On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

  “Brianna—”

  I throw my hoodie over my head and march down the sidewalk.

  Sometimes I dream that I’m drowning. It’s always in a big, blue ocean that’s too deep for me to see the bottom. But I tell myself I’m not going to die no matter how much water gets in my lungs or how deep I sink, I am not going to die. Because I say so.

  Suddenly, I can breathe underwater. I can swim. The ocean isn’t so scary anymore. It’s actually kinda cool. I even learn how to control it.

  But I’m awake, I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to control any of this.

  Six

  The Maple Grove projects are a whole different world.

  I live on the east side of the Garden, where the houses are nicer, the homeowners are older, and the gunshots aren’t as frequent. The Maple Grove projects are a fifteen-minute walk away on the west side, or as Grandma calls it, “that ol’ rough side.” It’s on the news more, and so many of the houses look like nobody should live in them. But it’s kinda like saying one side of the Death Star is safer than the other. It’s still the goddamn Death Star.

  At Maple Grove, six three-story buildings sit close enough to the freeway that Aunt Pooh says they used to go on the rooftops and throw rocks at the cars. Badasses. There was a seventh building, but it burned down a few years ago and instead of rebuilding it, the state tore it down. Now there’s a grassy field in its place where kids go play. The playground is for junkies.

  “Whaddup, Li’l Law,” a guy shouts from inside a raggedy car as I cross the parking lot. Never seen him in my life, but I wave. I’ll always be my dad’s daughter if nothing else.

  He should be here. Maybe if he was, I wouldn’t be wondering how we’re gonna make it since Jay doesn’t have a job.

  I swear, we can never just be “good.” Something always happens. Either we barely got food or this thing got shut off. It’s. Always. Something.

  We can’t have any power, either. I mean, think about it. All these people I’ve never met have way more control over my life than I’ve ever had. If some Crown hadn’t killed my dad, he’d be a big rap star and money wouldn’t be an issue. If some drug dealer hadn’t sold my mom her first hit, she could’ve gotten her degree already and would have a good job. If that cop hadn’t murdered that boy, people wouldn’t have rioted, the daycare wouldn’t have burned down, and the church wouldn’t have let Jay go.

  All these folks I’ve never met became gods over my life. Now I gotta take the power back.

  I’m hoping Aunt Pooh knows how.

  A boy zooms toward me on a dirt bike wearing a Celtics jersey with a hoodie underneath, clear beads on his braids. He hits the brakes just inches away from me. Inches.

  “Boy, I swear if you would’ve hit me,” I say.

  Jojo snickers. “I wasn’t gon’ hit you.”

  Jojo can’t be any more than ten. He lives with his momma in the apartment right above Aunt Pooh’s. He makes it his business to speak to me every time I’m over here. Aunt Pooh thinks he has a crush on me, but nah. I think he just wants somebody to talk to. He’ll hit me up for candy, too. Like today.

  “You got some king-size Skittles, Bri?” he asks.

  “Yep. Two dollars.”

  “Two dollars? That’s expensive as hell!”

  This li’l boy’s got a whole bunch of money pinned to the front of his jersey—it must be his birthday—and he’s got the nerve to complain about my prices?

  “One, watch your mouth,” I tell him. “Two, that’s the same price they are at the store. Three, why you not in school?”

  He pops a wheelie. “Why you not in school?”

  Fair enough. I slide off my backpack. “You know what? Since it’s your birthday, I’m gonna go against my own rules and let you have a pack for free.”

  The second I hand them over, he rips them open and pours a bunch into his mouth.

  I tilt my head. “Well?”

  “Thank you,” he says with a mouthful.

  “We gotta work on your manners. For real.”

  Jojo follows me to the courtyard. It’s mostly dirt now thanks to the cars that people have parked there, like the one Aunt Pooh and her homeboy, Scrap, sit on. Scrap’s hair is half braided, half Afro, like he got up in the middle of getting it braided to go do something else. Knowing Scrap, he did. His socks poke out of his flip-flops, and he shoves huge spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth from a mixing bowl. He and Aunt Pooh talk to the other GDs standing around them.

  Aunt Pooh sees me and hops off the car. “Why the hell you ain’t in school?”

