Chapter Text
Gary, Indiana was never quiet.
Not in the summer.
Not when the factory smoke rolled thick through the neighborhoods and settled over rooftops like dirty fog. Not when radios blasted from open windows across Jackson Street—The Temptations, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin bleeding into the humid evening air while children ran through sprinklers barefoot and mothers shouted names from porches before dark.
The city smelled like steel mills, gasoline, rain on hot pavement, and cigarettes.
Most people who left Gary never spoke about it fondly.
But years later, whenever Michael Jackson thought about home, this was what he remembered first.
The music.
And you.
—
Your mother always said you were born listening.
Even as a little girl, you paid attention to things other people ignored. The sound of sewing needles tapping against fabric. The hum of records spinning before songs started. The way people’s voices changed when they were sad but pretending not to be.
Especially your father’s.
Your father taught music at the local church and spent evenings repairing old instruments for extra money. Your mother hemmed dresses and occasionally altered performance costumes for local singers trying to look bigger than their circumstances.
Your house was small but warm.
You grew up surrounded by unfinished melodies.
And somehow, that was how you found the Jacksons.
Or maybe they found you first.
—
Summer, 1969.
The heat that year felt unbearable.
You remembered sitting on the curb outside Thompson’s Grocery Store with blood on your scraped knee and dirt on your palms after fighting with two girls from school who’d mocked your secondhand clothes.
You hadn’t cried during the fight.
You cried afterward.
Quietly.
Angrily.
A shadow appeared beside you.
“You okay?”
The voice startled you.
You looked up.
A skinny little boy stood there holding a melting candy bar in one hand.
Big brown eyes.
Small afro.
Too-thin wrists.
You recognized him immediately.
Everybody in Gary knew the Jackson boys.
“You’re Michael Jackson,” you blurted.
He grimaced instantly.
Not proudly.
Embarrassed.
“Yeah.”
He held out the candy bar awkwardly.
“You can have half.”
You stared at him suspiciously.
“Why?”
Michael shrugged.
“You look sad.”
You almost laughed.
“Your brothers are mean.”
His eyes widened.
“Which ones?”
“All of them except Tito.”
Michael burst into startled laughter so suddenly you blinked.
“That’s true,” he admitted.
And just like that,
Something began.
—
You knew that Gary, Indiana breathed always differently in the summer.
Heat clung to skin even after sunset, thick and heavy beneath the orange glow of streetlights. Factory smoke drifted across rooftops like dark clouds that never fully disappeared, and every evening the neighborhoods came alive with noise.
Children raced through opened fire hydrants shrieking with laughter while mothers leaned from porches fanning themselves in the heat. Radios blasted from apartment windows endlessly—The Supremes, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations mixing together like the entire city shared one giant soundtrack.
Men returned home from steel mills exhausted, shirts stained with sweat and soot. Women folded laundry on clotheslines while gossiping loudly across fences.
Gary wasn’t beautiful.
But it was alive.
And the Jackson house sat right in the middle of that life.
You learned quickly that the house changed moods depending on whether Joe Jackson was home.
Before his car pulled into the driveway, the house felt chaotic in a warm way. Marlon wrestling somebody. Jermaine singing dramatically in mirrors. Tito adjusting guitar strings. Katherine moving through the kitchen humming gospel songs softly under her breath.
Then Joe arrived.
And silence followed.
Not complete silence.
Careful silence.
The kind children learn young.
You noticed it the first week you started visiting regularly.
Michael noticed you noticing.
“You okay?” he whispered one evening while everybody helped set the table.
You glanced toward the front window where Joe’s car sat outside.
“Does everybody always get this quiet?”
Michael looked down briefly.
“…mostly.”
That single word told you everything.
—
The Jackson house on Jackson Street was unlike anything you’d ever seen.
It was loud from morning until night.
Not happy-loud all the time.
Chaotic loud.
The television blared constantly. Somebody was always singing. Somebody was always arguing. Shoes littered the floor. Instruments leaned against walls. Katherine called children’s names from the kitchen while Joe’s voice thundered through rehearsal corrections from the living room.
But beneath the noise, there was life there.
Real life.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
You became part of it slowly.
The first time you saw the Jackson 5 perform live happened inside a crowded community venue on the west side of Gary.
Katherine spent two straight evenings sewing adjustments onto matching performance outfits while Joe barked rehearsal corrections from the living room.
