On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

  “If we don’t get outta here, the next cop might stop and question us,” Sonny says.

  Malik’s glare is set on Curtis. “We can go to my house. My mom should be at work by now.”

  Another patrol car races toward the school, lights flashing.

  “C’mon,” Sonny says.

  Shana tugs at Malik’s hand. That’s the only thing that makes him stop glaring at Curtis. He lets her pull him down the sidewalk.

  In less than an hour, almost every black and Latinx student from Midtown shows up at Malik’s.

  He and Shana got word out to their coalition to come over for an emergency meeting. One after another, they bring details of what happened after we ran off. At least ten cop cars arrived, a news van showed up, and the boys who jumped Long and Tate were arrested. One of them was Zane.

  Curtis glances at me when we’re told that. I just mouth, You’re welcome.

  Long and Tate were both loaded into ambulances. Nobody knows how bad either of them are.

  Parents and guardians received a recorded message from the school saying that there was an emergency and that they must come get their children. Jay thought there was a shooting and immediately called me. She calmed down once I told her I’m fine. I gave her a quick rundown of what really happened, specifically the part about Long and Tate being back. She was pissed but not surprised.

  Everyone sits and stands around Malik’s living room, eating sandwiches and chips and drinking just about every soda Aunt ’Chelle has. Sonny, Curtis, and I made room on the couch for three other people. Shana’s on Aunt ’Chelle’s recliner with a girl sitting on each arm.

  Malik won’t stay still. He paces the living room, the way he used to do when a mission on a video game wasn’t going his way.

  “This will not help us with any of the concerns we had,” he says. “In fact, this is gonna make shit worse.”

  He eyes Curtis. Curtis eats his sandwich as if Malik said nothing.

  “You don’t know that,” says Sonny.

  “No, he’s right,” says Shana. “They’re probably about to go the Garden High route. Have actual cops acting as security.”

  “What?” I say, and other people in the room basically say the same thing.

  “I guarantee those two are back because so many parents bought that ‘drug dealer’ narrative about Bri,” Malik says. “They’ve got reason to believe we’re all threats now. I bet there will be armed cops at the doors.”

  Ever since that boy got killed, my heart races whenever I see a cop. I could’ve been him, he could’ve been me. Luck’s the only thing that separated us.

  Now my heart may be racing for most of the day.

  Curtis sits forward, his arms folded on his knees. “Look, all I know is we were tired of Long and Tate treating us like shit and getting away with it, so we whooped their asses. Plain and simple.”

  Malik pounds his fist into his palm. “There’s a way to go about it! You think you’re the only one tired? You think I wanted to see my best friend thrown onto the ground?”

  Wow. Malik and I haven’t been great lately. Hell, that’s an understatement, honestly. But he basically just told me all that doesn’t matter—he still cares about me.

  I catch Shana staring at me. She quickly looks away.

  “We finally got Dr. Rhodes to agree to a meeting with us and this happens?” Malik says. “She won’t hear shit we have to say. Nah. We gotta go above her now.”

  “The superintendent?” Sonny asks.

  “Yep. Or the school board.”

  “No, we need even bigger,” Shana says. She focuses on me again. “We need that video to get in the news.”

  She means Malik’s video of Long and Tate throwing me like a trash bag. I shake my head. “Nah, not happening.”

  “Bri, c’mon,” Deon from the bus says. One or two people echo him.

  “It’s the only way things will change,” Shana says. “We have to show people why everyone was upset today, Bri.”

  “I already told y’all, I’m not gonna be the poster child for this.”

  Shana folds her arms. “Why not?”

  “Because she said so,” Curtis says. “Goddamn, get off her back.”

  “I’m just saying, if it was me, and I knew it would change things at our school, I would release the video in a heartbeat.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Clearly, I’m not you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I’m starting to think that this isn’t just about the school incident. “It means what I said. I’m not you.”

  “Yeah, because if you were me, you’d prefer that that video was released instead of videos of you acting ratchet at the Ring,” Shana says. “But those videos are okay, right?”

