Agent Bubbles

1986

You were preparing your choir class for the spring showcase. You needed something fun and different. Not only were most of your classes huge Michael Jackson fans but so were you. Maybe not as much as them, but it was easy to share interests with the littles. Making you their favorite teacher.

For your third and fourth grade class you had set your eyes on the song “Beat it” by Michael. Your fourth grade was mostly Spanish speaker students which, gave you the idea of splitting 2 groups. Group A sings in English lyric and group B will be the translation of the song. Like having a battle of who is best to the Beat it song.

Being from Inglewood California you figured it was a very close to home song. Considering all the stories you’d hear from your students about gang violence or how some had older siblings in gangs. So you thought maybe if Michael could bring gang rivals together through dance, you could bring the third and fourth graders together in your own way.

Wednesday morning, as you got settled into your classroom for the day. You notice a note from your principal. “assembly for everyone cafeteria 10am.” You tried to ask other teachers around to see if they knew what it was about. All the answers were always the same ‘I don’t know’. You headed back to your class and greeted all your students and started your lesson until 10am rolled around.

All the students loved a surprise assembly, anything to get them out of class and not study math or social studies. But for you it was the opposite. You made it fun and relatable, the students didn’t care to miss the assembly. Besides nobody knew what was happening so they would rather much sing to Beat it.

Out in the halls, all the kids were buzzing and you caught snippets of conversations, trying to piece together why the random assembly.

“I saw a bunch of bodyguards when my mom dropped me off — I saw some curly–haired guy talking to the principal in the office.”

“Maybe we have a new kid in class.”

You had your class settle into their usual assembly spots on the ground of the large cafeteria, squeezed between the K–2nd graders and just before the bigger kids going in. You notice some security sprawled around, a few posted by the little stage at the front. Once everyone settles in, you see your principal go up to the podium, face somewhere between poker and excited. She can’t keep a secret much longer.

“Good morning everyone, thank you all for joining me on this last minute assembly.” Your principal starts. “I’m sure you all have questions. But now you can relax. We have a special surprise for you all.” There’s a small pause before she looks behind her, then turns back to the large group of kids. “We caught someone’s attention because of our ‘Anti-violence program’ that we are doing. And this gentleman wanted to help us out with it as well.” Everyone starts to whisper and the kids are starting to get rowdy again wondering who it could be.

You feel your heart start to beat faster and you try to calm down your class. Trying to hear what the principal will say next. Once it starts to get quiet again, your principal continues.

“Please give your best welcome to….. Michael Jackson-“ there’s a short pause before the place explodes. Kids jumping up, some hugging each other so tight they’re almost choking. Inside you're just like them, running around, jumping. But on the outside you keep professional

“Maestra es MICHAEL” one of your students gets your attention. Both of you can’t believe it. All you can do is smile and try to calm down your kids. Although you also share the same sentiment.

Until you feel someone staring at you. You straighten up and look around to see if anyone is looking at you. You scan the room all the teachers are also trying to calm down their students and the guards are keeping in place but you don’t see anyone catching your attention yet. Until…. The front.

There he is. Big smile, loose dark curls, a striking red jacket with black straps and buckles on the sleeves. With black leather pants covered by a big silver belt that you swear looks like a WWE championship belt. When your eyes meet, he gives a slight nod that made you giggle and look away so quick. You crouch down beside one of your students and whisper to her “oh my god. I think we just made eye contact” and you’re both freaking out. You don’t notice it, but it makes Michael chuckle.

After all the excitement, all the teachers and students calm down. And Michael approaches the podium to make a small speech.

“Wow” he starts with a light chuckle. Making the shyness obvious. “Thank you all for that wonderful welcome. I’m so blessed and honored to be here with you today and to help this wonderful community. When I was your age, growing up in Gary, Indiana, there was a lot of violence and a lot of things that were scary. So to hear that you’re all working so hard to choose something different, to take care of each other, that means so much to me.” He takes a pause before he continues. Making eye contact with you one more time. “You’re showing the whole world that being strong doesn’t mean fighting. It means walking away, it means using your voice, it means using your heart. I’m very proud of you, and I want you to keep dreaming big and believing in yourselves, okay?” All the kids answer an ‘okay’ before claps and cheers burst around the room. There’s a few photo ops with the principal, superintendent and Michael before he heads back and all the kids are asked to go back to resume class. But after all of this commotion how can you?!