“They gotta look sharp,” Joe insisted.
“They’re children, Joe,” Katherine sighed tiredly while threading another needle.
“They performers.”
The distinction mattered deeply to him.
You sat cross-legged on the floor nearby helping untangle costume sequins while Michael repeatedly practiced spins in front of the television reflection.
“You’re gonna drill a hole through the floor,” you informed him.
“I missed the timing earlier.”
“You missed one step.”
“One bad step ruins everything.”
You stared at him.
“You sound eighty years old.”
Michael grinned.
“I’m a professional.”
“You’re thirteen.”
“Same thing.”
—
The venue smelled like cigarettes, sweat, cheap perfume, and overheated stage equipment.
People packed shoulder-to-shoulder around tiny tables near the stage while waitresses rushed between crowds balancing drinks. Excited chatter filled the room as neighborhood families squeezed together trying to find seats.
You stood near the side curtains clutching warm soda nervously while the audience buzzed around you.
Girls nearby whispered excitedly.
“That’s the little Jackson boy?”
“He cute.”
“No, Jermaine cute.”
“Michael sings better though.”
The lights dimmed suddenly.
Screams erupted instantly.
Music exploded through the speakers.
Then the Jackson brothers ran onto stage together in matching purple outfits beneath blinding lights.
And Michael—
Michael changed.
Completely.
The shy boy who mumbled around strangers disappeared the second music started.
His body moved like instinct.
Like rhythm physically controlled him.
He sang with impossible confidence for somebody barely entering his teens, spinning effortlessly beneath stage lights while sweat gleamed against his skin. The crowd screamed before the first chorus even ended.
Women stood clapping wildly.
Teenagers rushed closer to the stage.
Children climbed onto chairs trying to see him better.
And Michael looked alive.
Not nervous.
Not insecure.
Free.
You couldn’t stop staring.
Not because he was famous.
Because for the first time all day, he looked genuinely happy.
Backstage afterwards, the transformation vanished almost immediately.
The brothers stumbled behind curtains breathless and sweating while laughing over each other excitedly.
“Did you SEE that crowd?”
“Man they loved us tonight!”
Jermaine dramatically bowed toward imaginary fans.
Michael laughed harder than anybody for several seconds before Joe stepped into the room.
Instant tension.
Joe crossed his arms.
“You missed one step during the spin.”
Silence.
Michael’s smile faded immediately.
“…which one?”
“The second transition.”
Nobody else spoke.
Joe nodded toward the dressing room sharply. "Follow me. Now."
He looked at you briefly before turning down his head and followed his father.
You knew better not to intervene, but you were trying to stop the urge from following him.From protecting him, but who were you to the hands of Joe Jackson?
After a few moments, you hear Joe whisper. “Fix it before next show.”
Then he walked away.
The room stayed quiet afterward.
You watched Michael stare down at the floor briefly before forcing another smile onto his face.
Jackie clapped him on the shoulder.
“Forget him, Mike. Crowd loved you.”
Michael nodded.
But later that night, while everybody else slept, he sat beside you on the back porch steps quietly picking at loose threads on his sleeve.
“Was it bad?” he asked softly.
You frowned.
“What?”
“The step.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because out of everybody surrounding him—
Joe.
Fans.
Crowds.
Brothers—
Michael still only trusted your opinion emotionally.
“No,” you answered honestly. “Nobody even noticed.”
Michael exhaled slowly.
Then quieter:
“You noticed.”
“Only because you practiced it a hundred times.”
That finally made him smile again.
Small.
But real.
—
At first, you only visited after school.
Then you started staying for dinner.
Then eventually Katherine Jackson simply began setting an extra plate down automatically whenever you arrived.
“You eat too little,” she’d fuss while spooning more food onto your plate.
“Mother,” Michael would groan dramatically. “You gonna feed her the whole kitchen?”
“And you need vegetables,” she’d fire back instantly.
Michael always looked personally offended by vegetables.
—
Joe Jackson intimidated you right from the beginning.
Everybody in the neighborhood feared him a little.
The first time you witnessed rehearsals in the living room, you understood why.
“Again!” The brothers immediately repositioned themselves.
Sweat gleamed across Michael’s forehead beneath the harsh yellow living room lights. He couldn’t have been older than eleven, but he moved with frightening precision already.
Joe noticed every mistake.
Every missed beat.
Every wrong note.