  She didn’t. Please tell me she didn’t.

  She did though, because several mouths around the room have suddenly dropped. I’m well aware that Malik is silent during all of this.

  I sit up. “First of all,” I say with a clap.

  “Aww, shit,” Sonny mutters. He knows what that clap means. “Calm down, Bri.”

  “Nah, let me answer this. First of all, I had no control over those videos from the Ring being released, sweetie.”

  I am totally my mom’s child, because when she says “sweetie,” she means the exact opposite. She does the clap thing, too. I don’t know when I became her.

  “Second,” I say with another clap, “how is speaking up for myself being ratchet? If you saw those videos, you’d know that’s all I did.”

  “I’m only saying what people are already saying about—”

  “Third!” I clap over her. I’m gon’ finish, dammit. “If I don’t want the video released, I don’t want the video released. I frankly don’t owe you or anybody else an explanation.”

  “Yes, you do, because this affects us too!” she says.

  “Oh. My. God!” I clap with each word. That’s the only thing keeping me in my seat. “Bruh, for real. For real!”

  Translation: Somebody get this girl.

  Sonny immediately understands. “Bri, chill, okay? Look, maybe she has a point though. If the video was released—”

  Him too? I push up from the couch. “You know what? Y’all can continue your li’l meeting without me. I’m gone.”

  Sonny tries to grab my hand, but I move it away. “Bri, c’mon. Don’t be like that.”

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and step over people sitting on the floor. “I’m good. I’d rather not stay around for the ‘jump down Bri’s throat’ part of the meeting.”

  “Nobody’s jumping down your throat,” Malik says.

  Oh, now he speaks. He couldn’t say shit when his girlfriend was going in on me.

  “We just don’t get why you don’t wanna help us,” Shana says. “This is your chance to—”

  “I don’t wanna be that person!” I scream so that every single one of them hears me. “They’re just gonna explain the shit away! Don’t you get that?”

  “Bri—”

  “Sonny, you know they will! That’s what they do. Hell, they’re already doing it with the ‘drug dealer’ rumors. This gets in the news? They’ll mention every time I’ve been sent to the office, every goddamn suspension. Hell, they’ll use those Ring videos. Anything to make it seem like what happened was okay ’cause I’m not from shit! You think I wanna deal with that?”

  I fight to breathe. They don’t get it. That video can’t be released. Because all of a sudden, even more people will try to justify what happened to me, and it’ll get so loud that I may start thinking that I deserved it to begin with.

  I didn’t. I know I didn’t. I wanna keep knowing that I didn’t.

  The room is blurry, but I blink it into focus. “Screw y’all,” I mumble, and throw my hoodie over my head.

  I leave and don’t look back.

  When I get home, Jay’s lying across the living room sofa. The remote’s in her hand, and the theme music for As We Are fades off. She’s addicted to th
at soap opera.

  “Hey, Bookie,” she says as she sits up. She stretches and yawns, revealing the big hole under the arm of her T-shirt. She says it’s too comfortable to get rid of. Plus, it’s got Dad’s first album cover on it. “How was Malik’s?”

  The shortest answer is the best answer. “Fine. How was As We Are?”

  “It was too good today! Jamie finally found out that baby ain’t his.”

  She’s super upbeat. I think she fakes for me though.

  “Whoa, for real?” I ask.

  “Yep! It’s about damn time.”

  When I was younger, Granddaddy would let me watch soap operas with him every afternoon in the summer. He loves his “stories.” As We Are was our favorite. I would sit on his lap, the air conditioner in the window blowing on us and my head resting back against his chest as Theresa Brady pulled off her latest scheme like a boss. Now it’s me and Jay’s thing.

  She tilts her head and stares at me long and hard. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I can fake, too.

  “Don’t worry, I’m calling the superintendent’s office about this,” she says, and goes toward the kitchen. “Those bastards should not be back on the job. You hungry? We have some sausages left over from breakfast. I can make you a sandwich.”

