On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

  “Shana,” says Malik. “She hasn’t been here in a minute, so please forgive her.”

  Shana lightly elbows him. “Why you gotta snitch?”

  Um, she is super comfortable with him.

  “Ah, it’s okay. No hard feelings,” Sal says. “Once you have a slice though, you’ll be back soon. What will it be?”

  “Medium pepperoni with extra cheese?” I ask Malik. That’s our usual.

  “Ooh, can we add Canadian bacon?” Shana says.

  “Sounds good to me,” says Malik.

  One: Who adds Canadian bacon to a pizza?

  Two: That shit isn’t even bacon. No offense, Canada. It’s skinny ham.

  Sal puts our order in, takes Malik’s money (he insists on paying), gives us cups, and tells us to find a booth. She also says that Trey’s not here. He’s gone to lunch. Apparently it’s possible to get tired of eating pizza.

  We fill our cups at the soda fountain, and Malik and I lead Shana to our little corner booth that we usually share with Sonny. Somehow, it’s always available. I honestly couldn’t imagine sitting anywhere else. We treat it the same way old ladies at Christ Temple treat their seats—if somebody ever beat us to our booth, we’d give them a stank-eye powerful enough to smite them on the spot.

  Malik stretches his arm across the back of the booth, technically around Shana. I’m gonna act like it’s only across the booth though. “Can I hear the song now, Bri?” he asks.

  Shana sips her soda. “What song?”

  “Bri recorded her first song the other day. She played it for everyone on the bus this morning.”

  “Ooh, I wanna hear it,” says Shana.

  Had she been on the bus this morning, I would’ve had no problem letting her hear it. Now? Now is different. “Maybe another time.”

  “Aww, come on, Bri,” says Malik. “Everybody heard it but me. You’re gonna have me feeling some kinda way.”

  I’m already feeling some kinda way. “It’s not that good.”

  “Considering how you’ve written some of the best rhymes I’ve ever heard in my life, I bet it is,” he says. “Like, ‘There’s a beast that roams my streets—’”

  “‘—and he goes by the name of crack cocaine—’” I say my own lyrics.

  “‘It’s kinda strange how he gets in the veins and turns mothers into strangers who only share the same name.’” Malik finishes. “Can’t forget my ultimate favorite, ‘Unarmed and dangerous, but America, you made us, only time we famous—’”

  “‘Is when we die and you blame us,’” I finish for him.

  “That’s deep,” says Shana.

  “Bri’s got skills,” says Malik. “So, I know this song is probably amazing. Just promise that you won’t act brand new when you blow up. I knew you when you were afraid of Big Bird.”

  Shana snorts. “Big Bird?”

  “Yes.” Malik chuckles. “She’d close her eyes every time he came on Sesame Street. One time, Sonny’s dad put on a Big Bird costume for Sonny’s birthday party. Bri ran away screaming.”

  Shana busts out laughing.

  I clench my jaw. That was not his business to tell, and especially not for a joke about me. “It’s not logical for a bird to be that big,” I bite out.

  Really, it’s not. Tweety Bird? The love of my life. Big Bird? I don’t trust that ho. Plus, have they seen his nest? He probably hides bodies in it.

  Malik’s laugh fades. There’s not a damn thing funny to me. “Chill, Bri. I’m joking.”

  “Fine,” I mumble. “Whatever.”

  I take out my phone, pull up the song, and hit Play.

  Shana shimmies a little in her seat. “O-kaay. That beat is nice.”

  My first verse starts, and Malik’s eyebrows meet. They stay together through the rest of the song. When it gets to the lines about the incident, he and Shana both look at me.

  Once the song’s over, Shana says, “You did your thing, Bri.”

  Malik bites his lip. “Yeah. Dope.”

  That look on his face says more than he’s saying. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s just . . . you talked about doing stuff you’ve never actually done, Bri.”

  “I think you’re missing the point, Maliky,” Shana says.

  Maliky?

