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if showing me a new country wasn’t enough, when we got back, Olivia offered to help with my tuition at Baruch, where I transferred for the next two years. It wasn’t some fancy school with a hefty tuition, but I still said, “Are you crazy? You are not my mother or the United Negro College Fund.” And in an accent I knew quite well from my neighbors but never heardfrom Olivia, she said, “I know a little something about being a Brooklyn girl who’s undecided about her future.” Then she winked. Olivia Schaeffer—from East New York? Who knew?
    That’s when I entered my seriously studious period—or tried to. Truth is, I could never get as worked up over solving problems for hypothetical companies in class as I did negotiating booth rates for trade shows or finding the best way to ship to Palm Beach. At that point, we were mostly in boutiques and pharmacies, but business was growing every day. Olivia spent most of her time showing the line, checking out suppliers and developing new products. I held down the fort. I liked that. I felt useful, and I had reached a reasonable work-school balance.
    Then I met my ex. It was one of those April days that make you believe winter is really over. I was booking it up Broadway when I heard this voice behind me saying, “You are looking positively hypnotic on this polyphonic afternoon.” What?! Well, I was feeling cute so I was glad somebody noticed. I was all set to give whoever it was a hard time when I realized that a brown-skinned beanpole with a floppy ’fro, a shredded jean jacket and big black motorcycle boots had fallen in step beside me. Now, I was not in the habit of picking up strange men on the street, but everything he said seemed like poetry to me. What is it they say about birds and bees and spring? Probably the same thing they say about too much champagne and weddings. Anyway, by the time we hit Forty-sixth Street he had talked me into stopping at Howard Johnson’s, at least for coffee.
    Two hot dogs and a shared black-raspberry sundae later I was severely in something—like, love, lust? Who can tell at twenty? I asked what made him pick me to talk to. He said I had a beautiful vibe, and I got all tingly and tongue-tied. Hewas a musician—played a lot of instruments, but mainly keyboard—and although he wasn’t with a band, he said he did lots of session work. DeBarge was planning to record one of his tunes. It was a big whoop at the time. He was heading to a gig and invited me to stop by the studio after work. I debated all afternoon until finally Olivia said, “Nothing good ever happens if you don’t take a chance. If he’s a creep, you’ll come to my place.” Well, I wanted something good, so I went for it.
    Whatever happens in springtime happened to me while I sat on a lumpy sofa in the corner of that dark, crowded studio, smelling cigarettes and sweat and watching them lay down the music. It was the instrumental tracks for a ballad, but I didn’t need words to make me swoon. In the booth he was all business and he sounded great—like “I’d buy his record” great. I was killing myself acting like I did this every day, and I couldn’t believe somebody that talented had walked into my life. By the time we left I was under some kind of spell—probably lack of oxygen. It was late, and I knew I should call home, but what for? My parents wouldn’t get anything about this and I wasn’t about to wreck the mood so they’d just have to be mad at me. Wasn’t the first time.
    He drove me home in the beat-up yellow Opel Kadett he called Sunshine. It had no backseat so there was room for his Fender Rhodes. We parked around the corner from my house and talked until the windows fogged up about life, about the future, about all the songs he had written. “Music that will make things better. Songs that bring the world together.” He spoke a lot in