On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

  “No. School is your job,” she says. “I got my first job when I was thirteen, after my momma died, so I could help my daddy out. I didn’t get to be a teenager because I was so focused on bills. Thought I was grown. That’s partially why I ended up with Trey at sixteen.”

  Yeah, my mom and dad were those stereotypical teen parents. They were grown when I came along, but Trey made them grow up way before that. Granddaddy says my dad had two jobs at sixteen and still pursued rapping. He was determined that . . .

  Well, that we wouldn’t end up like this.

  “I don’t want you to grow up too fast, baby,” Jay says. “I did, and it’s not something I can ever get back. I want you to enjoy your childhood as much as possible.”

  “I’d rather grow up than be homeless.”

  “Hate that you even have to think like that,” she murmurs. She clears her throat. “But this is on me. Not you and not Trey. I’m gonna figure something out.”

  I stare down at my dad’s old chain, hanging from my neck. I probably shouldn’t wear it around the Garden—that’s like asking to get robbed—but school should be fine. Besides, everybody will be showing off the new clothes and shoes they got for Christmas. I wanna show off something, too. But if we need rent . . . “Maybe we could pawn—”

  “We’re not getting rid of that chain.” Damn. She read my mind.

  “But—”

  “Some things are worth more than money, baby. Your daddy would want you to have it.”

  He probably would. But he wouldn’t want us to be homeless, either.

  We pull up at Midtown-the-school. It’s too cold for a lot of people to hang around outside. Sonny’s out here though. He waves at me from the steps. He sent me a text earlier and said he needs to talk to me.

  “Later,” I tell Jay, and start to hop out.

  “Hey,” she says. “Can I get a kiss or something?”

  We don’t usually do all of that, but I guess this is one of those days she needs it more than I do. I kiss her cheek.

  “I love you,” she says.

  “I love you, too.”

  She gives a quick peck to my temple. I’m halfway up the steps when she rolls down the window and goes, “Have a good day, Bookie!”

  I freeze.

  Oh, God. She didn’t.

  I don’t know what the hell it means, but “Bookie” has been Jay’s exclusive nickname for me for as long as I can remember. It’s a miracle I didn’t think my actual name was “Bookie” when I was little, considering how much she used it.

  The few people who are out here definitely heard her. I throw my hood over my head and hurry up the stairs.

  Sonny smirks. “You do know you’ll always be Bookie, right?”

  “Zip it, Sonny Bunny.” That’s his mom’s nickname for him.

  “Screw you.” He picks at my pendant. “Damn. That was Uncle Law’s, huh?”

  “Yep. My mom gave it to me. What’s up? You said we needed to talk.”

  We climb the steps. “I should be asking what’s up with you. You didn’t text Malik back all break.”

  I didn’t. I actually haven’t talked to him since he called me a sellout and made me the butt of his jokes to Shana. “What, he’s got you playing middleman now?” I ask Sonny.

  “Unfortunately, I’m the middleman by default. You’re still pissed about what he said at Sal’s, huh?”

  I should be madder at myself, but yeah, I am still pissed. And hurt. But admit that? Hell nah. I may as well admit that I stupidly had feelings for him and thought we had a chance.

  We definitely don’t have one now. According to the text Sonny sent me on New Year’s Day, Shana and Malik are officially a couple.

  Whatever.

  “I’m fine.” I tell Sonny what I’ve been telling myself. “You really waited out here in the freezing cold to talk to me about Malik?”

  “Ha! Hell no. I don’t care about y’all that much.”

  I side-eye him. He cheeses. Such. A. Troll.

  “But for real, this is what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.

  Sonny shows me his phone. It’s a text message from Rapid, sent this morning, and it consists of one simple-but-not-so-simple question:

  Wanna meet up?

  My mouth drops. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Sonny says.

  “Holy shit.” There’s one problem though. “Why haven’t you responded?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Part of me is like, hell yeah. The other part feels like this shit is too good to be true. What if he’s really a fifty-year-old man who lives in his mom’s basement and has a malicious plot to murder me and leave my body parts spread out across his backyard, unknown to anyone, until twenty years from now when a stray dog sniffs me out?”