“You think Berry Gordy wants lazy boys?” Joe barked.
“No, sir,” the brothers answered together.
Michael’s breathing was uneven by the fourth repetition.
Still, he kept going.
Again. Again. Again.
You sat cross-legged in the corner clutching your notebook, watching silently.
Joe finally pointed toward the kitchen.
“Five-minute break.”
The boys scattered instantly.
Jermaine collapsed dramatically onto the couch. Jackie stole a soda from the fridge. Marlon shoved Tito for absolutely no reason.
Michael disappeared quietly toward the back porch.
You followed him.
He sat alone on the steps outside, shoulders slumped forward.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Michael jumped slightly, not hearing you approach.
“Oh. Yeah.”
He was lying.
Even at eleven, Michael Jackson was already learning how to lie politely.
You sat beside him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then quietly: “Does your dad ever scare you?”
Michael stared down at his hands.
Sometimes, you would realize later, silence was his version of honesty.
Finally he nodded once.
Very small.
Your chest tightened.
“You don’t gotta tell me stuff you don’t want to,” you said quickly.
“No, it’s okay.”
He rubbed his palms nervously against his jeans.
“He just wants us to be good.”
“But?”
Michael’s eyes lifted toward the darkening sky.
“Sometimes I think he forgets we’re kids.”
The words came so softly they almost disappeared into the evening air.
Something about hearing that from him made your heart ache in ways you didn’t fully understand yet.
Because Michael never sounded angry.
Only tired.
Even then.
—
As the Jackson 5 grew bigger, the neighborhood changed around them.
More cars appeared outside the house.
More reporters.
More strangers.
Women screamed whenever the brothers stepped outside.
You were thirteen the first time you saw Michael truly overwhelmed by fame.
The group had just returned from a performance in Chicago. Fans crowded the street outside Jackson Street so densely police had to control traffic.
Girls screamed Michael’s name endlessly.
Not the group’s name.
His.
Hands reached for him constantly.
Pulling at sleeves.
Touching his hair.
Grabbing his arms.
You watched Michael smile automatically through it all because he’d already learned performing happiness mattered.
But the second he made it inside the house, his expression collapsed entirely.
He looked pale.
Joe was thrilled.
“That’s what success looks like!” he declared proudly.
But Michael slipped past everyone and disappeared upstairs.
You followed minutes later.
His bedroom door sat slightly open.
Inside, Michael sat on the floor beside his record player with his knees pulled to his chest.
“You missed dinner,” you said gently.
He didn’t answer immediately.
The record spun quietly between you.
Smokey Robinson.
Michael loved Smokey Robinson.
“They scream so loud now,” he whispered finally.
You leaned against the doorway.
“Yeah.”
“I can’t hear the music anymore.”
The sadness in his voice startled you.
Because everyone else would’ve loved it.
The attention. The fame. The hysteria.
But Michael looked frightened by it.
You crossed the room and sat beside him.
He handed you one side of the headphones automatically.
The gesture felt intimate somehow.
Natural.
You listened together in silence.
That became your thing after that.
Music without talking.
Understanding each other without needing explanation.
—
Michael offstage was nothing like Michael onstage.
The world didn’t know that yet.
Onstage, he was electric.
Fearless.
Brilliant.
Offstage, he was shy enough to mumble around strangers.
He laughed with his whole body when genuinely amused. He loved cartoons embarrassingly much. He hated thunderstorms and needles and bitter food.
And he noticed everything.
Especially about you.
“You bite your lip when you’re reading,” he informed you one afternoon while sprawled upside down across the couch.
You looked up from your book.
“You watch me too much.”
“You stare at people when you wanna understand them.”
“That’s creepy.”
“You sing when you think nobody’s listening.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Michael grinned triumphantly.
“You’re creepy too.”
—
As teenagers, the closeness between you deepened naturally.
Not romantic yet.
Not exactly.
But something stronger than ordinary friendship had rooted itself quietly between you both.
The brothers noticed before either of you did.
Jermaine teased constantly.
"Ohh, Michael got a girlfriend.”
Michael nearly choked on his drink.
“She’s not my girlfriend!”
Jermaine looked delighted by the reaction.
“You blushing though.”
“I am not!”
“You are,” Tito confirmed lazily.
Michael looked horrified. You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the couch. Michael glared at all of you dramatically.
Then muttered under his breath:
“I hate this family.”
