( CHAPTER TEN: OVERNIGHT CELEBRITY )
July, 1994

❝ that's your new nickname, fly-ass devon. ❞

◯

Arkell Emmet's whole world was flipping upside down. The young, fourteen-year-old boy found himself bearing witness to the most startling event in his life — watching his big brother rise to the ranks of unimaginable fame. Now, Arkell wasn't totally oblivious, he had suspected that his older sibling would gain more attention after the movie premiered, but attention on this level left him vying for some normalcy.

It all started during the weeks following the release of Breakthrough. Devon had started visiting all of the major cities. Chicago, Atlanta, Detroit, Los Angeles and many more. And during the time of his absence, his star went soaring into the stratosphere.

And strangely, that wasn't even an exaggeration. Perhaps it even qualified as understatement. Devon Emmet was everywhere. Arkell saw his brother's face anywhere he went.

Whenever he would walk to school, he would see billboards and posters with his brother's face on it. At school, his classmates would either rave on about Arkell's cool older brother, or try to ask him about meeting him. He would even catch the girls at his school plastering his brother's poster all over their lockers — with pink hearts scribbled around his face.

And when he came home from school? Every ad on the television alluded to him. Advertisements for discounted Breakthrough tickets, an interview where Devon was smiling with Oprah — or a quick buck selling tidbits from his brother's personal look — his cap, sneakers, jeans or his hairstyle.

Every single thing in Arkell Emmet's life was now revolving around Devon Emmet, and he hated it.

Now, one might ask, was this sheer jealousy talking? Was Arkell becoming a victim to lividness and envy? Or were his feelings valid? Was he justified in avoiding conversations about his family, movies and local street dancing? Or was he truly a bitter family member, resenting the thought of his own brother's success?

Well, one could never know.

Arkell just knew one thing, he was sick of hearing the name Devon Emmet. In every aspect.

Excited ravings from his so called friends; dreamy whispers from the giggling girls in the hallway. Fond memories recalled from passing teachers, who claimed that they always knew his brother was special. In reality, Devon barely attended class enough for anyone to become fond of him. And last but not least, proud words from his uncle, who Arkell sometimes found tearing up, staring at the television screen with swelling pride.

The last one he could hardly stay mad at, but it hurt to know that his uncle thought only one of his nephews were causing him such glee. Arkell however? He caused nothing but pain. He was the introverted nephew who fell into the arms of a predator. A boy who was good for nothing but trouble, worry and an excuse to get to Devon.

His uncle knew it, his friends knew it too— and his mother has always known it. She treated him like that ever since he was a little boy.

And now, Arkell struggled to find his place in all this.

He told that to his therapist a hundred times a day. She was an older lady in the west of Manhattan, both  of whom Devon and his uncle scourged to find. They made it mandatory that he attend every week, pouring out the same feelings, and receiving the same results.

Zip, zero, nada.

There wasn't any progress in solving Arkell's mental anguish. He was still the same damaged, angry teenage boy he always was. And, with his brother's recent success — it only got worse.

He became distrustful, isolated. His friends felt fake, and the people around him seemed to view him as a token— a chip on his brother's shoulder. His last straw, however, seemed to come in the form of some cynical classmates, that perhaps recognised Arkell's vulnerability and used it against him.

On a hot summer morning, Arkell made his usual descent towards his school, tampered on the edge of a Harlem street. He arrived in moderate spirits, buzzing through the hall with his head down, and trying to ignore the whispers of his schoolmates, who always seemed to mentioned how he was Devon Emmet's brother in passing.

Arkell blocked them out, making a beeline towards his first class, which was AP English. He stomped into the classroom early and retreated towards the back of the room. As the young boy squirmed into his desk, he calmly waited for his other classmates to arrive. And soon enough, after a few precious, they did.

One by one, in their groups, cliques and social clubs, they entered the room and slid into their seats. The last group to enter was a clamp of four boys — boisterous and loud — who came parading into the classroom with cocky walks.