Once back in your classroom and after extensive discussions about Michael and how some of your students noticed him staring in your direction, you clap your hands to pull everyone back into teacher mode and start rehearsal for ‘Beat It.’ You split the room like always: right side on the English lines, left side answering in Spanish. You settle onto the piano bench, back to the door, and start them off with a bright, “Ready? Uno, dos, tres…”

You’re halfway through the first verse when a sudden wave of gasps and whispers ripples through the room. A few of your students are pointing toward the door, eyes huge. You frown and keep playing, assuming someone’s just being silly, but then you catch a flash of red in your peripheral vision—a familiar red jacket through the narrow window. You press a quick final chord, bring a finger to your lips to shush the kids, and get up from the bench, your heart starting to race as you walk toward the door. One of the girls in the front row catches your eye and runs her fingers through her own hair, then taps the corner of her mouth. The kids around her snicker. Heat rushes to your face, you smooth your hair and swipe your thumb over your lipstick on instinct before reaching for the handle.

The room explodes the second Michael steps inside, security and the principal right behind him. “What a lovely surprise,” you breathe, trying to keep your voice steady. “Class, this is Mr. Michael Jackson,” the principal says, then turns to him. “And this is Miss (y/n), our star teacher.” “Nice to meet you,” he says, reaching out for a handshake. “Likewise,” you manage, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. His hand is soft and firm around yours, completely covering it. He doesn’t let go right away, eyes locked on yours, and that’s all it takes for your students to erupt into loud ‘ooooohs,’ a few of them wiggling their eyebrows at each other. They notice the chemistry way before you do. The sound makes both you and Michael blush, and you break eye contact at the same time, turning back toward the sea of giggling students. “Well, I’ll leave you all to get acquainted,” the principal says with a knowing smile, before slipping out of the classroom and closing the door behind her.

“Okay, clase,” you say, clapping your hands to pull their attention off of Michael. “Why don’t we show Mr. Michael what we’ve been working on?” You slip back onto the piano bench, and the room rearranges itself on instinct—English side on the right, Spanish on the left. At your cue, they jump straight into the chorus, voices filling the room as Michael stands by the chalkboard at the front, watching every move.

English side:

“They’ll kick you, then they’ll beat you—“

Spanish side answers,

‘Fue justo’ te dirán…’

English:

‘So beat it, but you wanna be bad, just beat it—’

Spanish comes in over them on the hook,

‘(Vete)…’

English fires back,

‘Beat it…’

Spanish:

‘(Vete)…’

And then the whole room locks in together on,

‘No one wants to be defeated,’

a wall of sound that makes Michael’s eyes go wide. You stop playing and turn around to give your students a thumbs up. When you glance back at Michael, his hands are over his mouth, fully surprised.

“So, what do you think” you ask, walking over to him, all of your kids becoming anxious at his response. Michael drops his hands from his mouth, still looking a little stunned. “I… wow,” he says, laughing under his breath. “That was incredible. Your harmony, your energy…” He glances back at the kids. “You all sound better than some grown choirs I’ve heard, I’m not even joking.” He turns to you again. “And that arrangement… the English and Spanish together? That’s beautiful. You did that?” Before you can answer, all the kids in the class yell out in unison “Yes!” Michael breaks into a huge grin as the kids shout, laughing with them. “Well, in that case… you guys have an amazing teacher,” he says, looking back at you. “This arrangement is genius. The message, the Spanish and English together… I love it. It’s exactly what this song is about.” You feel your face heat up again. ““I can see why they call you the star teacher around here,” he continues. And again everyone starts the ‘ooohs’ again. Causing you to laugh it off.

“Get her number” you hear a small voice pipe up from somewhere in the room. You snap your head toward the class, but all you catch is a sea of giggles. Michael whips back around to the chalkboard, shoulders shaking as he tries not to laugh too hard at the comment, one hand pressed over his mouth. You try to calm everyone down by putting your finger to your lips in a ‘sshh’ tone. “Don’t listen to them. You know kids… I’m so sorry,” you murmur. Your back is almost flush with his, before you both face the chalkboard.

He can’t stop giggling. “No, it’s okay. They’re funny…” he says, dropping his voice so the kids won’t hear. “But I’m sure your boyfriend would be mad if I did.” “I don’t have one” you respond not thinking anything of it. There’s a beat. “Oh,” is all he says.

