by Angie Thomas
I tuck in my lips. “That’s not what I mean, Sonny. I’m just saying . . . that conversation made me look at him a little different, that’s all.”
“Like I said, are your standards that low that you’re suddenly falling for him?”
“I have not fallen, thank you very much.”
“You see that troll as more than a troll. That’s bad enough,” Sonny says. “Whew, chile. The ghetto.”
I roll my eyes. Sonny only watches Real Housewives of Atlanta to get NeNe quotes, just like he watches Empire for Cookie quotes, and he lives for moments to use them.
“Anyway, you never told me how the studio went,” he says. “Did you record a song?”
“Yep.”
Sonny raises his eyebrows. “Can I hear it or nah?”
“Umm . . .”
It takes everything in me not to tell him, “No!” I became a whole new person when I stepped up to that mic—it happens whenever I rap. But when Sonny hears “On the Come Up,” he won’t hear Bri the rapper. He’ll hear Bri his best friend.
I should be used to this, as much as I let him and Malik hear rhymes that I wrote, but I’m always afraid to show people who know me that other side of me. What if they don’t like it?
“Please, Bri?” Sonny says, his hands together. “Pleeeeease?”
You know what? Fine. Otherwise he’ll bug me all day. “Okay.”
For some reason my hands shake, but I manage to pull up “On the Come Up” on my phone. I hit Play, and I wish I could jump off this bus.
I don’t know how rappers do this. When I got on that mic, it was just me and the mic. I didn’t care about what Sonny would think or anybody, really. I just said what Bri the rapper wanted to say.
Fuck. Why’d I do that?
But the good news? Sonny nods to the beat with a wide grin. “Briiii!” He shakes my shoulder. “This is dooope!”
“As hell,” Deon adds behind us. He nods along. “That’s you, Bri?”
My heart’s about to jump out of my chest. “Yeah.”
He lets out a slow whistle. “That’s fire right there.”
“Turn this shit up!” Sonny says. This boy takes my phone and raises the volume, loud enough for errybody, yes, errybody, on the bus to hear.
Conversations stop, heads turn back, and people nod along.
“Yo, whose song is that?” Zane asks.
“Bri’s!” says Deon.
“Damn, what’s that called?” Aja the freshman asks.
I’m sweating. Seriously. “‘On the Come Up.’”
“‘You can’t stop me on the come up.’” Sonny dances as best as he can on the seat. “‘You can’t stop me, nope, nope.’”
There’s something about hearing it from him that makes it sound different, like a real song and not just some shit I did.
Pin me to the ground, boy, you fucked up.
Wrote me off, called your squad, but you lucked up.
If I did what I wanted and bucked up,
You’d be bound for the ground, grave dug up.
“Oh, shiiiit,” Curtis says, fist to his mouth. “Princess, you went at Long and Tate?”
“Hell yeah. Had to let ’em know.”
You’d think everybody just found out they’re getting a thousand dollars, the way they react. Deon lays out on his seat, acting like I just killed him.
“You. Did. That!” Sonny says. “Oh my God, you did that!”
I’m cheesing super hard. They have me play the song twice, and I’m pretty sure I’m floating.
Until the bus pulls up in front of Midtown.
Everybody else gets off without hesitation. Christmas break starts tomorrow, so I guess they’re ready to get the day over with. I stay in my seat and stare out at the building. I wish the last time I was here was the last time I was here, but Jay told me this morning to “walk in there with your head held high.”
She didn’t say how to do that though.
“You good?” Sonny asks.
I shrug.
“Don’t worry about those two,” he says. “Like I told you, they haven’t been here all week.”
Long and Tate. Sonny and Malik texted me Monday and let me know they were MIA. I’m not really worried about them anyway. There’s no way they’re coming back. It’s the whispers, the glances, and the rumors that bother me.
“I’ve got your back,” Sonny says. He holds his arm out to me. “Shall we, my lady?”
I smile. “We shall.”