  I stare at him. “The specifics in your examples are disturbing sometimes.”

  “It could happen. Then what do I do?”

  “Um, I’d hope you’d run like hell before he could murder you.”

  Sonny’s lips thin. “After that.”

  “Call the cops.”

  “Bri!” he says as I laugh. “Serious. He could be a fraud.”

  “Yeah, he could,” I gotta admit. I mean, the internet is full of lying creeps. And I don’t know if it would be exactly like Sonny’s example, but it could be dangerous.

  “Plus, once again, this is a—”

  “Distraction,” I say for him.

  “Right. Malik’s trying to find out who Rapid really is. I gave him some info and he’s already running with it. We did a bunch of research the other day.”

  “Oh. That’s cool.”

  My stomach drops. Sonny’s told Malik stuff about Rapid that he hasn’t told me. And they researched him together. Without me.

  It’s stupid but it stings.

  Sonny bites on his already-raggedy nail. “I’ll tell Rapid let’s wait to meet up. In the meantime, Malik and I will keep researching.”

  He and Malik. Like the Unholy Trinity is now a duo.

  Fuck. Why am I in my feelings so much?

  “This could be some dumbass’s attempt to embarrass me, for all I know,” Sonny goes on. “Considering all the stuff I’ve shared with him . . . I’ll look like a fool.”

  That shame in his eyes makes my feelings irrelevant.

  I lightly elbow him. “You’re not a fool. He’s the fool if he’s Catfishing you. Because I promise you, I’ll whoop his butt.”

  “Even if it’s a fifty-year-old in a basement?”

  “Even if it’s a fifty-year-old in a basement. I’ll personally rip his fingers off and shove them down his throat.”

  Sonny kisses my cheek. “Thank you for being violent on my behalf.”

  “Aww, anytime. You know I’ve got your little disturbing-ass back.”

  “It’s only disturbing because you know it could happen.”

  Security is a breeze. The new guards are still here. Everybody moves slower through the halls than usual. I think Christmas break makes us long for summer even more.

  Sonny nudges me. Up ahead, Malik waits at my locker.

  “Will you two be okay?” Sonny asks.

  “Yep.” I lie. I really don’t know.

  Sonny has to talk to one of his teachers before class, so he goes off toward the visual arts wing. I go up to my locker.

  I pop it open and slip off my backpack. “Hey.”

  Malik’s eyes slightly widen. “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

  I grab my (white) American History book and stuff it in my backpack. “Nope. We’re good.”

  “I don’t believe you. You hold grudges like cheapskates hold money.”

  Has he been going to Granddaddy’s School of One-Liners? “I told you we’re fine.”

  “No, we’re not. Breezy, look.” Malik takes my arm. “I really am sorry, okay? It’s been hell not talking to you.”

  Actually, this is hell. The way he’s holding my arm, running his thumb along my skin. Every single part of me is aware that he
’s touching me.

  No. Scratch that. Shana’s boyfriend is touching me.

  I tug out of his grasp. “We’re fine, Malik. Drop it.”

  Because I’m making myself drop him.

  He sighs. “Will you at least tell me what’s really going—”

  “Ay! Princess!”

  Curtis makes his way toward us, most likely to make some stupid joke that only Curtis can come up with.

  “What, Curtis?” I ask.

  His snapback and Jordans match as usual and look brand new. Probably Christmas presents. “You think you big shit now, huh? I ain’t even mad.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You ain’t seen Blackout yet?” he asks.

  “Blackout?” Malik says.

  Blackout is this gossip blog that loves to “throw shade and pour tea” (their words) on black celebs for all of the thirsty people to consume. It’s ridiculous . . . and addictive. How else am I supposed to know which Kardashian is knocked up by a black celebrity this week?

  “Yeah. They posted Bri’s song a little while ago,” Curtis says.

  I must’ve heard him wrong. There is no way. “Come again?”

  Curtis opens the site on his phone. “See?”

