1985
Lynette "Billie" Ford
Billie,
I'm so proud of you.
I can only imagine how you must feel now that your very first album has been released. I can't wait to hear that wonderful music. Hopefully, we'll talk to each other and discuss your project together.
You've worked hard all this time, so I know that greatness will come through the airwaves. There's no doubt in my mind at this point.
Even though we might not be able to see each other as often anymore, please understand that I'll always stand in your corner. Feel free to let me know if you need anything.
You're definitely a star in my eyes. Never let anyone steal your dreams.
Best of luck,
-Michael Jackson
After leaving my first televised interview, I found Michael's letter in the mailbox. A smile crossed my lips, but I wouldn't necessarily stop everything in life just because someone like Mike squeezed this present between my bills. I'd thank him later. We'd finally exchanged numbers before this new year, closing the gap of communication that lasted for so long.
There was still life going on for me, even though I'd just climbed the show business ladder these days. Even with the album released, I knew so much better than to gain any form of arrogance. Mom and Dad would've killed me if I allowed myself to give up independence.
To be honest, I still wasn't "famous" enough in the world to earn some high profile security team or bodyguard squad just yet. I'd appreciate that kind of normalcy for just a bit longer, even with some chauffer helping me travel on different occasions, including earlier today.
For my second time all day, I showered and changed clothes, hoping to shake myself out of the ritzy outfit that photographers asked me to wear for that particular interview. A full-scale team of make-up artists and wardrobe experts dressed me from head to toe.
I'd rarely worn bright make-up or some risque attire. Hell, these people should've known how I operated after seeing my album cover for crying out loud. I'd still take the interview head-on and promoted myself as expected, but wearing the tight clothes seemed weird.
On the album cover itself, I'd opted to wear one white crop-top. Some high-waisted and ripped jeans covered my legs, which would only learn dance routines for future music videos, or short films as Mike would always say. Boots clicked with every step as I posed for the inline photographs. My hair curled, cascading down over one shoulder of the dark leather jacket that I'd layered over that crop-top. This Jet black shade my lips. Matching onyx eyeshadow darkened my lids whenever I shut both orbs for these awaited pictures.
Meanwhile, as I've said, the glam team for today's television interview didn't even bother to look out for any form of the style that graced my album covers. Instead, I found myself squeezing into one of the smallest and tightest dress ever created. Even my heels hiked.
I couldn't wear a bra and squeezed both breasts with stitched inward cups that almost left me vulnerable to anyone who filmed. Neon Pink sequin fabric of this same dress itched from top to bottom, but I still couldn't open up to speak.
To be honest, leaving that interview would've ruined any other prospects, but I'd never return to the program again after dealing with the humiliating wardrobe experience. Vanessa would've pulled me out once she saw the backstage rack. Even the make-up seemed nauseating to see in the mirror, just as bright as my skimpy dress. Just gross, but at least I could keep my long curls, of all things.
My only saving grace had been the interview. The host shook her head as soon as we caught up backstage. She damn near screamed to the glam team about everything, but it was too late. We couldn't waste time changing me out for other options. A time-crunch for the show itself left the produce crabby in one way or another. Even the host couldn't put her foot down. She was Black and everyone else around us looked paler than camera lighting.
"Billie, I'm so sorry." she apologized to me as soon as everything ended for that afternoon. I'd changed out of the atrocious dress backstage and shook hands with her before leaving. She hoped to see everyone fired in the future, even though I'd most likely never come back to that television studio.
In the midst of leaving my earned shower at home and planning to make dinner, my walled phone for this kitchen shrilled out of nowhere. I'd wanted to hear from someone, just to distract myself from the nightmare interview that had taken place downtown earlier today.
"Hello?" I smiled, leaving out my frustration about the interview. Whoever called now didn't need to know about possible media drama that could surround me in the future. Yet, I've digressed. There was no choice but to stop complaining and just move on with my career.
"Lynette?" It was Vanessa on the other line, my smile widened. She offered my birth name for the first time in quite a while, but I didn't think much of it. We couldn't just offer nicknames forever, especially with age. I'd wanted to hear from her for quite some time, especially after she'd married David last year. Wedded bliss crossed her face these days and I couldn't blame her. She was even pregnant now. I'd be a Godmother with time.
"Hey, girl! How are you feeling? How's my niece coming along?" I still allowed myself to grin, waiting for Vanessa to speak up. A comfortable silence fell between us both. I stopped cooking just to speak with my best friend, someone I'd always trust without show business.
"She's fine, but I have something to tell you." Vanessa lowered her voice and I knew that something wasn't right.
"What? What happened?" I questioned my best friend, immediately concerned.
"David passed away last night," Vanessa whispered, breaking composure to cry.
I hung up that kitchen phone and grabbed the car keys.
Fuck show business! My thoughts shouted.