Once they caught sight of Arkell's inverted frame, they instantly approached him.

"Yo, it's Arkell!"

The young boy looked up, scowling meanly at the four.

"Did your brother call you yet?" One asked, giving him a smirk.

Arkell shook his head, his eyes filled with boredom, "No."

"When he does, you have to tell him 'bout us," another said.

"What about you?"

"That we're dancers, idiot!"

A train of laughter followed after their words, causing for Arkell to roll his eyes. He just wanted them to leave him alone.

"Listen, class if startin' soon, so you should go—"

"—Man, your brother is so cool! How did you end up so lame?!"

Arkell's face twisted defensively, "I ain't lame."

"Yeah you are," one the boys snorted, "Your brother is famous, a great dancer and is dating one of the finest honeys ever! And you're... well—"

"—A virgin."

Another cruel string of cackles, their hurtful words drawing more attention from stray classmates. Arkell could feel the blood rushing to his face.

"A lame virgin."

Some more snickers — soon, the whole classroom joined in on the mocking. Arkell sat there, brown cheeks flaming with a hint of red, and eyes morphing into a snarly scowl. He felt a monstrous beast wrenching through his chest, the humiliation forcing him to feel aggression, anger. But, he held it in.

Instead, in a flush of his own embarrassment, Arkell scooped up his school bag and dashed out of the room, the sound of their laughter lingering on his ears.

He ran out of the room, out of the halls, out of the school — and sprinted towards his uncle's house. He craved refuge, validation of his own miserable existence. But, when he barged through the front door and stomped towards the kitchen, he saw something that provided him anything but.

There, Arkell spotted his uncle, sitting in front of TV, intently watching new footage of his other star nephew on some big, flamboyant MTV segment. And once the round, merry man twisted around and saw Arkell standing at the helm of the door, his face didn't twitch with concern, or confusion, as to why his fourteen-year-old nephew was home early from a school day.

No, his only thought right now was on Devon.

"Arkell, look!" Uncle Emmet exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the TV, "It's your brother, he's on tv dancin', look!"

The young boy looked at the screen, disgust pumping through his veins.

"I'm sick," Arkell muttered, ignoring his uncle's words, "I came home early from sch—"

"—They love him, look at that crowd!"

The older man — caught up in his own ecstatic pride — interrupted Arkell's sombre mumbles. But, at this point, the youngest Emmet had reached his limit. He had enough.

So, with a fuming grunt, Arkell threw his backpack down with all his might, the sound of velcro smacking the wooden floors causing for uncle Emmet to whip around, startled. His eyes, immersed with so much confusion, watched as his nephew stormed away, stomping up the nearby staircase with clenched fists and locked shoulders. That's when the ice truly broke.

"Arkell, where you goin'?" The man asked, "What's wrong?"

"Stop pretending that you care about me!" Arkell screamed, his throat rawly strained from such a painful volume. He turned around, stopping at the top of the staircase. Only then, as uncle Emmet slowed down to a pause, did he see the hot tears fizzling in his nephew's eyes.

"All you care about is Devon! Just like everyone else," the young boy added in between tortured sobs, "You don't give a fuck about me."

Then, without wasting another sob-filled breath, Arkell turned on his heel and dashed to his room, slamming the door behind him on his way in. The young boy staggered to his bed, filled with agony and face sticky with tears. He sobbed into his pillow, praying for a way out. Hoping that someone will see him beyond the lens of his famous brother

Then, almost as if fate was testing him, Arkell heard the phone beside his bed begin to ring. Wiping his snot-filled face, he scooted towards his bedside and hesitantly picked up the landline. Not knowing, to his very own surprise, what waited for him on the other side.

"Arkell, baby, is that you?" A voice asked, one that was entirely too familiar to ignore.

He sat there, puzzled, contorted and sad, listening to the breathing patterns of the person who just spoke. The line was faint, one could barely hear anything.

