Brat was from the West Side of Chicago and was clearly mesmerized by the extraness of Sing Sing. There was absolutely no posturing from her; she walked right in the door like, “Dayyyyumm!” I took her on a tour of the house. She never tried to contain her wonder as we ran from room to room. But we were not alone—security was always right there behind us, like a shadow. When we moved, they moved. For the past four years I had been constantly working on such an intense level. I had so many decisions to make, so many people counting on me and looking to me for answers and a payday. If I had any “free” time, I spent it with Tommy or people his age, people on his payroll. I hadn’t had any real fun in such a long time, and Da Brat was a one-woman party.
I just wanted to have fun, but I knew we were being watched and listened to. There were cameras and recording devices throughout the house. I wasn’t sure where they were all planted—but I knew of at least one place they weren’t.
Our next stop on the tour was the master bedroom. Brat was so funny; she squealed when she saw the giant television screen rise, as if by a magic trick, from a case at the foot of our elaborate bed. Brat was no girlie girl—she was wearing oversized jeans, a polo shirt, and Timberland boots—but I made a big deal out of showing her my Coco Chanel–inspired closet and insisted she see my massive fancy shoe collection. I knew if I could get her in the shoe room, security wouldn’t see us; I’d designed it and was pretty sure there were no cameras or listening devices among my Manolos. I chatted loudly about stilettoes as I slowly closed the door.
We sat on the floor of my shoe closet and kicked it for a bit. We were both Aries, both super silly, and both believed in an awesome God. I was having so much fun with Brat, but I knew we couldn’t stay hidden for too long; surely security would get suspicious and expose my one safe room in the house.
I never knew who was listening, so I whispered to Brat, “Want to go get some french fries?” In any other reality, this would have been a mundane suggestion, but in mine, it was about to be a full-scale caper.
As we emerged from the closet, I put my finger to my mouth and pointed at the wall, giving her the signal to be quiet and follow my lead. I chirped on about showing her around the rest of the property, then announced that I wanted to quickly show her the cars. We skipped along to the garage. Inside there was a fleet of cars. Several of them were mine, most of which I never drove, in part because I was always being driven. I pointed at the black Mercedes convertible and told Brat to get in quickly. I always kept the keys inside the car, so in a matter of seconds I had the engine going. I threw it into gear, and we whipped around the cul-de-sac, then sped down the driveway and out onto the open road. Suddenly, there I was: flying down the street in my sports car, with my new, cool homegirl, laughing deep and loud in the bright wintery afternoon sun. It was exhilarating. Brat and I had broken out da Big House!
While we were out playing Black Thelma and Louise, Escape from Alcatraz was not playing so well back at Storybook Manor. I understood that security was necessary, but why was it necessary for them all to be white, with blue eyes and black guns? They were going berserk. Before we got the mile or so down the road to the Burger King, Brat’s phone began to ring. I could hear JD yelling on the other end: “Yo, Brat, get the fuck back here; they going crazy!”
Brat laughed into the phone and replied, “I ain’t driving; Mariah is!” But JD was clearly upset.
“This ain’t fucking funny,” he said. “Tommy is bugging out; he got everybody running around looking for y’all; they got guns out and shit!”
Brat shot back, “Damn, we just going to get french fries, JD! If Mariah wants french fries, we getting fucking french fries!” She abruptly slammed her phone shut, and we proceeded to Burger King.
For the twenty or so minutes, while Brat and I sat in the car eating those fries and cracking jokes, I reveled in the simple excitement of being young. I’ll never forget it. Jermaine must have called every five minutes, begging us to come back. He went from being angry and annoyed to being nervous to being afraid. Brat was quickly realizing how serious our momentary escape had been. With every ring, she looked at me with increasing concern and sadness. We were really only a mile away, and people were panicking.
She said something like, “This ain’t right. This is your shit, Mariah. Jermaine, Xscape—we all here because of you. You done sold millions of records, girl. You live in a damn palace. You have everything, but if you can’t be free to go to fucking Burger King when you want, you ain’t got nothing. You need to get out of there.” This time she wasn’t laughing. If Da Brat, a nineteen-year-old female rapper from the West Side, is afraid for