The bell shrieks overhead, snapping the room out of its spell. ‘Saved by the bell’, you think, as chairs scrape and backpacks zip and the kids suddenly remember they have places to be. “Okay, clase, los veo mañana! Keep rehearsing your parts for the showcase!” you call over the chaos. Everyone waves their goodbyes, a few kids sneaking in quick hugs for you and even one for Michael before they rush out the door, leaving the choir room suddenly, strangely quiet. You head back to your desk to set up for tomorrow, Michael trailing a few steps behind. “So… about that number,” he starts. “Could I?” He leans over your desk, teeth catching his bottom lip. “Are you serious?” You ask arching a brow. “Well why not? Kids are smart y’know” he says very matter of fact. “Mhm, are they? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure they also think I live at the school,” you say in a sarcastic way crossing your arms over your desk. “Okay, but on the off chance they’re right about this…” he says with his hand on hips making all of his buckles and chains jingle. You just roll your eyes. Inside, you’re freaking out that the most popular singer in the world is asking for your number and you’re… playing hard to get. “Okay. Fine,” you say with a small smile, reaching for a Post-it. When you look up, Michael has the biggest smile on his face. “So can I call you tonight?”

“I’ll just write down my school hours, so you know when it’s a good time.”

He hangs up with his thumb resting on the receiver for a second too long, staring at nothing. Then someone calls his name from down the hall—something about an early call time—and he pushes himself back up, tucking you away in that mental “later” box he’s been filling up lately.

By the time you get home, it’s late enough that your shoulders feel like they’re carrying the whole day. You smell like crayons and Goldfish and baby shampoo, a folded wad of babysitting cash tucked into your pocket. You drop your bag by the door and your mom calls from the kitchen, “Hun, you just missed your friend calling.” You freeze halfway out of your shoes. “Who?”

“Michael,” she says, like it’s the most normal name in the world. “He called earlier. Said to tell you he said hi.” She goes back to rinsing a mug, completely unaware of the way your brain just cannonballed into your chest. You don’t even make it to your room. You beeline for the wall phone, dial the Hayvenhurst number from memory now, pressing the receiver so hard to your ear it squeaks. It rings and rings. Finally, someone picks up—deeper voice, calm.

“Hayvenhurst residence.”

“Hi, um—this is—” you say your name too fast, suddenly hyperaware of how small you sound. “Is Michael there?”

There’s a shuffle on the other end, a bit of distant laughter, something that sounds like a beat leaking under a door. “He’s in the studio right now, miss. They’re working late.” The voice is polite but practiced. “I can let him know you called.” Your hand tightens on the cord. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, could you… just tell him I called back? Please?”

“Sure thing.” Click.

Michael’s POV :

Another week goes by and nothing. Everything starts to blend together—studio sessions, music videos, meetings with new producers, interviews, and everything in between. But one thing doesn’t change… her. I haven’t stopped thinking about her since our picnic. Well, not a date… just a ‘get to know you, thanks for helping me with Bubbles’ thing. Every time I try to call, she’s not home. I bet she’s forgotten about me by now. Or lost interest. I’m probably just another famous person to her. Sometimes I wish I could still have a normal life, but I love making people smile. I’ve got a gift I need to share with the world. I guess you can’t have everything.

Quincy and I were in the studio, buried in new ideas. New projects, new sounds, trying to chase that next thing… until the phone rang. It was Janet and LaToya. They sounded frantic. By the time they finished talking over each other, my stomach dropped. I had to get back to Hayvenhurst. Fast.

I barely made it through the front door before I heard my name. “MICHAEL.” Janet and LaToya came running down the hall like the house was on fire. Janet’s eyes were glossy, clutching at the front of her shirt like it was a mortal wound. Orange stains were splattered all over her favorite top.

“Look what he did!” she cried, holding it out like evidence. “This was my favorite!” LaToya limped in behind her, one heel in her hand, the other foot bare. “And my pumps, Michael. My pumps. The heel snapped while I was chasing him around the room. I am not a zookeeper!” She says while she’s throwing the broken shoe in my face.

Before I could even answer, Bubbles shrieked from down the hall, and something crashed. My heart sank. What on earth had he done now?

I rushed down the hall toward Bubbles’ room, and the closer I got, the worse it sounded. Something banged against the wall, Janet yelled his name, and Bubbles shrieked like he was on a roller coaster. I pushed the door open and just… stopped. Toys everywhere. Food smeared on the wall. One of the posters hanging by a single thumbtack. Bubbles was bouncing on the bed like it was a trampoline, shrieking every time Janet tried to get close. She spun toward me, pointing at him with this betrayed look. “You better do something with your son.”

And all I could think was… he never did this with her. With you. I scooped him up and paced the room, whispering to him the way I always do. Little by little, the screeching turned into soft huffs against my shoulder. His fingers curled into my jacket, tired and stubborn. “You gave your aunties a hard time today, huh?” I murmured. “Tore up Janet’s shirt… broke LaToya’s pumps…” He blinked up at me, all innocent now. Typical.