But even he knew — in all his damaged gloom — that it was his estranged mother on the other end of the line.

◯

"Free t-shirts for everybody!"

Devon Emmet yelled to the screaming crowd, sending them into another maddened tizzy. The young man grinned — pacing along the crowded Los Angeles street — and tossing an array of promotional shirts, tees and sweaters into the arms of the awaiting crowd. They hungrily pulled and wrenched every piece of fabric that he hurled their way.

They were like savage dogs being thrown a bone, and while it was frightening to see, Devon found it equally liberating and somewhat satisfying to see them enjoy him this much. What could he say? He was a man of the people.

"Mr. Emmet, please don't rile them up, it could get dangerous."

Floundering up to Devon's side, was one of his bodyguards, who eagerly shielded him from whatever havoc may lay. He didn't blame them. Weeks of relentless mobbing left them feeling extremely cautious and wary of the public's perceptions.

However, the barricaded streets no longer filled the dancer with fear. Rather, it gave him the ability to communicate with excited fans from a safe and guarded distance. He no longer wanted to shut himself out from the hysteria. This was his new reality— he needed to learn how to embrace it.

"Come on, they're harmless, look!" Devon exclaimed, throwing another shirt to a gaggle of fans, who managed to squeal when he flashed them a smile. In truth, part of him was enjoying their frenzied reactions, it was entertaining.

"He's right Devon, you should get inside," another guard urged, growing incredibly awry at the sight of the rambunctious crowd, "We don't have that much time, and y-you have a photoshoot to get to—"

"—Relax, y'all, we'll make it," Devon said, patting each of them on the back, "Everything will be fi—hey, hey! Let 'em through!"

In the middle of his half-hearted response, Devon advanced forward, spotting a group of kids trying to break through the barricade.

Lately, he noticed that while Breakthrough gave him attention from all age groups — young kids seemed to be his main fanbase. And he truly meant children from all races, creeds and backgrounds. They would dress up like him — donning a red cap, white sneakers and baggy jeans — and obviously try to emulate his moves.

In fact, whenever he would visit orphanages, children's hospitals— or if there was a large crowd following him around, there was always a mini Devon Emmet in the mix. And personally, that was Devon's favourite addition to his rising fame.

So, the dancer immediately ran over to the barricade, gesturing for the kids to safely make their way over to him. The security let them through, causing for them to dash over to Devon, holding out various objects for him to sign. Baseballs, trophies, notebooks and even his own action figure (yeah, that's right, he had his own action figure now).

Devon crouched down, beaming delightfully as he signed every object that their heart's desired.

"Alright, one at a time," Devon mused, observing the buzzing excitement with a toothy smile.

"Yo, I like ya cap, wanna swap?" Devon asked, glancing at a young seven-year-old kid with big spectacles and a quiet demeanour. He looked up at Devon — stunned. In fact, he seemed to be in awe that the dancer was actually speaking to him.

With an amused grin, Devon whipped off his hat and placed it on the little boy's head, ridding himself from his prior cheap headgear, "Here you go."

It was too big for him, it fell over his glasses like a large curtain shade. Devon held in the temptation to let out a giggle, "It looks good, buddy." He tapped him on the head, the boy's large eyes staring up at him with amazement. These kids looked at him like he was the sun; like he was their own personal superhero, and he felt touched.

"We need to go, Mr. Emmet," one of his bodyguards pressed yet again, and Devon couldn't ignore them this time.

So, with one last charming smile, Devon bid farewell to his tiny fan, "Wear it well, aight?"

He sauntered off, walking into the onslaught of screaming cheers. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the boy raving excitedly to the other small fans, causing for Devon to crack a smile. There's no doubt he'll be telling all his friends about the 'hat that Devon Emmet gave him'.

So, with that lingering thought in his brain, the dancer walked ahead, disappearing into the tall building for his next appointment.

Devon did not know a lot about this meeting, he only knew it was a proposition of some kind. Last week, he signed a deal with Pepsi to be a brand ambassador, which led him to filming numerous commercials during his stay in LA.

