Grip
OVER THE LAST FEW MONTHS, at times I’ve been able to forget I’m a celebrity. I’ve been dragging myself out of bed and going to class, sitting through lectures, turning in assignments like any other NYU student. Besides going into the studio and the occasional appearance, life has been more normal than it has the last few years. Sure, Angie Black put my life on blast and all the drama about me dating Bristol flared up again, but it’s been pretty tame, considering.
Tonight, though, I’m nominated for three Grammys, including song of the year and best new artist. I walked the red carpet with Bristol at my side, answering some questions, dodging others. She didn’t wear her ring, and we remained non-committal on our engagement, instead focusing on which designers we were wearing and which performances we wanted to see. Useless things like that seem so far removed from the issues I’ve focused on for the last few months with Iz, but in perspective, I know this is a big deal. This part of my life lends me more leverage in the others. The higher my celebrity stock goes, the more influence and resources I’ll have for the things that really matter. So, I smile and answer questions and shine as brightly as I can along with all the other stars. My mama always told me to remember that every time I step out of the house, I represent those who will never have the opportunity to step onto a stage this large.
“Are you nervous?” Bristol leans over to whisper once we’re in our seats and the show is underway.
I glance at her, and for a moment, forget how momentous tonight is. All I can see is how beautiful she looks. Her dark burnished hair is wild in that intentional way that probably takes a lot of time to make look that effortless. The dress she chose is bluish-green with vibrant splashes of color, and her feathery earrings reflect the brilliant palette of her dress.
“You’re my pretty bird tonight,” I say instead of answering her question directly. I touch the hair rioting around her face. “Maybe a peacock.”
“Thanks, I think.” She rolls her eyes, but quirks the fullness of her lips into an irrepressible smile. “But don’t change the subject. Your first category is up next. Are you nervous?”
Grinding all these years, a Grammy seemed like the culmination, like winning one would be the ultimate happiness, and I won’t lie, winning would be pretty dope. But, the hardware that makes me happiest isn’t the Grammy, it’s the one Bristol left back in our hotel room. I lift her hand to my lips for a quick kiss. I was more nervous walking around with that ring in my pocket for a week than I am waiting for my first Grammy.
“Nervous?” I repeat. “Li’l bit.”
She studies me for an extra second before smiling and turning her attention back to the stage as the nominees for best rap performance are announced.
Some girl from a reality show I’ve never watched does the honors, her face animated when she opens the card.
“And the winner is,” she says, pausing to stretch out the audience’s bated breath. “‘Queen,’ Grip and Qwest.”
This moment is pretty surreal, with the applause louder than I thought it would be, the lights brighter, more cameras capturing everything from perfect angles. It feels like a dream I had as a kid that I just don’t wake up from. The only thing real in all of this is Bristol’s hand gripping mine and the tears swimming in her eyes. I lean over to kiss her cheek, and she whispers, “I’m proud of you.”
A part of me wishes I didn’t have to go onstage or make a speech. I wish I could just stay here and bask in the fact that the woman who knows me better than anyone else and has seen this journey almost from the beginning is proud of me. I squeeze her leg and lean down to kiss behind her ear, where the smell of her perfume and the scent unique to her body are strongest.
“Go.” She laughs, giving me a little push. “And don’t forget to thank your mother.”
Like I could.
Qwest makes it to the stage before I do, and I nod for her to take the mic first. With her long braids twisted into a knot at the base of her neck and an evening dress sheathing all that famous ass, she looks classy and composed, powerful and regal. I’m happy for her— it’s her first Grammy, too.
“Wow.” She turns a bright smile on the audience, and I’m glad she gets this moment for herself. “Obviously, I need to thank my team, my manager Will, Ezra Cohen with Sound Management, my family for holding me down, all the fans, and everyone who supported me along the way.”
She glances back at me, her smile wavering for just a second as the feelings I suspect she still has for me congregate in her eyes. She blinks, and that vulnerability disappears, covered with the high shine of celebrity again.
“Most of all, thank you, Grip,” she says after a moment. “For putting up with my crazy ass and trusting me with such an incredible song.”
I offer her a quick wink and a grin before she turns back to the crowd.
“It’s an honor getting to inspire young girls to respect themselves, to carry themselves like the queens they’re meant to be. If a little brown girl from Bed-Stuy can stand up here, you can stand anywhere you want!”
The applause dies down before I step to the mic. I’m determined to keep this short and simple. I still have to perform “Bruise,” and the sooner I get backstage, the sooner I can start mentally preparing for that, but I don’t want to cheat this moment because I’ll never get it back.
“This is amazing.” I look out at the crowd, peers and fans and industry professionals, taking it all in. “There’s a lot of people to thank. I’ll try not to screw this up. Um, where’s Rhyson?”
I shield my eyes from the bright lights and search the first few rows where I remember he and Kai were supposed to be seated.
“I absolutely wouldn’t be standing here without you.” There are a thousand memories in the glance we exchange. With all the jubilation going on around him, his eyes remain sober. He knows what this has cost me, knows how hard I’ve been grinding, how hard we’ve been grinding since high school. He knows, probably more than anyone, what it means. “You and the Prodigy team always have my back, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend. Love you, dude, like a brother. To all the fans who humble me daily, this doesn’t happen without your support. Thank you so much.”
I stare down at the trophy before continuing.
“A lot of people speculate about who I wrote this song for, what I’m talking about.” I pause to chuckle. “My mom will tell you unequivocally that she is #GripzQueen.”
The audience laughs, and I know my mom is somewhere in the Staples Center loving this.
“A lot of people think I wrote it for Qwest.” I