I hook my arm in Sonny’s, and we get off the bus together.
Half the school’s out front, as usual. The glances and whispers start the moment we step off the bus. One person will nudge another and look at me, and soon they’re both looking at me until everybody is looking at me.
This isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted to be visible.
“So,” Sonny begins. “There’s this guy I’ve been talking to—”
I whip my head toward him so fast. “Full name, date of birth, and social security number.”
“Goddamn, Bri. Can I finish?”
“Nope.” If his plan was to distract me from being the talk of the school, he succeeded. “Where’d you meet?” I ask.
“We haven’t met. Only talked online.”
“What’s his name?”
“I only know his screen name.”
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen like me.”
“What does he look like?”
“I haven’t seen pictures of him.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re sure there’s a guy?”
“Positive. We’ve been talking for weeks—”
I seriously grab my chest. “Jackson Emmanuel Taylor, there is a guy you’ve been talking to for weeks, and I’m just hearing about it?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re so damn dramatic. And nosy. And can’t keep shit to yourself. So yeah, you’re just hearing about it.”
I punch his arm.
He grins. “I love you too. The problem is, I only know this guy’s screen name, Rapid_One, and—what are you doing?”
I scroll through my phone. “Cyberstalking. Go on.”
“Creep. Anyway, he messaged me a few weeks ago. He does photography and sent me a picture of my rainbow fist in Oak Park.”
Sonny does graffiti around the Garden and posts it on Instagram under the alias “Sonn_Shine.” Malik and I are the only people who know it’s him. “Ooh! He lives here. What’s his address?”
“I’m sure you’ll find it, Olivia Nope.”
Sonny and I were obsessed with Scandal. Kerry Washington is goals. “You know, I’m actually flattered by that.”
“Of course you are. Anyway, he said he connected with it and came out to me. We’ve been DM’ing every day since.”
He gets this shy, un-Sonny-like smile as we climb the steps.
“Oh my God, you like him!” I say.
“Obviously. I think he likes me too, but we technically don’t know each other, Bri. We haven’t even exchanged pics. Who does that?”
“Two people born in the social media generation who, despite being labeled as shallow and vain, are actually super self-conscious and would rather hide behind avatars than reveal themselves.”
Sonny just stares at me.
I shrug. “Saw it on Instagram.”
Sonny tilts his head. “I’m not sure if you just came at me or not. Anyway, I recently read this book about these two guys who fall for each other over email. Reading that made me go, ‘Damn. Maybe this could work out for us too.’”
“But?” I ask. There is obviously a but.
“I can’t get distracted. I’ve got too much at stake.”
“If you mean all that college prep stuff—”
“Life prep stuff, Bri. My ACT and SAT scores will get me into a good art school, help me get scholarships. Get me out of the Garden. I know, nothing is guaranteed, but damn, for at least four years, maybe I can live somewhere other than that neighborhood with all its bullshit. Somewhere I
don’t have to worry about colors, stray bullets. Homophobes.”
I get that . . . and I don’t. I’ve caught glimpses of things Sonny and Aunt Pooh both deal with in the neighborhood, but I won’t ever know-know because I don’t live it.
“Plus, I gotta set the example for my little sisters,” Sonny says. “They have to see me make it or they won’t think they can make it.”
“People go to college and have relationships, Sonny.”
“Yeah, but I can’t risk it, Bri. Luckily, Rapid understands. We’re taking our time or whatever. I guess I haven’t told you and Malik about him because it’s been nice to not have to explain shit and just . . . exist, you know?”
Meaning he doesn’t feel like he can “just exist” with me and Malik. I think I get it though. It’s kinda like the rap side of me. I don’t wanna have to explain shit. I just wanna be.
I kiss his cheek. “Well, I’m glad you have him.”
Sonny cuts me a side-eye. “You’re not getting mushy on me, are you?”
“Never.”
“You sure? Because that felt extra mushy.”
“It was not mushy.”
“Actually, I think it was,” he says.
