Mama Dearest - Hardcover

Harris, E. Lynn

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1439158908 ISBN 13: 9781439158906

Publisher: Gallery Books/Karen Hunter Publishing, 2009

Synopsis

Yancey Harrington Braxton's plans to star in a reality television series are threatened by Madison B., an up-and-coming star and Yancey's long-lost daughter, and her own mother, Ava Middlebrooks, who is desperate for a comeback.

About this title

About the Author:

E. Lynn Harris, a #1 national and New York Times bestselling author, wrote twelve acclaimed novels including Basketball Jones, Just Too Good to Be True, and I Say a Little Prayer. There are more than four million copies of his novels in print. He died in 2009 at the age of 54. Visit elynnharris.com.

Karen Hunter is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a celebrated radio talk-show host, and co-author of numerous New York Times bestsellers, including Confessions of a Video Vixen, On the Down Low, and Wendy's Got the Heat. She is also an assistant professor in the Film & Media Department at Hunter College

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1

As I savor the first sip of my second glass of wine, my eyes move to the television and I say to myself, "Yancey, that's the bitch who got your life."

Here I am in a third-rate hotel (it used to be a Days Inn) down the street from the Jackie Gleason Theater near South Beach in Miami. I'm in the second week of my role as Deena Jones in a bus-and-truck company of Dreamgirls. The producers aren't extravagant when it comes to lodging, and I can't wait until this tour is over and I can get my beautiful ass back to New York City where I belong.

I'm sitting here watching the DVD of the 2007 Grammys, and there is Beyonce singing and gliding across the stage with Tina Turner. That should've been me singing with Tina or on the stage alone, but things haven't turned out the way I'd planned. And I don't have much time before it will be too late.

My name is Yancey Harrington Braxton, and I'm a singer and actress. I've been close to stardom and even had a big pop hit at the beginning of the decade, but just as I got near Beyonce and Tina status, something happened that slammed the door in my face.

I'm thirty-six in actress years, which really means I'm a sneeze away from turning forty. At times that scares me, but thank God I still have my looks, especially a body that could compete with a twenty-year-old on the beach and in the bedroom.

I had come to Miami with a plan to make a second comeback but I'm running out of ideas. Maybe I need a stalker; then people would feel sorry for me. I could do the drug thing and go into rehab. It looks like it might work for Miss Whitney and Lord knows it ain't hurting that crazy singer from England, Amy Winehouse. I'm much too vain to put on a few pounds and then become a spokesperson for one of the weight-loss companies like Queen Latifah. But there has to be something legal that I can do to push myself back onto the national scene one last time. This is a time when it seems everybody and their mama has a reality show. Surely there is still room for a legitimate star of my caliber. Yeah, that's the ticket -- I need my own reality show.

I took this job even though I hate working with a bunch of no-talent people who've never set foot on a Broadway stage unless they were pushing a broom across it, but I'd run into some tough times with my finances. Besides, I've played the role of Deena Jones since I was in my twenties and could do it in my sleep. Gone are the days when I can demand first-class transportation, suites and car service. Let's not forget my name over the title on the theater marquee. Most producers and directors aren't savvy enough to recognize talent and class in one package.

Thank God I still own a really nice town house on the Upper East Side. I'd always planned to use it as my nest egg but now when I need to sell it, the real estate market has gone to hell in a handbasket. A lot of people were interested in purchasing it, but with the banks tight with money, even so-called rich white folks are having a hard time getting a loan. My real estate agent told me that my best hope for getting my asking price is if some rich Russian falls in love with it and pays cash. I told her that she needs to get her ass on a plane to Russia quick, fast and in a hurry.

If I sell the house, I'll get myself a smaller place and there will still be enough money left over to get new headshots and some new outfits and go sit my ass in some spa where rich men hang out. I just can't take another night in a seedy hotel when somebody with as little talent as Beyonce has all the things I'm supposed to have, including a rich, powerful husband. It should be me who's the toast of the red carpet, with my own clothing line and preparing for yet another world tour.

As I watched Tina and Beyonce complete their performances and take their bows I thought, "I can sing better than both of them." I'd give them a run for their money on the dancing as well. When did it all go wrong for me and why? I was born to be a star.

I'm a statuesque five feet eight inches, 125 pounds with a twenty-two-inch waist. A beige princess with a diamond-shaped face, golden brown eyes and auburn-tinted hair that falls just below my shoulders. My arms are long and slender, almost perfect...almost. I am still as beautiful as any actress, black or white, working today. I just need to remind Hollywood of that so I can move from the D-list back to the A-list.