  Scrap and the GDs nod at me, like I’m one of the guys. I get that a lot. “I got suspended,” I tell Aunt Pooh.

  “Again? For what?”

  I hop up on the car beside Scrap. “Some BS.”

  I tell them everything, from how security loves to target black and brown kids to how they pinned me to the ground. The GDs shake their heads. Aunt Pooh looks like she wants blood. Jojo claims he would’ve “whooped them guards’ ass,” which makes everybody but me laugh.

  “You wouldn’t have done nothing, boy,” I say.

  “On my momma.” Aunt Pooh claps her hands with each word. “On my momma they messed with the wrong one. Point them out and I’ll handle them fools.”

  Aunt Pooh doesn’t go from zero to one hundred—she goes from chill to ready to kill. But I don’t want to have her in prison over Long and Tate. “They’re not worth it, Aunty.”

  “How much time you get, Bri?” Scrap asks.

  Damn. He makes it sound like I’m going to prison. “Three days.”

  “That ain’t bad,” he says. “They take your candy?”

  “Nah, why?”

  “Let me get some Starbursts then.”

  “That’ll be a dollar,” I tell him.

  “I ain’t got cash. I can pay you tomorrow though.”

  This fool did not. “Then you can get the Starbursts tomorrow.”

  “Goddamn, it’s just a dollar,” Scrap says.

  “Goddamn, it’s just twenty-four hours,” I say in my best Scrap voice. Aunt Pooh and the others crack up. “I don’t do credit. That’s against the Ten Snack Commandments, bruh.”

  “The what?” he says.

  “Yo! That shit!” Aunt Pooh backhands my arm. “Y’all, she redid Big’s ‘Ten Crack Commandments.’ It’s dope as hell, too. Bri, spit that shit.”

  This is how it goes. I let Aunt Pooh hear some rhymes I wrote, she gets so hype over them that she tells me to rap them for her friends. Trust, if you’re whack, a gangbanger will be the first to let you know.

  “All right.” I throw my hoodie on. Aunt Pooh pounds out a rhythm on the hood of the car. More people in the courtyard drift over.

  I nod along. Just like that I’m in my zone.

  I been at this game for months, and the money’s been gradual,

  So I made some rules, using Big’s manual

  A couple of steps unique, for me to keep

  My game on track while I sell these snacks.

  Rule numero uno, never let no one know,

  how much cash I stack, ’cause it’s fact

  that cheddar breeds jealousy ’specially

  when it comes to Basics. They’ll be quick to take it.

  Number two, never tell folks my next move.

  Don’t you know competition got a mission and ambition

  to make exactly what I’m getting?

  They’ll be at my spots where it’s hot with plans to open up shop.

  Number three, I only trust Sonny and Leek.

  Li’l kids will set my ass up, properly gassed up,

  hoodied and masked up. Huh, for a couple bucks

  Stick me up on playgrounds when no one’s around.

  Number four is actually important the more:

  No eating the stash while I’m making the cash.

  Number five, never sell no junk where I bunk.

  I don’t care if they want some chips, tell them dip.

  Number six—
them things called refunds? See none.

  Make the sale, take the bills, let them bail, and be done.

  Seven, this rule gets people up in arms,

  but no credit or discounts, not even for my mom.

  Family and biz don’t gel, like bubble guts and Taco Bell

  Find myself saying, “What the hell?”

  Number eight, never keep no profits in my pockets

  and wallets. Deposit. Or buy a safe and lock it.

  Number nine is just as bad as number one to me:

  No matter where I’m at, keep an eye for police.

  If they thinkin’ I’m suspicious, they ain’t trying to listen.

  They’ll unload them mags, make me a hashtag.

  Number ten, two words—perfect timin’.

  I want some lines then? Do early grinding,

  missing out on clientele, that’s a hell no.

  If they don’t see me out, they going straight to the store.

  Using these steps, I’ll have cash out the anus,

  to get what I need, and help out with bill payments,

  and sell more cookies, than that famous named Amos.

  On my mom and on my dad, and word to Big, one of the greatest.

  “What?” I finish.

  A collective “Ohhhhh!” goes up. Jojo’s mouth is wide open. One or two GDs bow to me.

