by Frankie Diamond
Before I found Tempo, I’d wake up to sunlight sparkling through my dreamcatcher on days when we had sun in Slate City. Fewer now than in my Dad’s time. I’d splash my puffy face with water, tie my braids back with an elastic, and get ready for work at the dispensary. Later I’d come home, flop down on the busted sofa, and envision my whole life stretching toward a bland horizon of conformity, peppered with the occasional spice of rebellion.
I was on the fast-track to nowhere and knew it.
One evening, I take the hovertrain uptown and find this comic bookstore closing down, people digging through bins crammed with serials, going wild for discount manga. I rummage ‘til something sly catches my eye, pull it up, up and out and there's Tempo, piloting her spaceship.
My heart stopped. Oh my God, she looks just like me! Except her hair is different! I blinked, sure that I was dreaming. Blinked and saw Tempo looking so beautiful, fierce, cool—a sista with the most incredible ‘do. Like an 80’s Jheri Curl mullet, with a peroxide-blonde streak rocketing through a black poofy upsweep, her sultry lips splashed with insolent red.
From the rear another ship carries Trace, a pale woman with platinum hair slicked back, sneering as she closes in.
I’m holding a graphic novel titled The Alatian Alamo. Publishing creds: AASOS#23447-975. That’s all. No author, artist name or date.
“Cool cover,” says the clerk as she processes my purchase.
The last time I felt so alive was when I went hunting with Dad on the rez two years back, in Waswanipi. When Dad sighted the moose grazing upstream, he let me take the shot. I felt a peace so powerful I almost cried.
•••
On Tempo’s planet, she’s a DJ who just won a residency to spin for the gods in a radio galaxy. Gosh, I wish my life on Earth were half as exciting! I host a pirate radio show playing eclectic beats for a few thousand, but Tempo has billions of fans across the galaxy.
In the mirror I see myself: half Cree, half Black, two fractions of an ancient equation. Once in a while, I apply a brilliant red lipstick, pucker up and smile. Normally, I hate lipstick, but I love how this Cherry Bomb shade pops against my almond skin!
Between sleep and wake, I hear a lilting voice coming from a distance, singing a sweet melody. When I open my eyes, the singing stops.
Sometimes I dream of spinning at a massive club crammed with aliens, their bioluminescence pulsating to tribal house music so loud it could pop eardrums. I’m about seven feet tall, rocking a belted catsuit with neon accents, and platform kicks in colours I can’t describe ‘cause they don’t exist on Earth. The crowd screams and I wake up wishing I could stay in Tempo’s world forever.
One night, I succumb to peer pressure and go with my friends to Rattrap, a dive bar nestled in Slate City’s sleazy heart. I don’t go out much, but since reading about Tempo’s notorious exploits at the galactic nightclub, I feel way more inclined. Perhaps a god-like emissary might show up and present me with the promotion of a lifetime—who knows?
I see a tall white woman at the bar, silvery hair slicked back, and think, No, it can’t be… it’s Trace, the bounty hunter! My rabbit heart races as I watch her glide by, sure she’s coming to get me. Then I see the stilettos. Trace always wears boots. It’s just another clubber.
Or was it?
Later that week, rain pours steadily outside as I curl up with a coffee at the café, ready to inhale The Alatian Alamo’s ending. I was tempted to sneak a peek so many times!
Bounty hunter Trace finally caught up to Tempo who’d been accused of murdering a diplomat, and so far, avoided capture. Tempo knocks Trace off her feet and manages to escape. But Trace shoots her with the dreaded Nema Ray. Oh no! The venom’s draining the life out of my girl! A triumphant Trace looms over Tempo like a big-game hunter. My ultimate heroine, going down for the count like this? What’s next?
I turn the page only to discover the unthinkable. A few blank pages staring back, as if daring me to sketch the outcome.
I can’t believe it! Who wrote this book? It’s like some kind of twisted joke and guess what? It’s out of print. Can’t find it anywhere. So I call Alvin, my science nerd friend who tried to date me once but he’s not my type.
“Either someone’s pulling an elaborate prank or you could be experiencing some peculiar form of quantum entanglement.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“In layman’s terms, twin particles are separated by a tremendous distance but when something happens to one, it affects the other.”
“So what are you saying, man? That Tempo’s my doppelgänger in another universe? And if she gets offed by that bounty hunter something bad might happen to me?”
“I’m not saying nothing like that, just offering an alternative viewpoint, silly girl!”
I pelt him with muffin crumbs while he ducks under the table, laughing. I know zilch about quantum physics, but what if another version of myself really exists in a parallel universe, and she’s in trouble?
Since I started reading The Alatian Alamo, I’ve noticed strange things, like how my lava lamp is an exact duplicate of the one in Tempo’s spacepod. And the starcatcher in her window has the same pattern and colors as my dreamcatcher. Even Alvin has to admit that Tempo bears a pretty strong resemblance to me, minus the hairdo and scandalous wardrobe. The book is real.
What if Tempo’s my parallel self sending an SOS?
I grab my pen, flip Alatian Alamo open and begin sketching.
“What are you doing?” Alvin asks.
“You’ll see.” After a while, I finished. It was far from perfect but good enough. I showed it to Alvin.
He doubles over with laughter. “You’ll never sell that to a publisher.”
“That’s beside the point.”
The next day, I show one of my sketches to my stylist.
“You sure you want this, girlfriend?” Eva looks at me as if I'd come from outer space.
“Yep. Just don’t go overboard with the upsweep.”
•••
Hours later, I exit the salon. My reflection flashes in the mirror. What I see is beyond breathtaking: a beautiful face with sparkling brown eyes and a mischievous grin, topped by a poofy upsweep of black curls. Racing down the centre of my mane is a peroxide-blonde streak. The style is spectacular, just like the spy-busting, spacefaring DJ who inspired it.
A courier holds the door open, smiling so wide I thought his cheeks would explode. Everywhere, people are staring as though they recognize me from somewhere.
I could get used to this.
While waiting for the hovertrain, a cute guy approaches me, somewhat apprehensively.
“Hey, are you someone famous?”
“Maybe. Wanna dance?”
FRANKIE DIAMOND is an Afro-Caribbean artist based in Scarborough, Canada. For 9 years, she has blogged about dance music, urban life and
underground art at https://frankenraver.wordpress.com/. She embraces writing as a form of resistance to racial oppression. Her work has been published in The Native Canadian Centre of Toronto’s newsletter. Find her on Instagram: @verbslayer.
X.O. Diamond can be found in Augur Magazine Issue 3.2.