I sighed, rubbing his back. ”Should I call her to come sit you again? Is that what you want?”

His eyes lit up at the sound of your name, and he let out this happy little noise that told me everything I needed to know.

Quincy was still waiting for me at the studio. The track was not going to finish itself unless I was there. Only one thing to do, was to pick up the phone in hopes you answer. I knew Janet and Latoya were done with monkey business. I had very little hope left. I let out a breath, smoothing Bubbles’ fur one more time. “Alright,” I said softly. “I’ll call her. But you gotta be good for her, you hear me?”

He tucked his face into my shoulder like he understood, and that was it.

Once Bubbles was fully calmed, I set him down with his favorite stuffy and slipped out to the nearest phone by his room. I hovered there for a second, fingers over the buttons, wondering if you’d even pick up… then I started to dial.

Your POV

You’d been trying to paint other things all afternoon, but every time your brush hit the page it turned into him. The sleeve of that red shirt. The curl that never stayed tucked under his hat. The way his hands looked when he opened the car door for you. It’d been a couple of weeks, but you just couldn’t shake him from your thoughts. Besides, every time you turned around he was there anyway—magazines, music videos, radio stations. At this point you were pretty sure he’d forgotten about you. He was too busy being the number one pop star in the world. He’s too busy being the number one pop star in the world.

You were so deep in your own head, lost in the rhythm of your brush, that the ringing of your phone made you jump. You froze, staring at it for a second like your brain was trying to catch up to the present… then finally reached over and picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?” you said, a little breathless from how fast you’d moved. There’s a pause on the other side.

“Hi…. Is this the chimp sitter, by chance” you hear a soft voice ask. You blinked, straightened up a little on the edge of your bed. ‘Um… yeah, this is her,’ you said, trying to sound normal even though your heart had already started racing. “And let me guess… this is Mr. World Pop Star,”you add before you can stop yourself. You hear a breathy chuckle. “I suppose it is. But I told you to call me Michael.”

“Oh, that’s right,”you say with a little nod, even though he can’t see you.

“I was actually hoping to finally reach you.”There’s a pause on the line. “Umm… if you can do a last-minute sit for Bubbles—my sisters don’t want to because of some mishap with him today and—“

“I’d love to” you cut in. “Oh. I can come get you right now”

“No need. I can just walk there, quicker than you coming here and then going there.”

“Oh are you sure? I think Bill is already waiting out for you”

“What do you mean Bill is outside?” you ask, walking to your window and peeking through the curtain to see a car parked out front.

“Yea I just asked him to get you” he chuckles.

“You know I’m just a few blocks away right?” You ask trying not to laugh about how protective he is. You hear a small laugh from the other end, “yea I know, but I want you to be safe on your way here. Bill was the best option” you start feeling your cheeks get hot. “Ok I’ll trust you this time. I’ll see you soon” “see you soon” he responds before both of you hang up the phone.

You run over to your mirror and do a few quick makeup and hair touch-ups, then notice your hands and clothes are stained with old paint from earlier. You rush to your dresser, grab a random t-shirt and some jean shorts, and change. Before you head out, you scrub the paint off your hands in the bathroom sink and leave a note for your parents to find, then slip out the door.

Bill drops you in the circular driveway and the engine’s barely off before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt. The big iron gates slide shut behind the car with a low groan, sealing you into Hayvenhurst’s little bubble of quiet. As you push the door open and swing your legs out, you spot Michael a few yards away on the front walk, Bubbles perched on his hip. He’s mid-sentence with Bill, one hand resting on Bubbles’ back like he’s reminding him to behave. The second Bubbles sees you, his whole body goes stiff, then he lets out a loud squeal and explodes out of Michael’s arms before he can grab him. “Bubbles, wait—!” Michael calls, but it’s useless. In three seconds flat, there’s a blur of dark fur tearing across the driveway straight at you.

You barely have time to laugh before you’re dropping into a crouch on instinct, arms open. He barrels into you like a furry cannonball, climbing up your front and wrapping his arms around your neck, chattering right in your ear.

Michael runs after him with a terrified look. Thinking you might get harmed just like his sisters did not too long ago. “Sorry,” Michael says, eyes finally meeting yours. Up close, you can see the tired tucked into the corners of them, but it softens when he looks at you. “I think he missed you.”

