, sitting across from him with her legs folded underneath her, propped her head atop her hand. She had spent half of the ride watching him with a teasing smile.

"You would think after almost 10 years of being the center of attention, you'd be less prone to nervousness. And yet..." Teasingly, she rolled her eyes.

Katherine hushed her. "Stop it, Janet! This is a very important day for your brother. The very least you could do is not tease him. And lower those legs! A lady doesn't sit that way."

Rummaging through her purse, she produced a handkerchief. Janet snorted and quickly averted her eyes as Katherine, dabbing Michael's face, shot her a playful glare.

Michael gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, mother. Really." Gently, he pushed her hand away.

"Well, it sure doesn't look that way to me," she commented, dabbing his face again.

"Give him a break, Katie. He doesn't need you doting over him like a baby."

Joseph sat on the other side of the car, flanking Randy. If the easy-going look in his grayish-green eyes told it true, he was in a pleasant mood today.

"Of course he's not a baby, Joe," she replied, "but he is my baby." She pinched Michael's cheek. She folded her handkerchief and placed it in a tiny compartment in her purse before flashing Janet another glare, this time more serious than the first.

Janet quickly took the hint, straightening her legs until they dangled over the edge of the seat.

"You're still sweaty and smelly." Janet stuck her tongue out at Michael, gave him a quick smile, and turned her attention to the window.

Michael tugged at his collar, trying not to seem as self-conscious as he felt.

He had already spent a portion of the ride contemplating if his hair was shaped well enough, if his suit had been ironed to perfection, or if he looked put-together despite the red-eye he and his family had caught from California.

This was The Wiz premiere after all: photographers and media figures alike would be swarming the red carpet like flies, bombarding anyone they could for interviews and photos.

And then there was the little fact that he would be seeing Diana in person for the first time since January. That by far loomed over his head more than anything else.

Time, at the very least, had been good to him. He still had his moments of confusion, maybe even anger, but he—or rather they—had come to an understanding.

One thing they had agreed on was that things had gotten out of control in New York.

Both of them had been struggling with changes, new freedoms.

Diana had been overcoming her divorce and, even though she dared not admit it to Michael, the aftermath of her relationship with Berry.

Michael had been adjusting to a life out of his parents' watchful eye, which had given his childhood infatuation and his blossoming sexuality the opportunity to run amok. Or so he had told himself. Sometimes he wondered if all of it—the attachment, the desire, the anger—had just been born out of his tendency to latch onto anything that represented some sense of normalcy and stability.