  “She’s not saying she actually does that stuff. She’s saying this is what they expect her to do.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “I get that, but I don’t think a lot of other people will,” says Malik. “What’s with all the talk about guns?”

  Oh my God. Seriously? “Does it matter, Malik?”

  He puts his hands up. “Forget I said anything.”

  He’s this close to pissing me off. “What’s up with you?”

  He looks at me. “I should be asking you that.”

  A waitress sets our piping-hot pizza on the table. We’re pretty quiet as we dig in.

  After a little while, Shana sets her slice down and wipes her hands with her napkin. “I actually wanted to talk to you, Bri.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. About the other day.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah . . .” She trails off and looks at Malik. He kinda nods, as if he’s giving her the go-ahead. “A bunch of us have been talking about how Long and Tate seem to target certain students more than others.”

  She may as well say it. “You mean the black and brown kids.”

  “Right,” she says. “It’s ridiculous, you know? Of course you know now . . .” She closes her eyes. “God, that came out wrong. I’m the worst at this.”

  Malik puts his hand on hers. “You’re good. Promise.”

  I zero straight in on their hands, and my whole world stops.

  He . . . they . . .

  There’s something between them.

  I should’ve known better. He’s the Luke to my Leia. Nothing more.

  Shana smiles at him as he rubs his thumb along her hand, then she looks at me. I’ve somehow kept tears out of my eyes. “A bunch of us were talking, and we’ve decided that we’re gonna do something about this.”

  I’m trying to remember how to speak. My heart’s trying to remember how to beat. “Something like what?”

  “We don’t know yet,” she says. “Ever since the riots and protests last year, I’ve been inspired to do something. I can’t just sit around and let things happen anymore. We were hoping you’d feel the same way.”

  “We’ve formed an unofficial black and Latinx student coalition,” says Malik.

  This is my first time hearing about it.

  “We plan to demand changes from the administration. Fact is, they need us at that school. They only started busing kids in from other neighborhoods so they could get grants. If word gets out that the black and brown kids are being harassed—”

  “It would mean problems for Midtown,” Shana says.

  “Right,” says Malik. “And if word got out about what happened to you specifically—”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa. “Who said I wanna be the poster child for this?”

  “Hear me out, Bri,” Malik says. “A couple of people recorded what happened, but only after you were already on the ground. I recorded the entire incident. I could post it online.”

  “What?”

  “It shows that you didn’t do anything to deserve what they did,” he continues. “All these rumors that are spreading are just a way to try to justify what happened.”

  “Yeah,” Shana says. “I’ve already heard that some of the parents are okay with it because they heard you were a drug dealer. They want Long and Tate back.”

  That’s a slap to my face if there ever was one. “Are you serious?”

  That explains why that boy yelled out “Free Long and Tate.” Well, he’s an asshole too, but still, that gives some insight.

  “It’s ridiculous,” says Malik. “Who knows what could happen though once I post the video?”

  Oh, I know what could happen. It could end up all over the news and social med
ia. People all over the world will watch me get thrown onto the ground. Eventually, it’ll be forgotten, because guess what? Something similar will happen to another black person at a Waffle House or Starbucks or some shit, and everybody will move on to that.

  I’d rather forget that it happened at all. Besides, I don’t have time to worry about that stuff. My family doesn’t have heat.

  Malik leans forward. “You have a chance to do something here, Bri. This video gets out and you speak up? It could actually change things at our school.”

  “Then you speak up,” I say.

  He sits back. “Wow. Let me get this straight: You’d rather rap about guns and stuff you don’t do instead of speak up in a positive way about something that actually happened to you? That’s some sellout shit, Bri.”

  I look him up and down. “Excuse you?”

  “Let’s be real,” he says. “Only reason you rapped like that is ’cause that’s how everybody raps, right? You thought it would be an easy way to a hit song and make money.”

  “Nah, ’cause not everybody has lines about getting pinned to the goddamn ground!”

  I’m so loud, several heads turn our way.

