BLACKBiiRDS

9 | R O M A N

M A R C H  1 8 | F R I D A Y

"Roe, I can't let you stay here."

The conversation had already taken a turn for the worse about three minutes ago. Roman feared his uncle would eventually say that, but he wasn't about to give up. Not yet.

"It's not like I don't want you to," Shawn explained. "And trust me, I would give you a suite for as long as you needed if I could. But we've got to meet state guidelines as far as residential quotas and statistics. I can't have a family member occupying space when another guest could be in that room...at least not yet. It's too soon. The first six months are the most crucial for this type of establishment."

Roman clenched his teeth. "It's cool, Unc. I understand."

Uncle Shawn stood from behind his desk and went over to one of the built-in bookshelves to pour himself a neat glass of brown liquor. He swallowed the first shot then poured another. "You want some of this? It was a gift, some aged cognac from a friend of mine."

"Nah. I'm cool," Roe murmured, rubbing his tired eyes, rocking side to side in the swivel chair.

"Alright, Roe. Tell you what. You can stay a couple of nights, four at most. But I'm going to need that room past a week."

"Unc, it's aight. For real. I can just find somewhere else to crash."

"I still don't understand what's wrong with Melvin's place." Roman ignored that one. "But hey," he said roughly after swallowing more of his cognac. "I had something I wanted to bring up to you anyway. You know Shawn Jr. is about to graduate."

Roe remembered his younger cousin telling him a couple of weeks ago. "Yeah, from PennState, right?"

"Yes, indeed. I'm so proud of him. But it got me thinking about you of course, and if you'd stayed in school yourself, you'd be graduating as well."

"I would've graduated last year," Roman corrected.

"Damn, really? How old are you again?"

Roe breathed a patient sigh. "Twenty three, Unc."

"Yeah, that's right. I'm getting you all mixed up. Right, well..." Shawn began gathering papers from his desk, seemingly looking for something. "I came across an old buddy of mine who used to play in a band. They were pretty damn good too, not my type of music. But they traveled the country, recorded albums, the whole nine. Granted, they never blew up, but they were signed to a small record label. Long story short, oh here it is, found it."

His uncle passed over a thin, stapled pack of papers. The front one read: University of the Arts' Pre College Summer Institute 2016. Vocal and Musical Performance. Roe flipped to the next one: Pre College Saturday School for Visual & Performing Arts.

His expression twisted in confusion. "Whatchu trying to say, Unc?"

Uncle Shawn continued shuffling papers around, making a bunch of unnecessary noise. "I think I'm saying it, nephew. Now my buddy retired a few years back, but he's an instructor over at UArts now, in the vocal performance branch. I told him about you, told 'em that you can sing and all that. You still write songs too, or no?"

"Nah...not in a while."

"Well, I'm sure Randy can find a place for you over there. He gave me all these flyers and brochures and I told him I'd pass them along to you. Just let me know when you're ready to apply, I can help you out with first year's tuition. I think the deadline is next—"

"Whoa, whoa. Hold up, Unc. You not even asking me about this. You damn near decided for me that I'm finna go."

"Roe, I don't mean to rush you. But with Mel gone, I know you need some form of direction out here. I just want you to get your life together. Get back on track. We think you need to find something that—"