  There I am, on the front page of Blackout. They posted a picture from when I was in the Ring. The headline? “Teen Daughter of Murdered Underground Rap Legend Lawless Just Killed Us Her Damn Self with This New Heat!”

  Side note: Do I have a name or nah? It’s short enough that it could’ve fit, too.

  I’m willing to overlook that sexist BS for now. Right below the picture is an embedded player for “On the Come Up,” straight from my Dat Cloud page. According to the listeners count . . .

  Ho.

  Ly.

  Shit.

  “Twenty thousand streams!” I shout. “I got twenty thousand streams!”

  Every eye in the hall lands on me. Dr. Rhodes is a few feet away, and she looks at me over her glasses.

  Yeah, I’m loud. I don’t care.

  “Twenty thousand and counting,” Curtis says. “You trending, too.”

  “But . . . how . . . who . . .”

  Supreme. He kept his word.

  Malik’s lips turn up slightly. “That’s cool, Bri.”

  “Cool?” Curtis says. “My dude, how many folks from the Garden you know are getting attention like this? This is major, Princess. Props.”

  I don’t know what’s more shocking—the fact my song is going viral or the fact Curtis gave me props.

  Curtis waves his hand in front of me. He knocks on my forehead. “Anybody in there—”

  I swat his hand away. “Boy, if you don’t—”

  He laughs. “I thought you died on us for a second.”

  “No.” But I’m wondering if I’m having an out-of-body experience. I hold my forehead. “This is insane.”

  “Yeah . . .” Malik trails off. “I better head to class. Congrats, Bri.”

  He disappears down the hall.

  “Your boy is weird, yo,” Curtis says.

  “Why you say that?”

  “Ay, if I was as close to somebody as he’s supposed to be to you, I would be geeking out for them right now. He could barely tell you congrats.”

  I bite my lip. I noticed that, too. “He doesn’t like the stuff I say in the song, that’s all.”

  “What’s wrong with what you say?”

  “I talk about guns and stuff, Curtis. He doesn’t want people to think that’s me.”

  “They’re gonna think it anyway. If you can get something from this, forget the nonsense and go for it.”

  I stare at him. “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “You’re actually more decent than I thought.”

  “You love to hate, huh? Anyway.” He lightly taps my arm with his knuckle. “Don’t let this make your head big. It’s big enough already.”

  “Funny. I bet the same can’t be said about a certain part on you.”

  “Ouch!” His forehead wrinkles. “Wait, you been thinking ’bout it, Princess?”

  Remind me why I considered him cute. “That would be a hell no for five hundred, Alex.”

  “Testy. I am happy for you though. For real, not even lying.”

  I twist my mouth. “Yeah right.”

  “I am!” he says. “’Bout time we had something good come from the Garden. Although”—he shrugs—“I’d still whoop that ass in a battle.”

  I bust out laughing. “I think not.”

  “I think so.”

  “All right,” I say. “Prove it.”

  “All right,” he says.

  He gets in my face, super close.

  Why do I just stare at him at first?

  Why does he just stare at me?

  “You go,” I say.

  “Nah,” he says. “Ladies first.”

  “That’s a cop-out.”

  “Or that’s me being a gentleman.”

  I can almost feel his words, that’s how little space there is between us. My eyes drift down to his lips. He wets them, and they practically beg for me to k—

  The bell rings.

  I back away from Curtis. What the hell?

  He smirks and walks off. “Next time, Princess.”

  “You won’t beat me,” I call after him.

  He turns around. “Sure, Jan.”

  Did he just meme me?

  I flip him off.

  To semiquote Biggie, this is all a dream.

  I can’t walk around the school without somebody noticing me or pointing me out, and it has zero to do with the incident or the drug dealer rumors. People who have never spoken to me suddenly say what’s up. My dad’s chain gets me more glances and stares. In Long Fiction, somebody plays my song before class starts. Mrs. Burns tells them to “turn off that nonsense,” and I’m on such a high that I bite my tongue. I internally say that her wig is the only nonsense in this room.

  Brianna Jackson will not be going to the office today.