“Well that’s okay. Because I missed him too” you say giving the chimp a light squeeze and swing side to side. You look up at Michael, your eyes meet, and in that moment you both feel like you’re not talking about missing a monkey. There’s a small pause.

“So…” you start breaking the tension clearing your throat. “What’s the deal. Why the urgency”

Michael snaps back to reality, “ oh. Yeah.. umm. My sisters were watching him earlier and hell broke loose with him. I have to get back to the studio soon.”

You look down at Bubbles in a serious baby voice, “Oh was someone being a bad monkey” he squeals and just goes back to resting his head on your shoulders, like he knows he did something bad but he’s just a baby still. You and Michael both shake your heads no with smiles on your faces. And Michael signals you to step in the house while he walks you back to the nursery where Bubbles plays.

Once you cross the door frame of the room, you look around in disbelief. “You caused all the chaos?” You say shocked looking down to a shy chimp trying to hide in your arms. “Tsk tsk tsk. We have to teach you manners today” you say putting him down in his playpen.

From the door frame Michael claps his hands together and with a big smile “Well… you guys have fun. I have to go back to the studio. Call me if anything happens.” He gets closer to you before giving you a big hug “you’re a life saver” he says with a relief tone. You drown in his cologne and you can just melt right then and there. But not as quickly as he pulls you back out. And he heads out the door.

“Oh no…” you whispered, shoulders dropping as you froze in the middle of your bedroom. ““Hey mama, some bad news. I won’t be able to make it to our date tonight… My team wants to have a last minute meeting for upcoming projects. Naomi is only available for today. I hope you can understand. I– I’m sorry, baby. I’ll make it up to you when I get home. I promise. I’ll try to get out of it as soon as possible.” -click. You just stared blankly at the machine, your keys digging into your palm. Of course she is, you thought bitterly. Your eyes started to well up with tears.

You felt defeated. You both tried so hard to carve out time just for yourselves, and then she has to walk in and be only available today of all days.

You were getting way too in your head, picturing the hottest supermodel in the world alone in a room with him. He’s a big flirt, so you know a little too well how that meeting is probably going. You try to wash off the disappointment with a hot, steamy shower and drink the rest of the wine you’d bought for tonight, hoping it’ll help you forget he’s not coming… or at least knock you out.

By the time he finally made it to your apartment, the flowers in his hand were starting to droop. He’d rehearsed the apology a hundred times on the drive over… but all of it disappeared the second he saw you fast asleep on the couch in the dim living room. He set the flowers down on the coffee table and knelt beside you, brushing a curl away from your face. “Mama… hey, wake up for me,” he whispered, pressing a light kiss to your cheek. Nothing. Not even a twitch. You weren’t just asleep, you were mad at him, and he could feel it.

He tried a different tactic, leaning closer and crooning a soft, playful “I’ve got sunshine…” right against your ear. That finally got you to crack, a tiny giggle bubbling out even as you stubbornly kept your eyes shut. He shook his head, smiling to himself; you loved to tease him and humble his music any chance you got. Fine, he thought. You want the good version? You’ll get it. He walked over to the record player in the living room, flipped through the sleeves until he found The Temptations, and set the needle down, turning the volume up just enough for you to hear the first beat.

You stay ‘asleep’ but try to peak with one eye open just to see what he’s up to. He knows the Temptations is your weakness especially because he covered their song but you always thought the original was more nostalgic.

And Michael is great at making you feel better. Just by playing ‘My Girl’ or, on your rainy days, he’ll sing it a capella and make it extra special for you. You try to keep a poker face and still pretend to sleep, but you can’t help sneaking a look at Michael’s little plea, how bad he feels. He returns to the living room with an afro wig—one you kept from Halloweens past—and you see him performing the song, exaggerating the lip syncing. He was half doing their choreography, half trying to ‘Jackson-fy’ it with his own spins, gripping the TV remote like a microphone. You watched through the tiniest slit of one eye as he lip‑synced his heart out in that old afro wig, jamming it up so hard you almost forgot you were supposed to be mad at him.

You peek a little more and he clocks it immediately, grinning.

“Ahh, there’s my girl, I see you,” he teases, still doing those goofy little spins as he shuffles closer to the couch. He starts gently nudging your leg with his knee, holding the “mic” out to you. “Come on, don’t make me sing this whole song by myself… you not even gon’ smile for me?” You keep trying hard to have a poker face but his smile and antics melt your anger immediately. You finally give in and get up from the couch and he takes your arms and you both start dancing to the song.

“So am I forgiven?” He asks with hopeful eyes and a slight grin looking down at you.