We finally make it to the Bronx, I had stopped asking questions about halfway there and for a moment, fell asleep on the train. Exiting the train upon sunset I looked around me. The Bronx kinda looks just like another Brooklyn hood if you were to add some hills. There are many apartments pinned close together, a bit more garbage on the floor than I would have liked and something smells off. I could hear music playing from somewhere in the far distance, few people were on the road and the bright Deli sign illuminated the corner store where two men stood outside. We walk a few blocks along a jagged sidewalk, then Trev stops at an apartment building that slightly resembles a put-together warehouse.

Inside the apartment complex smells like wood, as if they were doing some kind of construction on one of the floors and inside the elevator smells like weed. Trev pushes the number 5, it lights up, the doors close and we begin to move up. He seems like he comes here a lot, because as soon as we get off the elevator a tall and strong man nods to him. He dabs him up and we walk to apartment 5B. Trev knocks on the door twice and looks at me with a mischievous smile on his face.

Someone who looks to be 30 or so, opens the door with a huge smile on his face. He has dreads about the length of his shoulders and a trimmed beard connected to his mustache. He slaps Trevon on the shoulder a few times and pulls him into a hug like they haven't seen each other in a long time. The man laughs, a freeing laugh, something genuine and hearty.

"Whats good, Flex." Trev said patting his back a few times, seeming to find the hug welcoming but odd. "Why so affectionate today?"

"Heard about what happened in the Ville today, glad you good." The man who I came to know as Flex answered. His voice was deeper than I was expecting and his white t-shirt hung off his body like the baggy jeans that followed. He looked my way and though I felt his eyes on me, I couldn't help but look at Trev. For a split moment Trev seemed distant, clear sadness behind his eyes. I think he forgot about the incident briefly. He recovers and nods slowly.

"I'm always good, you know that." He says with a soft smile. Flex looks to me and sticks out his hand.

"Who is this pretty lady?" He asked.

"This is Chanel. She been my lil rugrat since we were smaller. Got talent yo." Trev's voice echoed in the hallway. I shook Flex's hand.

"Thank you." I said in Trevon's direction. "And nice to meet you, Flex."

"So you the lil poet he been tellin me about? Nice to meet you too. I'm Flex, producer and engineer of Firebox Records." I felt my throat go dry, my breathing temporarily interrupted. Flex opened the door and welcomed us in to a small apartment with a door down the hallway from the kitchen.

Firebox Records... the major label was well known throughout the world with dozens of known artists signed to it. Flex looked familiar but he didn't have the bear or dreads the last time I saw him on TV. I wanted to freak out just a little, tell him I know who he is, let him know I've heard some of the beats he's made and that I love them. But I remained calm and close to Trevon though I couldn't help the excitement in me. I've been in the studio a few times but it's been so long since Jay died. Jay was one of Trevon's best friends. The story was too depressing to think about, I think Trev already saw the change in my face.

"I miss Jay too." He mumbles to only me as he takes off his coat. His talent of reading my emotions are almost as impressive as my talent at reading his. He always knows, just like I always know. I take off my small jacked and hang it where he does. Flex urges us to follow.

The living room unexpectedly opens up into a large studio set up with bright red walls and vinyl records lined against the walls in rows and columns like beautiful paintings. Two pianos were to the side, one keyboard and one black grand piano that looked majestic in comparison. The large soundboard sat in front of the large computer, big black speakers to each side with a window into the recording booth behind it. The recording booth was a rectangular room lined with sponges and red lights. I could see the outline of the mic and the headphones hanging on top. I can't imagine how much money went into this beautiful and artistic display.

In seconds my excitement turns into something close to embarrassment and then rage. My anger was focused on the fact that Trevon brought me to meet a big time producer as I was in my sweats and the pink sweater I have been wearing since 5th grade. I tried to give him my angry face but he avoided my stares. Flex wasn't dressed up either, but I now felt like I looked crazy. I rub my temples and massage my eyes.

