The kids are sleep and Lori and I are watching reruns of the second greatest sitcom of all time when Natas called.

It was the episode of A Different World when Whitley volunteers to teach ballet at Walter’s youth center, but one of the kids ends up stealing her wallet. It was a deep episode on many levels.

This episode dealt with:

Classism: Whitley's underlying insecurity of being from a well-to-do Black family that didn’t know how to deal with “real” Black folks facing poverty in the “inner-city.”

Perseverance: Her struggle to follow through and finish what she started.

The "Golden Child" Syndrome: The overindulgence of young men that show an aptitude for something special while ignoring negative behavior.

Cultural Conditioning: The conditioning of Black youth to see the cultured arts, like ballet, as a purely "white thing."

Whitley almost gives up, but her friends Kim and Freddie convince her to stay. She realizes the little girl who stole from her did it because she felt ignored by her father. Whitley ends up staying, and they all learn something about themselves. The Six-Figure News

Just as the credits were about to roll, my phone vibrated. I stepped into the kitchen as Natas’ name flashed on the screen.

“Quan,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. “I have some news. I’ve been talking to the label, and they’re ready to move. We’re looking at a six-figure advance.”

I nearly dropped the phone. My heart started racing. Six figures. That’s life-changing. That’s "pay the rent for five years" money. That’s "Lori doesn't have to wake up at 4 AM" money.

“For real?” I whispered.

“For real. But,” he paused, and the air in the kitchen suddenly felt colder. “There’s a small catch. A technicality for the tour.”

“What kind of catch?”

“The label wants a specific image for the Yung Punch tour. They love your talent, Quan, they really do. But they think your ‘brand’ is a little too... mature. Too independent.”

“And?”

“And they want to sign you as a solo act. Just you. No Evaready. No Coach K. Just Quanstar.”

The silence on the line was deafening. I looked through the doorway at Lori sitting on the couch. She looked so peaceful, finally resting after a ten-hour shift.

“I told you, Natas. It’s a package deal,” I said, but even to my own ears, my voice sounded weak.

“Quan, listen to me. This is the big leagues. E and K are great guys, but they don’t have the ‘look’ the label wants for this specific run. You sign this, you get the six figures. You can take care of your family. You can even hire them as roadies or something later on. But for the contract? It has to be just you.”

I felt sick.

“Think about it,” Natas continued. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning for your answer. Don’t let your loyalty to the past kill your future.”

He hung up. The Weight of the Choice

I walked back into the living room and slumped onto the couch. I felt like I was made of lead.

Lori looked over, sensing the shift in the room immediately. “What happened? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Natas,” I said.

I pictured Natas and Damien right now, laughing over Cuban cigars and top-shelf cognac at my expense. They must think they got another sucka ass nigga on the hook. Well, they got another thing coming because I ain’t the muthafuckin’ one. I’m about to call him now. Fuck the money.

“Are you okay?” Lori asked again. Her hand was gently rubbing mine—the one holding the phone to my ear.

Her hands were a little calloused and dry. I remember when they were soft to the touch, but ten years of waking up at four in the morning to serve ungrateful, entitled assholes overpriced coffee drinks will do that to a person.

Six figures. How can I walk away from this while she’s doing that? While my kids need to have college paid for?

I pulled the phone from my ear, grabbed Lori’s hands, and guided her to sit back down on the couch with me. She looked like she was about to cry. This has to be a reflection of how I look. Honestly, I don’t really feel my face right now, so I can’t tell if I have tears or not. The Stand

I filled her in on the second half of the conversation. Her answer was simple and expected.

“You don’t have to do it.”

“Yes I do.”

“No you don’t.” She grabbed the hand that was still holding my phone. “Call him back, and tell him that this is not acceptable.”

“Yes I do have to do it, and no I won’t call him back. I’m not walking away from that kind of money. We have bills. More importantly, we have kids.”

And I have you, I thought.

“We’ll manage,” she insisted, her eyes locking onto mine. “You don’t have to sell your soul for—”