“Is this mushy?” I give him a middle finger.
“Ah. There’s my Bri.”
Troll.
We get in line for security. There’s a woman and a man I’ve never seen before, directing people through the metal detectors, one at a time.
I suddenly feel sick.
I didn’t have anything on me that day. I don’t have anything on me today. Not even candy. I’m done selling that shit, since it makes people think I’m a drug dealer.
Yet I’m shaking as if I really am a drug dealer. It’s like how when I go in a store in Midtown-the-neighborhood, and the clerks watch me extra close or follow me around. I know I’m not stealing, but I get scared that they think I’m stealing.
I don’t want these new guards to assume, too. Especially when I can see the very spot where Long and Tate pinned me down. There’s no blood there or anything, but it’s one of those things I’ll never forget. I could lay my face on the exact same spot without a second thought.
It’s harder to breathe.
Sonny touches my back. “You’re good.”
The woman motions me through the metal detector. It doesn’t beep, and I’m free to go on my way. Same with Sonny.
“Poetry’s your first class, right?” he asks, like I didn’t almost have a panic attack just now.
I swallow hard. “Yep. You got history?”
“Nah. Precalculus. Like I need to know that shit to—”
“Free Long and Tate!”
We both turn around. This red-haired white guy pumps his fist while looking at us. His friends crack up.
There’s always that one white boy who says stupid shit in the name of making his friends laugh. You can usually find them trolling on Twitter. We just spotted one in the wild.
“How ’bout you free these nuts for you and your klancestors?” Sonny asks, holding his crotch.
I grab his arm. “Ignore them.”
I drag him down the hall, toward our lockers. Malik stuffs his books into his already-full locker. He miraculously makes it work every time. He and Sonny slap palms and end with the Wakanda salute.
“Y’all good?” Malik asks, but he looks at me when he says it.
“We’re good,” I say.
“More than good,” says Sonny. “Bri let everybody on the bus hear her song. Shit. Is. Dope.”
“It’s all right,” I say.
“All right? Understatement,” says Sonny. “It’s way better than that ‘Swagerific’ garbage Milez has.”
I smirk. “That’s not saying much.”
Malik looks at me with bright eyes. “I’m not surprised.”
His smile . . . good Lord, it scrambles my brain all the way up.
But this is Malik.
This is Malik.
Goddammit, this is Malik. “Thanks.”
“When can I hear it?” he asks.
Around all these people who are already looking at me? Definitely not now. “Later.”
He tilts his head, eyebrows cocked. “How later?”
I tilt my head too. “Later-when-I-feel-like-it later.”
“Not specific enough. How about later at lunch?”
“Lunch?” I say.
“Yeah. Wanna hit up Sal’s?”
I think I have a couple of dollars to go in on a pizza. “Sure. Meet y’all here at twelve?”
“Not me,” Sonny says. “I’ve got SAT prep.”
“Yeah,” says Malik, like he already knew. “I thought we could hang out, Bri.”
Wait. Is this . . .
Is he asking me out?
Like out-on-a-date out?
“Um, yeah.” Don’t know how I managed to form a word. “Sure.”
“Cool, cool.” Malik smiles without showing his teeth. “Meet here at twelve?”
“Yep. At twelve.”
“All right, bet.”
The bell rings. Sonny gives us dap and goes off to the visual arts wing. Malik and I hug and go our separate ways. Halfway down the hall, he turns around.
“Oh, and for the record, Breezy?” he calls as he walks backward. “I’ve got no doubt that song is dope.”
Eleven
My head’s everywhere except where it needs to be.
Malik asked me out.
I think.
Okay, confession: According to Granddaddy, I “jump to conclusions faster than lice jump between white kids’ heads.” That’s something only my granddaddy would say, but he may have a point. The first time he said that I was nine, and he’d just told me and Trey that he had diabetes. I burst into tears and cried, “They’re gonna cut your legs off and you’re gonna die!”