Katherine overheard from the kitchen.
“No you don’t.”
And somehow everyone started laughing.
Even Michael.
—
At night, the two of you escaped to the roof outside his bedroom window.
Gary looked softer from up there.
The factories became distant lights instead of cages.
One August evening, the city below buzzed with summer noise while the two of you shared a bottle of soda between you.
Michael lay flat against the roof shingles staring at the stars.
“You ever wanna leave?” he asked quietly.
“Gary?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes.”
Michael nodded slowly.
“I wanna see everything.”
“You probably will.”
“Not like this though.”
You turned toward him.
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“I don’t want people screaming at me forever.”
The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard.
Most boys his age wanted attention desperately.
Michael seemed crushed beneath it already.
“You know what I wanna do?” he continued softly. “I wanna make music people feel.”
“They already do.”
“No, I mean really feel. Like…” He struggled for the words. “Like the songs become part of them.”
You watched him carefully.
Before history itself—
Michael thought about music differently than everyone else.
Not fame. Not money. Feeling. Connection. Immortality through emotion.
“You’re gonna do it,” you whispered.
Michael turned his head toward you.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
For a moment he just looked at you.
And suddenly your chest felt strange.
Warm.
Too tight.
Then softly:
“You always believe in me.”
“Somebody has to. Your dad’s scary.”
Michael burst into helpless laughter.
“You scared of him?”
“Yes!”
“He likes you.”
“No he does not.”
“He asked where you were yesterday.”
You looked horrified.
Michael laughed harder.
The sound echoed beautifully into the warm night air.
Years later, after stadiums and screaming crowds and impossible fame, that laugh would still be your favorite version of him.
Not Michael Jackson.
Just Michael.
—
As the rooftop outside Michael’s bedroom became your place without either of you ever officially deciding it.
Some nights you climbed out there just to escape the noise downstairs.
Other nights Michael appeared outside your window tossing pebbles because he couldn’t sleep after rehearsals.
The city looked softer from rooftops.
Far enough away to almost pretend life was simpler.
Michael usually brought music with him.
A small radio.
Vinyl sleeves.
Headphones tangled carelessly around his fingers.
You spent entire nights sharing one side of the headphones while Marvin Gaye or Smokey Robinson played softly between you both.
Sometimes Michael hummed unfinished melodies absentmindedly beneath his breath.
“What’s that one?” you asked once.
“Nothing.”
“You wrote it?”
Michael shrugged shyly.
“Maybe.”
“Play it again.”
“No.”
“Michael.”
“It sounds stupid.”
“It sounded pretty.”
He looked embarrassed instantly.
“You really think so?”
“Yes.”
Michael smiled to himself quietly before humming it again softer this time.
Another night, you sat braiding tiny colorful beads into the ends of his curls while he complained dramatically.
“If Jermaine sees this, I’m blaming you.”
“You scared of Jermaine now?”
“I’m scared of everybody.”
“You perform in front of thousands of people.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Michael stared toward distant city lights thoughtfully.
“When I’m singing… I know what to do.”
The honesty in his voice startled you.
Offstage uncertainty seemed to haunt him constantly now.
He picked at chipped paint beneath his fingers before speaking again.
“I wanna write songs one day.”
“You will.”
“No, I mean real songs.” His expression grew serious. “Songs that make people feel less lonely.”
Your heart squeezed unexpectedly.
“Why lonely?”
Michael shrugged.
“Because everybody is.”
The answer felt far too old for somebody his age.
—
By fourteen, Michael was already changing.
Puberty hit awkwardly.
His voice shifted unpredictably. Acne began appearing across his cheeks. He became more self-conscious every month.
You noticed immediately. Michael started staring into mirrors too long. Pulling at his curls. Covering blemishes. Comparing himself constantly to older stars.
One evening before a television appearance, you found him angrily scrubbing makeup off his face in the bathroom.
“It looks stupid.”
“It looks fine.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Yes it does.”
Michael looked at you through the mirror.
“You don’t gotta lie.”
You stepped closer carefully.
“I’m not lying.”
He looked unconvinced.
Quietly, he admitted:
“Jermaine’s the handsome one.”
Your heart cracked a little hearing that.
Because even then, insecurity lived inside him like something permanent.
You leaned against the sink.
“You know what your problem is?”
“What?”
“You think people only love beautiful things.”
Michael frowned.
“They do.”
“No. They love honest things.”