There were two black couches and a table with water and drinks in an ice bucket, a half empty corona sat on the table as well. I wondered briefly if he would be offering us alcohol. He seems close to Trev, I'm sure he knows Trev is almost 20 years old at best, still pretty underage, and I look like any 17 year old girl from the hood. I wonder if he cared.

Flex adjusted the lights so the room was dimly lit with a red and blue ambience. It really made you feel like working. The sound board extended at least 5 feet long and a few inches wide with buttons I wish I knew how to operate. Flex sat in the chair closest to the soundboard and we sat in the black couch behind him.

"I'll tell you a little about myself. I don't know if Trev talks about me, so ima give that formal type introduction." He laughs lightly. His teeth were straight and white. He was a handsome man.

"I've been working with record labels and artists since I was 15 years old, been creating beats since I was 11. Three of the beats for one of the albums I did were nominated for Grammy's, one of which won the Grammy last year so I can confidently say, my beat won a Grammy. I have worked with Alicia Keys, Mary J, Pretty Ricky, Ciara, Usher, Diddy, 50, and the list goes on.

Most of my work was done on artists a while back. Right now, i'm on vacation." He laughs again and I smile with him.

"I'm just tryna chill because a nigga been working hard and long. So I have a temporary getaway house up the block from this lil apartment I bought a few years back. Uhm, ya friend, Trevon over here basically don't know how to let a nigga rest and he all up in my space tryna get me to record this one song."

I chuckle.

" A song he want's you singing and doin poetry on. So I told him I had to both meet and like you first." He scratches his beard, looking at me.

"I don't know if I like you yet, you seem boogie." He jokes, but my mouth falls open.

"Right?!" Trevon said shaking his head. "Got the odee attitude."

I laughed annoyed already. "I'm not boogie at all." I respond.

"So tell me about yourself, Chanel. What you bout? What you do? I don't want Trev to speak for you." He said looking at me with a serious and stern face.

I got serious now searching for words that described myself. Searching for something worthy of his time. I was slightly intimidated and my hands began getting a little sweaty so my thought process was completely thrown off. I couldn't find the words to describe me. But I've done it so many times before. Words were my strong point.

I take a deep breath and stare into space, right at a spot on the floor, by Flexes shoes. The room goes completely quiet.

"The sun is my soul, luminous, translucent, powerful even magnetic

It breaks through the little cracks of old, dark buildings and grows a flower so beautiful your mother would cry

In the depths of adversity grows me

I am Chanel

C-h-a-n-e-l

I stand for excellence

Excellence and beauty in a black body, no black booty but a black barbie taken out of every toy store when they realize that it overshadows the white dolly.

I am a poet Mr. Flex of the Firebox Records

And my poems can flow with a beat

I am a rapper Mr. Flex of the Firebox Records, if words on a beat defines the game

I am everything but tame and the only person to blame for how I am is me

I am a singer Mr. Flex of the Firebox Records, if singing is poetry with a melody and a backing track with a steady flow of notes I can easily keep

I am a dancer Mr. Flex, if dancing is moving my body to a created beat.

Above all, I am a creator Mr. Flex of the Firebox Records.

Let me create and be one with your greatness

You will love me for me. "

I smile shyly. My hands out in the form of a ta-da.

Flex remains silent looking at me for at least 5 seconds without speaking. Trevon was in the corner of the couch, a big smile on his face, his head shaking.

"Was that freestyle?" He asks leaning forward.

"Yes, Mr. Flex of the Firebox Records." I say with a slight laugh.

He smiles momentarily before getting up and opening the recording booth. He stares at me and shakes his head in what I figure is complete admiration.

"Let's work." He says.

"Haaannnn, that's what i'm talkin bout!" Trevon is giddy as he jumps up out of the couch, he pulls me up and brushes off my shoulder like there is dirt on it.

"God damnn." He says, his face made up. "Just so nasty with it- God-" He Harlem shakes before he finishes his sentence. "Damn!"

Flex and I are laughing, watching his antics. I get up and walk towards the booth before I am interrupted when Trev pulls me by my arm, back to him and into a hug. I can't help but smile and hug back.

"Damn fool." I murmur.