As I tried to figure out what I could do to get some positive press, I thought back to almost ten years before when I was on Broadway starring in yet another Dreamgirls revival. I guess I should be thankful that Jennifer Hudson and Beyonce made the movie musical. Still, I'm pissed that I couldn't even get a role as an extra in the glitzy film. Maybe the first step for me should be to get another agent and by this I mean a good one. And I don't mean somebody calling himself an agent/producer like the current fool who represents me, Zeus Miller. First of all what kind of name is that? But for now he's the best that I can do.

I finished my glass of wine and looked around the tacky room for the rest of the bottle. Another glass would ensure me of at least a sound sleep and I wouldn't spend the night worrying about how I was going to keep the bank from foreclosing on my home before I could sell it and hopefully make a nice profit or at least break even.

Just as I got up, there was a knock at my door. I figured it was housekeeping finally bringing the extra towels I'd asked for three hours ago. If I was staying in a Four Seasons or the Ritz Carlton South Beach, I would have had those towels before I hung up the phone. I miss those days more than I can say. You get what you pay for.

I pulled together my robe and opened the door.

"You got a corkscrew I can borrow for a few?" It was Violet Smith, one of the understudies for the musical and my next-door neighbor. Violet is an okay-looking young girl when she has makeup on. She'd made it to the top ten on American Star a couple seasons back and landed a small part in the Dreamgirls movie, something she never fails to tell people when she meets them. Now with shows like American Idol and So-You-Think-You-Can-Do-This-or-Do-That, any clown can have a little time in the sun. Gets on my damn nerves. When I first entered the business you had to have talent before you appeared on stage or television, let alone being cast in a movie. I have sold millions of CDs, had a number-one hit and appeared on Broadway countless times. Damn, I was even nominated for a Tony Award. I should have won and would have if Patti Lupone had taken her old ass somewhere and sat down.

Violet stood there impatiently. "Yeah, but I'm not lending it out," I said. "Bring your bottle of wine to my room and I'll open it for you." Maybe Violet will have the decency to offer me a glass and I can save my corner for later on tonight in case I wake up.

Violet gave me an are-you-serious look. "Girl, quit playing," she said, "I promise to bring it right back. I got a real nice man I met at the after-hour's club off Lincoln in my room waiting on me. I know we normally hang out and talk but I can't tonight, hon. I got some catching up to do. Some of the cast is watching the semifinals of American Star in Dalton's room. Why don't you go down there? I think they got some drinks."

I ignored her suggestion that I join a bunch of sexually confused chorus boys watching a bunch of no-talent teenagers and walked over to the desk and picked up the corkscrew I'd stolen from the hotel we'd stayed at in Tampa. It was one of the few times we'd stayed in a hotel that had a wine list and twenty-four-hour room service. Still, it wasn't a five-star hotel, but more like a two and a half.

When I turned around, Violet had let herself into my room and was sitting in the chair making herself at home. I made a mental note to make sure to let Violet know I didn't like people invading my space without my permission. I don't have roommates on the road, no matter how much money it saves.

"Did you hear who was in the audience tonight?"

"Who, Michelle Obama?" I asked, being cute.

"No, honey, but I hope that she and the president will come to this show. That would really put us on the map. It was Nicole Springer. She was one of the Deena Jones that played in the show when it was on Broadway back in the day. Do you know her?"

"No" I lied. Of course I knew Nicole Springer, and if there was one person I despised more than Beyonce it was Nicole "Miss Perfect" Springer. I'd understudied her on Broadway and plotted her demise by spiking her coffee. I don't think she ever found out or suspected me because I was a better actress than she was. I have to admit that the reason I dislike her so is that everything came so easily to her. Talented, beautiful and nice to almost everyone, and to me that took just too much work.

"That's funny, she said she knew you. Dalton and I were going to bring her to your dressing room but we were so busy talking. Dalton used to take voice lessons from her in Atlanta and was a member of her theater group. She was the one who talked him into auditioning for this show," Violet said.

I was not going to engage her in this Nicole banter so I just handed her the corkscrew. "Now don't make me have to knock on your door to get this back."

"Thanks," she said popping up from the chair, "and don't worry, you won't have to. As soon as my company leaves I will bring it back. If you don't answer I'll leave it by your door."

"Don't do that because if it comes up missing, I'm still coming back to you. Understand?" What did it say about my depressed life that I was clutching a corkscrew the way a diabetic relies on insulin.

"I hear you. Thanks, Yancey. You're the best."

I shut the door and thought, I once was the best and very soon I'll be the best again. These bitches better get out of my way!

·

I was sitting at my dressing-room table removing my makeup when I heard a knock at the door.

"Come in," I shouted.

Dalton McGurdy, the understudy for C. C. White, stuck his head in and asked...

About this edition

• Publisher: Gallery Books/Karen Hunter Publishing
• Publication date: 2009
• ISBN 10: 1439158908
• ISBN 13: 9781439158906
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 400