  Mrs. Murray’s heard the song, too. When I walk into Poetry class, she goes, “There’s the MC of the hour!” But she adds, “Since hip-hop is poetry, your grades should never drop again.”

  Anyway.

  Seeing my streams go up and my classmates geek out has me thinking that, damn, all this stuff I’ve dreamed of could actually happen. I could really make it as a rapper. It’s not some wild shit my imagination came up with. It’s . . .

  It’s possible.

  Fifteen

  It’s been a little over two weeks since Blackout posted my song. My numbers keep going up. I’m talking followers, streams, all of that. Yesterday, I walked over to my grandparents’ house to have dinner with them (Grandma insisted), and a car passed me blasting it.

  But the car that pulls up in front of my house tonight isn’t playing it. Aunt Pooh waits in her Cutlass. I’ve got another battle in the Ring tonight. No clue who I’m going up against, but that’s what makes the Ring what it is—you gotta be ready for whatever.

  Jay’s at class and Trey’s at work, so I lock up the house. As much online attention as I’ve gotten, I don’t think either one of them knows about the song. Plus, Jay doesn’t do the internet, unless it’s to watch YouTube or stalk friends and family on Facebook. Trey thinks social media promotes insecurity and doesn’t use it much. For now, I’m good.

  Scrap’s reclined in Aunt Pooh’s passenger seat. He pulls it forward so I can hop in the back. “‘You can’t stop me on the come up. Ayyyyyyy!’” he says. “Can’t get that shit out my head, Li’l Law. It’s too fire.”

  “Thanks. Hey, Aunty.”

  “S’up,” she mumbles, looking straight ahead.

  The day Blackout posted “On the Come Up,” I told her all about it. I didn’t hear back from her until yesterday when she texted to tell me she was picking me up for the Ring tonight.

  I guess she’s all in her feelings because I didn’t delete the song like she told me. Does it matter though if it means we�
�re on our way? I mean, damn. That’s the goal, right?

  Scrap looks back at me. “Okay, okay, I see you with your daddy’s chain.”

  I look down at the crown pendant hanging from the gold necklace. I’ve worn it every day since I got it. Slipping it on is a habit, like brushing my teeth. “Guess I like having a part of him with me.”

  “Ooooh-wee!” Scrap says into his fist. “I remember when Law first got that thing. Had the whole neighborhood talking. We knew he made it then.”

  Aunt Pooh glares at me in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t I tell you not to wear that shit?”

  What’s she worried about, somebody robbing me? That’s why I usually tuck it under my shirt around the neighborhood. But at the Ring? “Nobody’s gonna snatch it, Aunt Pooh. You know how security is.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t know why I bother with your hardheaded ass sometimes.”

  We pull up at the gym. Some of the most ridiculous-looking cars are being shown off in the parking lot. There’s a lowrider that’s painted to look like a box of Froot Loops, and a truck on some of the biggest rims I’ve ever seen in my life. We pass a car that looks purple at first, but when the streetlights hit it, it’s neon green.

  Aunt Pooh finds an empty spot and the three of us get out. Music plays all around. Folks love to show off their sound systems just as much as their rides. Maybe more. One car has my voice blasting out of it.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  “Ayyyyyyy!” a guy inside the car shouts, and points at me. “Do it for the Garden, Bri!”

  More people notice me and shout all kinds of love and props.

  Scrap nudges me. “See? You got the whole neighborhood talking.”

  Aunt Pooh silently sticks a Blow Pop in her mouth.

  The line to get into the boxing gym is stretched out to the sidewalk, but as always we head straight for the doors. It’s usually all good, but some guy goes, “Y’all better take y’all asses to the back!”

  The three of us turn around.

  “Who you think you talking to?” Aunt Pooh asks.

  “Your bitch ass,” the guy says. He’s got a mouth full of silver teeth and wears a gray baseball jersey. All the dudes around him wear gray somewhere. Crowns.

  “You better rethink that shit, partna,” Scrap warns.

  “What it is then, nig—” The Crown’s eyes go straight to my dad’s chain. “Aww, shit.” His lips curl up. “Look what we got here.”