He stared at you silently.
Then finally whispered:
“You really think that?”
“Yes.”
And for once, Michael looked like he wanted to believe it.
—
The first time the Jackson 5 appeared on national television, nearly the entire neighborhood crowded into nearby living rooms to watch.
People carried folding chairs into houses because there wasn’t enough space.
Children sat cross-legged on floors while adults argued excitedly over channels and antennas.
Katherine stood near the television clasping her hands tightly together.
Joe pretended calm.
But you noticed how rigid his posture became once the program started.
Then suddenly—
There they were.
The Jackson 5.
On television.
Real.
Beautiful.
Polished.
Smiling beneath bright studio lights.
The entire room erupted instantly.
“That’s our boys!”
“Look at Michael!”
“Lord, they made it.”
Katherine covered her mouth emotionally while staring at the screen.
You watched Michael carefully the entire performance.
Everybody else saw confidence.
You noticed nervousness beneath it.
The slight stiffness in his shoulders before songs started.
The way his eyes searched cameras anxiously between smiles.
Even through television screens, you recognized him.
Later that night, your phone rang. Michael.
“Did I sound weird?” he asked immediately.
Not:
Was I good?
Not:
Did people like it?
Just:
Did I sound weird?
Your chest hurt.
“You sounded amazing.”
“But did I seem nervous?”
“A little.”
Michael groaned dramatically.
“I knew it.”
“It made you real.”
Silence.
Then softly:
“You always say stuff different than everybody else.”
“Somebody has to.”
Michael laughed quietly into the receiver.
And somehow the sound felt lonelier than it should’ve.
—
The bigger the Jackson 5 became, the less time Michael spent being a normal teenager.
Tours consumed everything.
School happened between schedules.
Interviews replaced privacy.
Fans waited outside hotels constantly.
Girls mailed thousands of letters weekly.
Michael once admitted quietly over the phone from Detroit:
“I don’t even know how to talk to girls my age anymore.”
You smiled against the receiver.
“You talk to me fine.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
Long pause.
Then softly:
“You’re you.”
That answer stayed with you longer than it should have.
—
During freshman year, several boys cornered Michael behind the school gym after rehearsal one afternoon.
You heard them before you saw them.
“Boy act like he a girl.”
“Too pretty for his own good.”
“Bet he cry if somebody hit him.”
Michael stood frozen beside the brick wall clutching schoolbooks tightly.
Not angry.
Embarrassed.
Like humiliation had become familiar.
Something inside you snapped instantly.
“Leave him alone.”
The boys turned.
One laughed.
“You his bodyguard now?”
“I’ll break your nose if you keep talking.”
“You serious?”
“Try me.”
The confrontation ended quickly after teachers approached nearby, but your heart still pounded furiously afterward.
You didn’t realize Michael overheard everything until later that night.
He found you sitting alone outside the Jackson house.
Quietly, he sat beside you.
“Why do you always protect me?”
You looked at him carefully.
"Because nobody protects you enough."
The words left your mouth before you could reconsider them.
Michael went completely still beside you.
Something shifted in his expression then.
Not romantic yet.
But deep.
Permanent.
And years later, long after stadiums and screaming crowds and heartbreak, Michael would still remember that sentence word for word.
—
One winter night after rehearsal, Joe lost his temper badly.
You heard shouting downstairs from Michael’s room.
One brother missed choreography repeatedly.
Joe exploded.
The house went frighteningly silent afterward.
Michael sat beside you on the roof later with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands.
Neither of you spoke for a long time.
Then quietly:
“Do you ever think people stop loving you when you disappoint them?”
You looked at him immediately.
“Who told you that?”
Michael shrugged weakly.
“Nobody.”
Lie.
You could hear Joe’s voice hiding inside the question.
You reached over slowly and took his hand for the first time.
Michael froze. Not pulling away. Just still.
“You don’t gotta earn love,” you whispered fiercely. “Not from me.”
His fingers tightened around yours suddenly.
Like he needed the contact more than he realized.
The city wind moved softly around you both.
And somewhere downstairs, music still played faintly through the house.
Michael looked down at your intertwined hands quietly.
Then whispered:
“No matter how big this gets…”
You looked at him.
“…you stay with me, okay?”
Your chest hurt unexpectedly.
You smiled anyway.
“Always.”
And Michael believed you.
That was the tragedy of it.
So did you.