  There’s absolutely nothing like this. Yeah, they’re gangbangers, and they’ve done all kinds of foul shit that I don’t even wanna know about. But I’m enough to them, so frankly, they’re enough to me.

  “A’ight, a’ight,” Aunt Pooh calls over to them. “I need to talk to the superstar in private. Y’all gotta go.”

  Everybody but Scrap and Jojo leave.

  Aunt Pooh lightly pushes Jojo’s head. “Go on, li’l badass.”

  “Dang, Pooh! When you gon’ let me claim?”

  He means claim colors, as in become a Garden Disciple. This little boy’s always trying to join, like it’s the Maple Grove basketball team. He’s been throwing up GD signs for as long as I’ve known him.

  “Forever never,” Aunt Pooh says. “Now go.”

  Jojo makes this sound like a tire pump spitting air. “Man,” he groans, but he pedals away.

  Aunt Pooh turns to Scrap, who still hasn’t left. She tilts her head like, Well?

  “What?” he says. “This my car. I stay if I wanna.”

  “Man, whatever,” Aunt Pooh says. “You good, Bri?”

  I shrug. It’s weird. Ever since Long called me a “hoodlum,” it’s like the word’s branded on my forehead, and I can’t get it off me. Hate that this is bothering me so much.

  “You sure you don’t want me to handle them guards?” Aunt Pooh asks.

  She’s so serious it’s almost scary. “Positive.”

  “A’ight. I got you, just give the word.” She unwraps a Blow Pop and sticks it in her mouth. “What Jay gon’ do about this?”

  “She’s not letting me leave that school, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “What, you wanna go to Garden High?”

  I pull my knees closer. “At least I wouldn’t be invisible there.”

  “You ain’t invisible,” Aunt Pooh says.

  I snort. “Trust, I basically walk around with an invisibility cloak on.”

  “A what?” Scrap asks.

  I stare at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “It’s some nerd shit, Scrap,” Aunt Pooh says.

  “Um, excuse you, but Harry Potter is a cultural phenomenon.”

  Scrap goes, “Ohhhh. That’s the one with the li’l dude with the ring, right? ‘My precioussss,’” he says in his best Gollum voice.

  I give up.

  “Like I said, nerd shit,” says Aunt Pooh. “Anyway, stop worrying about whether them fools notice you at Midtown, Bri. Listen.” She props her foot on the car bumper. “High school ain’t the end or the beginning. It ain’t even in the middle. You ’bout to do big things, whether they see it or not. I see it. Everybody last night saw it. Long as you see it, that’s all that matters.”

  Sometimes she’s my personal Yoda. If Yoda was a woman and had a gold grill. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know who Yoda is. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  “I’m what?” She puts her hand to her ear. “I ain’t hear that good. I’m what?”

  I laugh. “You’re right, dang!”

  She tugs my hoodie so it covers my eyes. “Thought so. How you get over here anyway? Your momma drop you off on her way back to work? Should’ve told me I was gon’ be babysitting your hardheaded ass.”

  Oh.

  I forgot the reason I came over here in the first place. I stare at my Not-Timbs. “Jay got laid off.”

  “Oh, shit,” Aunt Pooh says. “For real?”

  “Yep. The church let her go so they could pay for repairs to the daycare.”

  “Shit, man.” Aunt Pooh wipes her face. “You a’ight?”

  Jacksons can’t cry, but we can tell the truth. “No.”

  Aunt Pooh pulls me into her arms. As much of a hard-ass as my aunt is, her hugs are the best. They somehow say “I love you” and “I’ll do whatever for you” all at once.

  “It’ll be a’ight,” Aunt Pooh murmurs. “I’m gon’ help y’all out, okay?”

  “You know Jay won’t let you.” Jay never takes money from Aunt Pooh, since she knows where she gets it from. I understand. If drugs almost destroyed me, I wouldn’t take money that’s made from them either.

  “Her stubborn ass,” Aunt Pooh mumbles. “I know this shit is probably scary as hell right now, but one day you gon’ look back, and this gon’ feel like a lifetime ago. This a temporary setback for a major comeback. We ain’t letting it stop the come up.”

  That’s what we call our goal, the come up. It’s when we finally make it with this rap stuff. I’m talking get-out-the-Garden-and-have-enough-money-to-never-worry-again make it.

