A Prince's Tale

Chapter Three

He jogs down the stairs, humming beneath his breath the familiar tune to ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’. Last night, he stayed up to listen to his father working with the singing coach into the wee hours of the morning, all in an attempt to strengthen his voice. In his humble opinion, he’s not sure how much more ‘strength’ is needed. His father had sounded fantastic and even the coach had wanted to give him a break at some point, but being the perfectionist, Dad had insisted on working a little longer still. He chuckles softly as he remembers his father pacing the studio with a look of consternation on his features:

“I’m not feeling it yet, Dorian. It’s not coming to me. I have to feel it…flow through my veins…feel the juice, know what I mean?”

He didn’t know what he meant, but obviously Dorian Holley must have as both men chuckled over the inside joke.

All the same, it was cool to see his father in his element, and after listening to that song…

(you knock me off mah feet, mah baybay!)

…for so long, he knows he’s going to have it stuck in his head for the rest of the day. Not that he’s complaining. It’s one of his favorites after all…among so many others.

There are times he catches himself singing in the bathroom (using the loofah as a microphone), or staring at his reflection and trying to imitate his father (the hairbrush comes in handy); secretly wondering if he could ever hit those high notes without wanting to suck on a lungful of oxygen afterwards. However, he ends up stopping half-way, embarrassed and aware that he will never be as good as ‘The Michael Jackson’. You know…the one who’s won so many awards it makes your head spin…the one who wowed the world with the Moonwalker…the man with the sequined glove and dance moves that dazzle the eyes…the one everyone calls the greatest entertainer of all time.

His Dad.

It’s one of the reasons he looks forward to this tour, so he can finally see the magic that everyone else talks about so much. He knows his chest will be bursting with pride as he watches his father on stage; faintly wishing he was in a normal school so he could brag to all his classmates that his dad was the coolest in the world. In reality, he is already aware that many seem to assume he’s going to step into his father’s shoes (and oh, what big feet they are), but he chooses not to focus on that weight being placed on his young shoulders.

You can do whatever you want…be whatever you want to be, Prince. And if music and dancing is your true calling, then you’ll know. I don’t want you to ever think I’m pushing you to become an entertainer. Do what your heart desires…what makes you really happy. Got it?

Yes, he got it. Unfortunately (or fortunately) he does enjoy music and does feel it through his veins. He knows he’s a good enough dancer and Daddy has shown him how to do the Moonwalk (still working on perfecting it actually), but will he ever go down the same path as his father? Will he be able to sell a gazillion albums and perform in front of millions without wanting to throw up? He doubts it, but maybe he could be a producer or something…like discover new stars or be like Simon Cowell from American Idol.

“Hi Kai,” he greets cheerfully as he walks into the kitchen to the fresh smell of warm bread and scrambled eggs.

“Hello, Prince,” comes the greeting from the pretty chef who was re-hired again. Goodness knows they missed her cooking and bubbly personality, especially Blanket who kept whining about missing Auntie Kai’s awesome chocolate chip cookies.

“Where are the others?”

“Still sleeping,” he replies and helps himself to a bowl of cereal. “Where’s Dad?”

“Not up yet…at least I haven’t seen him,” she says and offers him a plate of toast with jelly. “Do you want to go wake him...?”

The words die on her lips as commotion is suddenly heard from the main lobby. He stops in the process of spooning some Kellogg’s frosted flakes into his mouth, and swivels around on the chair to notice the newcomer (a tall, black man who is giving instructions and talking on the phone in a weird accent) and two of the security staff carrying what looks like tanks upstairs – the kind of tanks that people use to blow balloons that is.

What in the world…?!

He jumps off the chair and walks up to the man, hoping his beating heart and dull fear aren’t etched on his features.

“ Uumm…good morning…sir.” He must remember his manners at least. “Who are you?” he dares to ask, hoping he doesn’t sound too rude.

The man looks at him with a mild look of irritation at first (at being bothered that is) but then he smiles warmly. “Hello. You must be Prince.”

“Yes…and you are?”

“Dr. Conrad Murray. Your father’s personal doctor. He must have told you I was coming in today.”

“Oh.” Actually his father hadn’t mentioned it, but yesterday was quite busy, so it’s perfectly understandable it might have slipped his mind.

“Uumm…what are all those tanks for?” he asks, now more curious than anything. He’s following Murray up the stairs, but it’s clear the older man does not appreciate the company as they seem to be making their way toward his father’s room.

“Your father needs them,” comes the brusque explanation. “They are oxygen tanks.”

Oxygen tanks…for…oxygen? Is his father…?!

“Relax,” Conrad says with a chuckle as he notices the stricken look on the boy’s face. He places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. “Your father is fine. These are just precautions.”

“Pre…precautions? Can’t he breathe?” He doesn’t understand. His father looked fine yesterday. Why would he need…?

“Of course he can breathe,” Conrad replies with an indulgent smile. The door to his father’s bedroom is open, and a quick peek reveals him sitting up in bed in his bathrobe; glasses on and reading something that looks like a document. He wants to go in…to hug him or at least say good morning, but he is being pushed out gently by the doctor.

“You should excuse us,” Murray says. “Your father needs to be checked out.”

“Is he all right?”

“He is fine. He’ll join you for breakfast shortly.”

The door closes in his face, and he’s left to stare morosely at it; wondering if he can press his ear against the solid oak paneling to at least hear what’s being said or done –

“Prince?”

He stiffens at the sound of his name and spins around quickly, noticing Paris – still in her pjs – standing at the door of her room with a bemused frown on her visage. “What’s going on?” she asks with wariness in her tone.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly, forcing a smile on his face and walking toward her. He chucks her chin playfully, knowing how much she dislikes that. Predictably, she tries to dodge and swipe at his hand at the same time, but he’s already out of reach and heading back downstairs.

“Is Dad all right?” she asks again as he’s almost half-way down.

He pauses and wonders if he ought to tell her the truth now, but when he looks up and into the pale, weary and oh-so-grown up expression on his kid sister’s visage, he decides not to say anything until the time is right.

“He’s fine,” he finally replies and gives the thumbs-up sign. “Go take a shower and get Blanket so we can have breakfast. Everything is going to be okay.”

Everything has got to be okay.