He knew that brands and clothing lines were tripping over each other in order to make him the face of their brand. But, Devon knew he had to be smart about this. He couldn't be saying yes to anything. So, he made a vow to himself that he would only sign a deal if it contributed something to the community.

With Pepsi, he persuaded them to donate his earnings to any charity of his choosing. He selected his fair share of dance foundations, art facilities and little league baseball clubs. So, as Devon made his way into one of the conference rooms, he was ready for anything that these guys threw at him.

When he entered the room, he spotted two men waiting for him with suits and ties on. They seemed particularly anxious as Devon made his delayed arrival. That was the thing about being famous— he could be tardy and no one gave a damn.

"Hey, how you doin' gentlemen?" Devon greeted them, giving each of them a firm handshake, "Sorry I kept you waiting."

"It's no problem Mr. Emmet, please take a seat," they said, gesturing towards the sleek black armchair positioned in front of the long desk,  "Could we get you anything?"

Devon shook his head, planting himself in the seat with a confidence in his rocky shoulders, "I'm fine, thanks."

They both nodded, taking the time to sit across from him, "Quite a crowd out there, right?"

"Is it," Devon nodded, "So what's this about?"

"Well, I know your schedule is tight, Mr. Emmet, so we'll cut to the chase," one of the men said, "We want to offer you a three night residency at the Apollo theatre, where your performance will be shown internationally on live television."

It took every molecule in Devon's body to suppress the giddiness threatening to soar through his Adam's apple. The dancer sat there, composed, calm and collected, ignoring the frivolous flips in the base of his stomach. Oh, this was possibly the greatest moment ever.

The historic Apollo theatre. Was this real?

"That sounds amazing," the dancer spoke, "When will it be?"

Very convincing, Devon.

"It will be in September, after your press tour," one of the men stated.

Deep breaths, Devon, the young man thought, poker face, poker face.

"I'll be stoked to do this," he finally admitted, "Me and the cast will love to perform at the Apollo—"

"—Oh um, we want only you Mr. Emmet," the man said, tampering with Devon's rapid high.

The dancer frowned, baffled by the words he just heard. Perhaps his ears — despite being rather big — were possibly deceiving him.

"Only me?" Devon repeated, "But who will I dance with?"

"We'll hire people, it's cheaper."

That made them sound disposable, replaceable; and Devon did not like that at all. He had too much integrity to throw them all away. Despite the fact that performing at the Apollo theatre — the pride of Harlem — was rather attempting. And the fact that he'll be the first street dancer performing on that stage, he needed to do it with people he believed in, people he chose. If he was to do this, he needed to do it right.

So, with a dramatic sigh, Devon stood up from his seat, his decision already set in his mind, "Well I'm sorry guys, but I can't do it if my costars aren't doing it."

Devon glanced up, holding in a smile at the panicked reactions on their faces.

"Come on Mr. Emmet, this is a great opportunity, you can't pass this up."

"Sorry, that's what I'm doin'," Devon responded, shrugging slightly.

"B-But Mr. Emmet!"

"You can't—"

"—This isn't a negotiation, I'm not doing it," he firmly said.

In such situations, where business deals had to be made, Devon quickly realised the gravity of his power. His popularity was soaring, his movie was breaking ground everyday, and he was the most sought after public figure in the business right now. A true overnight celebrity, Devon's influence could not be mistaken. So, it was only right that he used to to his advantage. And oh, his point was proven when these guys grovelled at his feet when he threatened to leave. He knew what he was now.

"Okay, okay! The whole cast will do it!" One finally exclaimed in a desperate last minute attempt to keep the famed Devon Emmet in the room. The dancer stilled, his dimple shallowly cornering his mouth as a smile swept across his plump lips.

"With good pay," Devon added.

"Mr. Emmet, you'll be paid generously—"

"—Not me, them," the dancer pressed, "And I want full creative control over the project, nothing happens without my say."