  “I gotta do something, Aunty,” I say. “I know Jay’s looking for a job, and Trey’s working, but I don’t wanna be deadweight.”

  “What you talking ’bout? You ain’t deadweight.”

  Yeah, I am. My mom and my brother bust their butts so I can eat and have somewhere to lay my head, and what do I do? Absolutely nothing. Jay doesn’t want me to get a job—she wants me fully focused on school. I picked up candy dealing. I figured if I handled some stuff for myself, that would help.

  I need to do more, and the only thing I know to do is rap.

  Now, let me be real: I know not every rapper out there is rich. A whole lot of them fake for the cameras, but even the fakers have more money than me. Then you got folks like Dee-Nice who don’t have to fake thanks to that million-dollar deal. He played his cards right and got his come up.

  “We gotta make this rap stuff happen,” I tell Aunt Pooh. “Like now.”

  “I got you, okay? I was gon’ call you anyway. I’ve had all kinds of folks hitting me up because of the battle. I made some stuff happen for you a li’l while ago.”

  “For real?”

  “Uh-huh. For one, we getting you back in the Ring. That’ll help make a name for you.”

  A name? “Yeah, but it won’t make me any money.”

  “Just trust me, a’ight?” she says. “Besides, that ain’t the only thing I arranged.”

  “What else then?”

  She rubs her chin. “I don’t know if you can handle this one yet.”

  Oh my God. This is not the time to drag me along. “Just tell me, dang!”

  Aunt Pooh laughs. “A’ight, a’ight. Last night, a producer came up to me after the battle and gave me his card. I called him earlier, and we arranged for him to make a beat and for you to go into his studio tomorrow.”

  I blink. “I . . . I’m going in a studio?”

  Aunt Pooh grins. “Yep.”

  “And I’m making a song?”

  “You damn right.”

  “Yooooooo!” I put my fist at my mouth. “For real? For real?”

  “Hell y
eah! Told you I was gon’ make something happen!”

  Damn. I’ve dreamed of going into a studio since I was like ten. I would stand in front of my bathroom mirror with my headphones on my ears and a brush in my hand like it was a mic, as I rapped along with Nicki Minaj. Now I’m gonna make my own song.

  “Shit.” There’s a slight problem. “Which song will I do though?”

  I’ve got tons in my notebook. Plus, a hell of a lot more ideas that I haven’t written down. But this is my first real song. It’s gotta be the right one.

  “Look, whatever you do is gon’ be a banger,” Aunt Pooh says. “Don’t sweat it.”

  Scrap shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “You need to do something like that song ol’ boy you battled got.”

  “That ‘Swagerific’ trash?” Aunt Pooh asks. “Man, get outta here! That shit ain’t got no substance.”

  “It ain’t gotta have substance,” Scrap says. “Milez lost last night, yet that song so catchy, he got even more folks talking ’bout it. Shit was trending this morning.”

  “Hold up,” I say. “You mean to tell me that I won the battle, am clearly the better rapper, and yet he’s getting all the buzz?”

  “So basically,” Scrap says, “you won the popular vote ’cause everybody loved you in the Ring, but you still lost the election since he the one getting fame?”

  I shake my head. “Too soon.”

  “Touché,” he says, because he’s Scrap, and sometimes he says touché.

  “Look, don’t worry ’bout that, Bri,” Aunt Pooh says. “If that fool can blow up ’cause of some garbage, I know you can—”

  “Pooh!” This skinny older man zigzags across the courtyard. “Lemme holla at you!”

  “Goddamn, Tony!” Aunt Pooh groans. “I’m in the middle of an important conversation.”

  It’s not that important. She goes over to him.

  I bite my lip. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t mean the actual selling drugs part. She hands them the product, they hand her the money. Simple. I mean I don’t know how she can do it, knowing that at one time somebody else was the dealer and my mom, her sister, was the junkie.

  But if I make this rap stuff happen, hopefully she’ll give all that up.

  “Real talk, Bri,” Scrap says. “Although Milez getting all the attention, you oughta be proud. You got skills. I mean, he blowing up, and I don’t know what the hell gon’ happen for you, but yeah, you got skills.”