  “No thanks. I ate at Malik’s.” I plop down on the sofa. Now that As We Are is off, the afternoon news is starting.

  “Our top story: A student rally turned violent earlier today at Midtown School of the Arts,” the newscaster says. “Megan Sullivan has more.”

  “Turn that up, Bri,” Jay calls from the kitchen.

  I do. The reporter stands in front of my now-deserted school.

  “The day had only begun at Midtown School of the Arts,” says Megan Sullivan, “when students took to the steps and rallied.”

  They show cell-phone footage from this morning of everybody in front of the building, chanting, “‘You can’t stop me, nope, nope!’”

  “School officials say there were concerns among students regarding recent security measures,” Sullivan says.

  Jay comes to the doorway with the loaf of bread in her hand, untwisting the tie. “Security measures? You mean the fact those two were back on the job?”

  “However, what started as a peaceful rally quickly turned violent,” says Sullivan.

  There go the screams as punches get thrown and Long and Tate are knocked out of view. The news bleeps the “Oh, shit” that the person recording yelps.

  “Security officials were physically attacked by several students,” Sullivan says. “According to eyewitnesses, it didn’t take long for the melee to begin.”

  “We were all standing around outside, trying to figure out what was going on,” this white girl says. She’s in the vocal music department. “Then people started chanting a song.”

  Oh. No.

  Another cell-phone video is shown. In this one, my classmates say my lyrics.

  “‘Run up on me and get done up!’”

  “The song, called ‘On the Come Up,’ is said to be by local rapper Bri,” Megan Sullivan says. They show my Dat Cloud page. “The track, with its violent nature, includes attacks against law enforcement and is said to be a hit among young listeners.”

  Next thing I know, my voice comes through the TV, with bleeps where the curse words should be. But it’s not the whole song. It’s bits and pieces.

  Pin me to the ground, boy, you **** up . . .

  If I did what I wanted and bucked up,

  You’d be bound for the ground, grave dug up . . .

  Strapped like backpacks, I pull triggers.

  All the clips on my hips change my figure.

  But let me be honest, I promise,

  If a cop come at me, I’ll be lawless . . .

  The loaf of bread falls from Jay’s hands. She stares at the TV, frozen.

  “Brianna.” She says my name like it’s her first time saying it. “Is that you?”

  Eighteen

  Words won’t come out of my mouth. But the words I wrote blare from the TV.

  “‘You can’t stop me, nope, nope,’” my classmates chant. “‘You can’t stop me, nope, nope!’”

  “As they used the song to taunt school officials,” Sullivan says, “the lyrics seemed to have encouraged students to violently take matters into their own hands.”

  Wait, what?

  It’s not the fact that those two assholes harassed all the black and brown kids.

  Not the fact that whoever threw that first punch made that decision themselves.

  It’s the fact that they were reciting a song?

  “Several students were arrested,” she goes on. “The security guards have reportedly been hospitalized but are expected to make a full recovery. Students were sent home for the day as school officials work to determine their next course of action. We’ll have more tonight at six.”

  The picture goes black. Jay turned the TV off.

  “You never answered my question,” she says. “Was that you?”

  “They didn’t play the whole song! It’s not about attacking law enforce—”

  “Was. That. You?”

  She’s somehow loud and calm all at once.

  I swallow. “Yes . . . yes, ma’am.”

  Jay puts her face in her hands. “Oh, God.”

  “Hear me out—”

  “Brianna, what the hell were you thinking?” she yells. “Why would you say that stuff?”

  “They didn’t play the whole song!”

  “They played enough!” she says. “Where’s the gun you rapped about, huh? Show me. Tell me. I need to see how my sixteen-year-old is ‘strapped like backpacks’!”

  “I’m not! That’s not what I meant! They took it outta context!”

  “You said that stuff. There’s no way to get around—”

  “Would you listen to me for once?” I bellow.