That was important. Devon had to oversee everything for this performance. Like always, his creative mind needed the control. Maybe he was asking for too much, maybe he had overestimated his power. Maybe — at his core — he was still the same small-time dancer from Harlem.

Maybe he was, but he still held his ground, refusing for the life of him, to back down. So, after a long, hard exchange of glowering bravado, the two men finally gave in.

"Okay, we have a deal, Mr. Emmet."

Then, they shook hands, causing for the dancer to quirk a curved grin, his bigger palm enrolling around their hands in a successful gesture of power.

"We do," Devon said, nodding humbly, "Thank you, this will be unforgettable."

And that he was right about that.

◯

Janet had to say, she has never been more dedicated to following the news cycle of a single person than she was with her boyfriend, Devon Emmet. But to be fair, it was hard to even avoid his name popping up anywhere she went. He was the biggest thing out since sliced bread. Now, it was utterly bizarre to see someone who you've known and loved rise to the ranks of unimaginable fame.

On the one hand, she expected such adulation. The movie was amazing, Devon was talented, handsome and a mystifying performer. It wasn't hard to figure out why he was such a catch with the general public, why he was now regarded as a certifiable 'it boy'. However, on the other hand, it was a hard pill to swallow, knowing that he was now accessible to everyone who cared to see.

He was a public figure now, ingrained in the public eye, and therefore free for the slaughter. Free to be judged, scrutinised and picked on. It was a very fearful thought, and Janet took every news article, magazine and gossip column in stride.

He was facing an immense wave of popularity now, but she just feared for what was to come. The ugly side of fame.

For now, however, she tried not to dwell too much on it. Instead, every single time she had a free chance on her tour, she read about him. Smiled at his accomplishments, laughed whenever she saw a new Devon Emmet advertisement. And, she gasped every time she read that Breakthrough was slowly but surely becoming one of the best selling movies of the decade.

It felt unreal, and yet so deserved.

But, the icing on the cake seemed to be when she was in Columbus, practising for her concert later that evening. Tish suddenly came racing onto the stage, his small fingers scrunched the edges of a magazine.

"Janet, look!" The woman yelled. Janet, who was calmly stretching on the floor, looked towards her friend in fright.

"Yes?"

"Dev talked about you in an interview!" Tish exclaimed, sliding over to the scrambled pop star, who peered forward with interest.

"He did?"

"Yeah, with 'vibe magazine', take a look!"

Janet snatched the sleek magazine out of her friend's hand — to her surprise, seeing Devon on the front cover. He was dressed in a blazer, a cap and jeans, presenting him as the new shrouded face of dance, as the cover affectionately called him his famed nickname 'the drum'.

Now that he was in the public eye, she presumed that nickname would stick. It wasn't just a name attached to a present choreographer anymore — it was now related to one of the biggest actors in the world, right now. Oh, how things have changed.

As Janet's eyes scaled over the cover, she examined the snappy caption, detailing the nature of Devon's interview. Devon talks dancing, new movies and future with Janet!

His what with Janet?

"Flip to page 4," Tish informed her, grinning toothily. By now, the rest of her female dancers were crowded around the singer, eager to see what her newly famous boyfriend had to say. When she did, it included some more tasteful photographs of him — some of which she wanted to save, might she add — but as her eyes skimmed the words on the page, that's when she saw words that made her heart stop.

Interviewer:
so Devon, we know you have a high profile relationship. How serious is it between you and Janet?

Devon:
I want to marry her soon. Hopefully this year, if timing works out right.

Janet's heart halted in surprise.

"Jan, you didn't tell us he was proposing!" One of her dancers squealed, igniting a chorus of excited, girlish cheers, and overlapping congratulations. In truth, Janet didn't tell because she didn't know. Sure, they talked about it extensively, but suddenly the thought of a proposal made everything more real to her.

It delighted her, scared her, and ultimately — shook her to the core. What was she to do?