I was a dramatic child. Plus, I’d just watched Soul Food for the first time. RIP Big Mama.
Anyway, I could be jumping to conclusions, but it felt like Malik was asking me out without asking me out, you know? That casual “Hey, we’re friends, it’s normal for friends to have lunch together, but I’m glad it’ll just be the two of us” kinda thing.
I think that’s a thing. Or I’m reaching. I’m gonna say it’s a thing. That way I can ignore the way people look at me in the hall.
There’s pity. There’s surprise, like I’m supposed to be in prison or something. Some look like they wanna speak to me, but they don’t know what to say so they stare instead. One or two whisper. Some idiot coughs to cover the “drug dealer” he says as I pass.
I don’t walk with my head high like my mom said. I actually wish I was invisible again.
When I walk into poetry, my classmates suddenly go silent. Five bucks says they were talking about me.
Mrs. Murray looks at me from over the top of a book at her desk. She closes it and sets it down with a smile that has so much sympathy it’s almost a frown. “Hey, Bri. Glad to see you back.”
“Thanks.”
Even she looks unsure of what to say next, and now I know this is a mess—Mrs. Murray always knows what to say.
Every eye in the room follows me to my desk.
I’m over this already.
At noon, I head straight for my locker.
I use my phone to check my hair. Monday I sat between Jay’s legs for hours as she braided my hair into fishbone cornrows that end in French braids. Are they cute? Yeah. Is it a process? Unfortunately. They’re so tight I can feel my thoughts.
Malik’s tall enough that I spot him towering over several people as he makes his way down the hall. He’s laughing and talking to someone. Sonny, maybe?
But Sonny’s not a short, dark-skinned girl with a bun.
“Sorry I’m late,” Malik says. “Had to get Shana.”
Shana from the bus slips her coat on. Malik helps her with it part of the way. “Oh my God, I’m so looking forward to this. I haven’t been to Sal’s in for-ev-er.”
I think I know what a ball
oon feels like when it’s deflated. “Um . . . I didn’t know Shana was coming.”
“Wow. Really, Malik?” Shana punches his arm. “Forgetful butt.”
She punched him. I usually punch him.
He grabs his arm, laughing. “Dang, woman. It slipped my mind, okay? You ready, Bri?”
What the hell is going on? “Yeah. Sure.”
I walk ahead of them. I knew those two were cool with each other—the dancers have rehearsals after school, and Malik’s been staying late to work on his documentary, so he and Shana end up taking the city bus back to the Garden together sometimes—but I didn’t know they were this cool with each other.
They laugh and talk behind me as we head down the sidewalk. I grip my backpack straps. Sal’s is only a couple of blocks away. Usually when we go somewhere in Midtown-the-neighborhood we gotta abide by the rules. They’re unspoken but understood:
1. If you go in a store, keep your hands out of your pockets and out of your backpack. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re stealing.
2. Always use “ma’am” and “sir” and always keep your cool. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re aggressive.
3. Don’t go in a store, a coffee shop, or anything unless you plan on buying something. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re gonna hold them up.
4. If they follow you around the store, keep your cool. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re up to something.
5. Basically, don’t give them a reason. Period.
Thing is, sometimes I follow the rules and still deal with crap. Sonny, Malik, and I went into a comic shop a few months back, and the clerk followed us around until we left the store. Malik recorded the whole thing on his camera.
Sal’s is one of the only places where the rules don’t apply. The walls are dingy and tan, and all the booths have tears in the leather. The healthiest things on the menu are the peppers and onions you can add to a pie.
Big Sal takes orders at the counter and yells them to the folks in the back. If they take too long to get an order done, she’ll say, “Do I need to come back there and make it myself?” She’s as tiny as they come, yet everybody in Midtown and the Garden knows you don’t mess with her. This is one of the few places that never gets hit up.
“Hey, Bri and Malik,” she says when it’s our turn. When Trey started working here back in high school, Sal became the Italian aunt we never had. “Who’s this lovely young lady with you?”