  “It’s none of your business why I rapped what I rapped,” I say through my teeth. “But I said what I wanted to say, including about the incident. That’s all I’m gonna ever say about it. But if I did rap that way just to get a ‘hit’ and make money, then good for me, considering all the bullshit my family’s dealing with. Until you wake up in a cold house, then come at me, bruh.”

  It seems to hit him over the span of a few seconds—his eyes widen as he probably remembers that Jay lost her job, he looks horrified that he forgot that we don’t have gas, and he opens and closes his mouth like he regrets what he said. “Bri, I’m sorry—”

  “Screw you, Malik,” I say, for multiple reasons.

  I slide out of the booth, throw my hoodie over my head, and storm out of the shop.

  Twelve

  I didn’t talk to Malik for the rest of the day. We passed each other in the halls, and as far as I was concerned, he was a stranger. He got on the bus that afternoon, and I guess the fact I wouldn’t speak to him made him sit up front with Shana.

  Sonny hates it.

  “When you two fight, it’s like Captain America versus Iron Man, and my ass is Peter Parker, in awe of both of you,” he said. “I can’t pick sides, dammit.”

  “I don’t want you to. But you do know Peter was technically on Iron Man’s side, right?”

  “Not the point, Bri!”

  I hate he’s in this position, but it is what it is. I’m not talking to Malik until he apologizes. I mean, come on, sellout? I was already pissed at him for making Shana laugh at my expense. Okay, and a little pissed that he brought her in the first place. Can you blame me though? I had no clue there was something between them, and then all of a sudden I’m the third wheel on what I thought was lunch with my best friend.

  And what I stupidly assumed was a date. But I’m madder at myself about that. I always get feelings for boys who will never have feelings for me. I’m just destined to be that person.

  Anyway, I can’t worry about Malik. At the moment I’m more worried about this almost empty refrigerator I’m standing in front of.

  It’s the second day of break, and I’ve been here a minute now. Long enough that I’ve counted how many items there are. Eighteen, to be exact. Eight eggs, four apples, two sticks of butter, one jar of strawberry jelly (to go with the one jar of peanut butter in the cabinet), one gallon of milk, one gallon of orange juice, one loaf of bread. The freezer isn’t much better—a ten-pound bag of chicken, a bag of peas, and a bag of corn. That’ll be dinner tonight and tomorrow night, too. Don’t know what we’ll have for dinner after that. Christmas is a giant question mark.

  Trey reaches past me. “Stop letting the cold air out of the refrigerator, Bri.”

  Make that seven eggs. He grabs one and the bread.

  “You sound like Grandma.” I could have the refrigerator open ten seconds and here she comes talking about, “Close that door before you spoil the food!”

  “Hey, she had a point,” Trey says. “You run up the light bill like that, too.”

  “Whatever.” I close the refrigerator. The door is covered in new bills. The gas bill got paid, which is why the house is warm and the fridge is almost empty. When it came down to more food or heat, the cold weather made Jay choose heat—we’re supposed to get snow flurries next week. She said we can “stretch” the food we have.

  I can’t wait for the day we don’t have to stretch or choose. “What am I supposed to do for breakfast?”

  Trey cracks the egg into a sizzling skillet. “Scramble an egg like I’m doing.”

  “I hate eggs though.” He knows this. They’re too . . . eggy.

  “Make a PB and J then,” Trey says.

  “For breakfast?”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  Jay comes in, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “What y’all going on about?”

  “There’s hardly anything to eat,” I say.

  “I know. I’m heading over to the community center. Gina said there’s a food giveaway. We can get some stuff to hold us over until the first.”

  Trey slides his egg onto a slice of bread. “Ma, maybe you should go downtown soon.”

  Downtown is code for “the welfare office.” That’s what folks around the Garden call it. Saying “downtown” keeps people out of your business. But everybody knows what it really means. I’m not sure what the point is.

  “I will absolutely not go down there,” Jay says. “I refuse to let those folks in that office demean me because I have the audacity to ask for help.”