"This is crazy, mom and dad are getting married y'all!—"

"—Tish!" Janet scolded, giving her friend a frown, "Settle down, okay? We should get back to rehearsals."

They grumpily obliged, despite the fact that the topic was on the tip of their tongues. Janet, however, could not stop thinking about it. Was he serious? Or just chalking it up for the cameras? The publicity? She hasn't seen him in weeks, so it was hard to determine if he was serious. He did not yet know about the implications of magazine interviews.

She had no doubt that his words would be blown up in all the main gossip columns, probably being spread around as fact. Janet wouldn't have minded it, if she wasn't harbouring something intense that might've imploded such a happy engagement.

Her secret abortion. Still left unsaid. And, if she ever wanted any type of future with them, then she needed to come clean. That only left Janet with one choice.

She needed to fly over and see him before things got out of hand.

◯

"Guess what?" Devon pottered into the room, capturing the attention of his lively cast mates, who stood upright at the sound of Devon's voice. They lounged in the hotel lobby of their lush, expensive quarters, enjoying the complimentary drinks, muffins and sandwiches presented before them.

But, once he walked in with a big grin on his face, the six dancers took a break from stuffing their faces with baked delights.

"What?" Trey asked, half a chewed macaroon sloshing around his mouth.

Devon looked away, bile rising in his throat, "You have to guess nigga, that's part of the game."

"You have another action figure comin' out?" Keenan mused.

"We're meeting the president!?" Noah cheered.

"You broke up with Janet and she wants my number?!" Antonne jumped in, causing for Devon's face to tighten irritably.

"I'm just gonna say it, since y'all are terrible guessers—" he started, "—We just booked a three night performance at... wait for it, the Apollo Theatre!"

"What?!"

"You serious!?"

"Yep," Devon proudly declared, grinning manically at the sight of the their joyous reactions. He felt like a proud father, watching them achieve these wins. They've come a long way from being unpolished, hard-edged street dancers.

"When!?" Jaylen asked.

"After the press tour, so we have a lot of practising to do," Devon steadily replied.

"Oh no, does that mean you're gonna make us run a mile again?" Sam asked, getting horrid flashbacks to the sluggish, burning anguish they endured, trying to finish the daily laps that Devon had so rigorously assigned.

However, the harmless glow behind Devon's charming grin — a grin that has been plastered over every billboard in every major city — suggested lenience. Perhaps sympathy, to some extent.

"Sam, don't be ridiculous," Devon replied, slinging a strong, muscled arm over his costar's shoulders, "I'm gon' make you run five miles."

He was so very wrong.

"But for now, we celebrate! Drinks on me tonight!" Devon exclaimed, changing the subject before his words could truly sink into their brains. If they thought he was harsh on set, then they were certainly in for a ride when they prepare for a performance of this magnitude.

This was a chance for Devon to show the world that he wasn't just a cotton-candy, on-screen dancer. No, he was a performer, born and bred on the toughest stage of all: the streets. So, as the cast filtered out the door — cheering in excitement — Devon's glittering brown eyes landed on John Singleton, who stood behind the group, watching it all unfold.

How long has he been standing there?

"Hey John, ain't this exciting?" Devon asked, approaching the directer, whose dark tint on his shades enabled only a smidge of his eyes to be noticed.

"It is, you're really going above and beyond for them," the man happily replied, "You've really taken this movie to a whole other level."

"Well, it's a team effort."

Hardly, but the dancer was too humble to admit that.

"No, it isn't," John interjected, "Everything good about the movie... it's been you, you made it what it is today."

Devon stilled, his face numbing in surprise. He couldn't say that he expected such praise. But, nonetheless, John extended a hand and gave Devon a firm handshake, streaks of admiration shown in the creases of his smile, "I can't wait to see the show."

Then, with another respected nod, the man turned around to walk away, leaving Devon to stand there, taken aback. It was strange. Their working relationship was complicated; they butted head all the time over creative differences, and yet, Devon had to give credit where it was due. This wouldn't have come into fruition without John's flawed, perfect little script. Looking back at it, Devon will forever remember that moment with fondness.

