Page 7 of Juliet's Echo

Most would’ve called her a spoiled brat. One of those kids who would throw a full-blown temper tantrum in Pandora if the charm she wanted wasn’t available. The kind where total strangers would stop and stare at her outlandish behavior, watching her drag her parents through it, only to turn around and say, “She just needs a weekend with me,” like they had the cure.

And truth be told, that image fit Juliet perfectly.

As gorgeous as my little African American princess was—with her glowing brown skin, big expressive eyes, and those soft curls that framed her face like she was born to be admired—she had the behavior of a child who had never been told no and didn’t plan on learning anytime soon.

And I took one hundred percent of the blame for that.

Because it was my personal goal to mold her. Now, was I aiming for Stitch from the Disney movie? No. But I was damn proud. Juliet was smart, independent, and sure of who she was—well, as sure as a five-year-old could be. There were no worries about her being shy, making friends, trying out for social clubs, or getting pushed around on the playground.

Her disability didn’t make her want to shrink herself or become invisible. If anything, it made her more curious to be a part of everything around her.

And maybe I overdid it a little.

But I had to.

Because I was always going to overcompensate for an irreplaceable loss she would never know she experienced—her mother.

“You should have been here,” I said unknowingly out loud, looking toward the ceiling. I returned my eyes to Juliet’s almond-brown ones, catching her staring at me like I had lost my mind before she signed, “Who should have been here?”

Fuck.

One of baby girl’s superpowers was that she could read lips exceptionally well. Didn’t matter how fast you spoke—she could recite every line, word for word, and never got it wrong. Especially when you cursed or gossiped. That was her favorite.

“Huh?” I signed.

“You looked in the sky and said, ‘you should have been here.’ Who were you talking to?” she signed.

Did I mention how intuitive this little lady was? If something didn’t sound right, she’d keep asking questions until she broke you down. You know how crazy a nigga looked, stuttering in sign language? Like I was malfunctioning or some shit. Being the terrible liar I was, I changed the subject.

“Why you nervous?” my fingers expressed.

Juliet’s little manicured hands snapped up fast. “I’m not nervous,” she signed.

I lifted one eyebrow, challenging her, and signed back, “Yes, you are.”

Her forehead wrinkled, letting me know my challenge was accepted. “How you know, smart ass?”

I leaned in closer like I was about to tell her the biggest secret in the world. I signed, “Because you’re not using your voice.”

Her mouth opened, then shut. Rolling her eyes, she signed, “Why do I have to go to kindergarten, Choo-Choo? I want to go to the studio with you.”

That was our thing—Juliet and me.

Back when I was still in high school, my parents would have the nanny bring her to the studio, and she’d sit with me for hours, quiet as hell but taking everything in. When I graduated,Ju-Ju was around two, and from that point on, she was with me damn near every day. She learned how to work a MIDI controller before she ever touched a tricycle. I’d be layering drums, and she’d be right there, pressing keys like she had a placement on the track.

The studio wasn’t just where I worked—it was where we spent one-on-one time together.

My mother kept pressing me to put her in preschool so she could be around other kids with her condition, but I wasn’t going for that. Her condition didn’t define her, and she maneuvered around perfectly fine. My mother often got being a crippler versus a nurturer confused. If it were up to her, Juliet would still be in a stroller, chewing on a pacifier. Besides, I always needed my eyes on Ju-Ju because of the guilt I carried over her mother’s death. Had I been there for Simone, she’d be here for her daughter. Crazy how my heart knew that shit wasn’t my fault, but my brain delivered a different story.

However, no one denies Queen Olivia Everette. So, to meet her halfway, I hired a personal tutor for Ju-Ju.

Gina—a night-time college student pursuing her master’s degree in special education—taught baby girl everything. Her academics and structure are the reasons we all became fluent in ASL. Gina was solid.

But when Juliet turned five, even I had to admit they were right.

She needed more than me. More than the studio. More than just being surrounded by adults who let her get away with everything.

She needed other kids.