  Jay puts her hands to her mouth like she’s praying. “One: Check. Your. Tone,” she growls. “Two: I am listening. I listened enough to hear my child rapping like a thug!”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh, it’s not? Then why didn’t you tell me a goddamn thing about this song before now? Huh, Brianna? According to the news, it’s pretty well known. Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

  I open my mouth, but before I can even say a word, she goes, “Because you knew damn well you were saying stuff you had no business saying!”

  “No, because I knew you’d jump to conclusions!”

  “People only jump on what you give them!”

  Did she just—did she of all people really say that? “So that’s why everyone accuses you of being on drugs?” I ask. “They’re jumping on what you give them?”

  She can’t say anything to that at first.

  “You know what?” Jay eventually says. “You’ve got a point. You’ve absolutely got a point. People are gonna assume things about you, about me, no matter what we say or do. But here’s the difference between me and you, Brianna.” She closes the space between us. “I’m not giving people more reasons to make those assumptions about me. Do you see me walking around talking about drugs?”

  “I—”

  “Do. You. See. Me. Walking. Around. Talking. About. Drugs?” She claps with each word.

  I stare at my shoes. “No, ma’am.”

  “Do you see me acting like I’m on drugs? Bragging about drugs? No! But you made yourself out to be everything people were gonna assume about you! Did you think about what this will make me look like as your mother?”

  She’s still not listening to me. “If you would just listen to the song—it’s not what they made it out to be, I swear. It’s about playing into their assumptions about me.”

  “You don’t get that luxury, Brianna! We don’t! They never think we’re just playing!”

  The room goes quiet again.

  Jay closes her eyes and holds her forehead. “Jesus,” she mutters, like calling his name will calm her down. She looks at me.
“I don’t want you rapping anymore.”

  I step back as if she slapped me. It feels like it. “What—but—”

  “I refuse to stand by and let you end up like your daddy, do you hear me? Look what ‘rapping gangsta’ got him. A bullet in his head!”

  I’ve always heard that my dad got caught up in the streets because he rapped about the streets. “But that’s not me!”

  “And I won’t let it be you.” Jay shakes her head. “I won’t. I can’t. You’re gonna focus on school and you’re gonna leave that mess alone. Do I make myself clear?”

  Only thing clear is that she doesn’t get it. Or me. That stings worse than the news report.

  But I suck it up like a Jackson’s supposed to and look her dead in her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. We’re clear.”

  We’re so clear that when Supreme texts me that night asking to meet up in the morning, I don’t hesitate to say yeah. He saw the news report and wants to talk to me about it.

  He also saw that “On the Come Up” is the number one song on Dat Cloud. The news has everyone listening to it.

  We meet up at the Fish Hut, this little run-down spot over on Clover. It’s easy for me to get out of the house. It’s Saturday, and Jay’s having her monthly check-in meeting with the recovering addicts. We don’t have enough food for her to feed them today, but everybody’s talking so much it doesn’t seem to matter. I tell Jay I’m going to my grandparents’ house, and she’s so caught up in their conversation, she only says, “Okay.”

  Soon I’m on my bike with my headphones, my backpack, and my dad’s chain tucked under my hoodie, headed to Clover Street.

  I pedal fast so I don’t freeze. Granddaddy says that cold weather’s the only thing that’ll shut the Garden down. That explains why the streets are almost deserted.

  Riding through Clover is like riding through an abandoned war zone. The Fish Hut is one of the only places still standing. Aunt Pooh says it’s ’cause Mr. Barry, the owner, put “black owned” on the doors during the riots. Yeah, she was out during all of that. Even looted some stores and got a couple of TVs.

  I haven’t heard from her since the Ring. She hasn’t ghosted, nah. Jay talked to her last night. Aunt Pooh just doesn’t wanna talk to me.

  Supreme’s Hummer sits in a spot near the door of the Fish Hut. I take my bike in with me. I’d be a damn fool to leave it outside. I’d never get it back. Plus, Mr. Barry, the owner, won’t trip. In fact, he says, “Hey, Li’l Law!” soon as I walk in. I get away with a hell of a lot because of my dad.