But, he didn't dwell on it for too long. The sound of his phone ringing interrupted his sudden burst of nostalgia, causing for him to reach into his pocket and answer the phone. Fortunately — like a routined greeting — the sound of TJ's enthused, hyper-active, yell tore through his eardrums. He flinched away from the speaker, a dimple cracking across his cheek in the process.

"Yo, you won't believe what happened today!!"

Once again, no 'hello, how are you?'. For TJ, this common greeting has been said too many times already. Devon had to give him credit for originality.

"You know how many girls are fucking trippin' over you now?! It's like you died and became the only fly nigga on the planet to them," TJ rambled on, "I got so many phone numbers for just knowing you."

"Well, congratulations?" Devon replied, confusion woven through his tone. Honestly, he didn't know how to respond to half the things TJ said.

"That reminds me, the honeys are calling you 'fly-ass Devon' now," his friend chimed, a sentence that didn't really make sense to him at all, if he was being honest.

"Huh?"

"They're calling you 'the flyest'— it's your new nickname now," TJ repeated.

Well, that might've been a new one. Did he really have a new nickname to add to the batch? First the drum, now the flyest— Devon's name was somehow becoming synonymous with, well... being cool. It wasn't too far off, since Devon received his fair share of local nicknames when he was still street dancing.

He was known as sly ole' Devon, the Harlem breaker who had the smile of an angel but the moves of a devil. It seemed like a natural evolution. It was funny, he was receiving worldwide praise for being the very thing that the tabloids hated a year ago. A dirty street thug. How satisfying.

"Well, they ain't lyin'," Devon joked, biting the surface of his soft bottom lip, "By the way, are you at my uncle's house?"

"Yeah, Arkell's here, wanna talk to him?" TJ asked.

"Yeah, put him on the phone."

TJ obeyed, causing for Devon to wait. A few minutes later, after distant pattering of footsteps and the whining creak of a door, Arkell's low, flimsy voice echoed through the device.

"Hello?" His croaked, his splitting vocal cords echoed through the phone. Looks like he was still affected by the unrelenting throws of puberty. Sometimes, he'll wake up with a deeper voice than Devon, and other times, he spoke with a grainy, cracked, high-pitched tone — like he just swallowed a mouthful of sand.

But, Devon wasn't complaining, he was always eager to talk to his brother, even if the latter sometimes 'wasn't..

"Hey man, how you been?" Devon asked, smiling to himself, "Listen, guess who I got to meet today? Shaq, that nigga is tall!"

Arkell didn't respond, causing for Devon to ramble on.

"And he says he wants to come and see my little brother play some b—"

"—Devon."

"What?"

The dancer's folded dimples began to rise up once his smile started to fade away. For some reason — in the static silence — he could tell that something was... off. He could just tell.

"Is something wrong?" The dancer asked, his heart beginning to thrum a tad bit faster. He anticipated the boy's answer. He dwelled on it— thought of the words possible scenarios in the extended beat of nothingness. However, when Arkell spoke again, nothing could've quite prepared Devon for the foretelling horror that bestowed upon his body like a haunting shadow.

It was happening again.

"I spoke to mom today," the boy said, "And we want to talk to you."

◯

a/n;

wow, wow, wow! Quite the rollercoaster this chapter. As Devon's fame is growing, we actually see how this is affecting his family.

Arkell is feeling very under appreciated in the wake of Devon's new fame, and we actually come to find out that he spoke to their mother now. So, what do we think will become of this? What will happen now?

Also... maybe a little less serious, but Devon also mentioned in a magazine article that he wanted to marry Janet, what do we think of that? Will there be a proposal soon?

Let me know! I love hearing your thoughts. Also, I hope you guys like the fake vibe magazine cover I made lol.

I hope you guys enjoyed, and I'll see you in the next chapter <3