  “But if it’ll help—”

  “No, Brianna. Trust me, baby, Uncle Sam ain’t giving anything for free. He’s gonna strip you of your dignity to give you pennies. Besides, I couldn’t get anything anyway. They don’t allow college students to get food stamps if they don’t have a job, and I’m not dropping out.”

  What the hell? I swear, this shit is like quicksand—the harder we try to get out, the harder it is to get out.

  “I’m just saying it would help, Ma,” says Trey. “We need all the help we can get.”

  “I’m gonna make sure we have food,” she says. “Stop worrying about that, okay?”

  Trey sighs out of his nose. “Okay.”

  “Thank you.” Jay kisses his cheek, then wipes away the lipstick mark. “Bri, I want you to come with me to the giveaway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  Dear black parents everywhere,

  That’s not a good enough answer.

  Signed, Brianna Jackson on behalf of the black kids of the world.

  P.S. We aren’t brave enough to say that to your face, so we head to our rooms to get dressed while mumbling everything we want to say.

  “What was that?” Jay calls.

  “Nothing!”

  Goddamn. She even picks up on mumbling.

  The community center is a couple of streets over on Ash. It’s not eight o’clock yet, but there’s a parking lot full of cars, an eighteen-wheeler full of boxes, and a line stretched out the door.

  There’s also a news van.

  Aw, hell. “I’m not trying to be on the news!” I say as Jay parks.

  “Girl, you not gonna be on the news.”

  “The camera may pan to me or something.”

  “And?”

  She doesn’t get it. “What if people at school see me?”

  “Why you so worried about what they think?”

  I chew on my lip. Anybody notices me, I’ll suddenly be the piss-poor girl in the Not-Timbs who not only got pinned to the ground but also has to get food from a giveaway.

  “Look, you can’t be worried about what folks think, baby,” Jay says. “There will always be someone with something to say, but it doesn’t mean you gotta listen.”

  I stare at the news v
an. She acts like it’s easy not to listen. “Can’t we—”

  “No. We’re gonna go in here, get this food, and be thankful for it. Otherwise, it won’t be that there’s hardly food to eat. There won’t be any food to eat. Okay?”

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  “Good. C’mon.”

  The line moves pretty quickly, but it also doesn’t seem like it’s gonna shorten anytime soon. We get in line, and not a minute later four more people are behind us. There are all kinds of folks in line, too, like moms with their kids and elderly people on walkers. Some of them are wrapped up in coats, others have on clothes and shoes that look like they belong in the trash. Christmas music plays loudly in the building, and volunteers in Santa hats unload the truck.

  A man in the parking lot pans a news camera along the line. I guess somebody somewhere loves to see poor folks in the hood begging for food.

  I look at my shoes. Jay nudges my chin and mouths, Head. Up.

  For what? This isn’t shit to be proud of.

  “That’s your baby?” the woman behind us asks. She’s in a zipped-up coat, house shoes, and hair rollers, like she got straight out of bed to come here.

  Jay runs her fingers through my hair. “Yep. My baby girl. Only girl.”

  “That’s sweet of her to come help you. I couldn’t get mine away from the TV.”

  “Oh, trust. I had to make her come.”

  “These kids don’t know a blessing when they see it. But they wanna eat everything we bring back.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Jay says. “How many you got?”

  I swear, we can’t go anywhere without her striking up a conversation with a complete stranger. Jay’s a people person. I’m more of a “yes, people exist, but that doesn’t mean I need to talk to them” person.

  By the time we get into the building, I’ve heard this lady’s life story. She also tells Jay about the churches and organizations that distribute food. Jay takes note of every single one. Guess this is our life now.

  There are tables around the gymnasium covered in clothes, toys, books, and packaged foods. One of the volunteers takes some information from Jay, gives her a box, tells us to make our way around. Other volunteers pass stuff out. Over near the basketball hoops, a black Santa gives kids candy from his bag. A boy with zigzags cut into his hair helps him and poses for selfies. The front of his sweatshirt says “Mr. Swagerific.”