On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

  The Fish Hut has wood-paneled walls like my grandparents’ den, but there’s this kinda dark, greasy film on them. Grandma would never let her walls look like that. A TV in the ceiling corner always plays a news station, and Mr. Barry always yells at it. Today he’s at the counter talking about, “Can’t believe a damn thing that come outta that fool’s mouth!”

  Supreme’s got a table in the corner. I’m starting to think he never takes those dark sunglasses off. He stuffs his face with fried fish and eggs—that’s the Fish Hut’s breakfast special. When he sees me, he wipes his mouth. “The celebrity of the hour is here.”

  He points to the seat across from him. I prop my bike against the wall as he motions Mr. Barry over. “Mr. B! Make sure you get this young lady whatever she wants. It’s on me.”

  Mr. Barry writes our orders on his pad. I used to think he looked like a young Santa Claus with his full black beard and mustache. It’s grayer these days.

  I go for the shrimp and grits with a Sunkist. It’s never too early for Sunkist—it’s fizzy orange juice. I’ll stand by that until I die.

  “Props on hitting number one on Dat Cloud,” Supreme says after Mr. Barry walks away. “Got you a congratulatory gift.”

  He pulls a gift bag from under the table. It’s not huge, but it’s heavy enough that I have to grab it with both hands. Inside, there’s a dark-gray shoe box with a tree logo on it.

  I look up at Supreme. He flashes those gold fangs.

  “Go ’head,” he says. “Open it.”

  I slide the box out of the bag. I already know what’s inside, but my heart still speeds up. I flip the lid on the box and can’t even stop the “Oh, shit” that comes out of my mouth.

  A pair of brand-new Timbs. Not the scuffed ones at the community center giveaway but brand-new, never-worn Timbs.

  “Now, if the size is wrong, I can exchange them, no problem,” Supreme says as I take one out.

  I trace the tree carved into the side of the boot. My eyes are prickly as hell. I worked months to buy a pair. Months. Still hadn’t made enough when Dr. Rhodes suspended me for selling candy. It was a finish line I could never reach. Yet Supreme’s just handing me a pair like it’s nothing.

  I can’t believe I’m about to say this though. “I can’t take these.”

  “Why not?”

  My granddaddy says you never take big gifts that seem to be for no reason, because there’s a chance that there’s a big reason you can’t afford. “Why’d you get them for me?”

  “I told you, to congratulate you on hitting number one,” he says.

  “Yeah, but these cost a ton—”

  Supreme laughs. “A ton? They only one fifty. I spend more than that on sunglasses.”

  “Oh.”

  Damn. I wish one fifty was chump change for me. Shit, I probably look dumb as hell for saying that’s a ton of money. Not to mention broke as hell.

  Mr. B brings my shrimp and grits. I keep my eyes on them for the longest.

  “It’s all good,” Supreme says. “I remember when that was a hell of a lot of money to me, too. Keep the shoes. I swear, ain’t no strings attached.”

  I glance down at my faux pair. The bottom has slowly started to separate from the rest of the boot. Doubt they can last another month. Maybe not even a week.

  I mumble, “Thank you” and stuff both boots into my backpack.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Supreme shakes hot pepper sauce onto his plate. “I thought that shit at the Ring was gonna have people talking. You really went and outdid yourself, huh, baby girl?”

  Um, did he watch the same news report that I watched? “They’re not exactly talking in a good way.”

  “Truthfully, this probably the best thing that could’ve happened to you. Publicity is publicity, I don’t give a damn how bad it is. It made you number one on Dat Cloud, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but not everybody’s listening because they like it.” Trust me, I messed up and read the comments. “What if people make a lot of noise because of what happened at my school?”

  “Ah, so that’s your school?”

  That’s one thing the news didn’t tell. Probably can’t for legal reasons. “Yeah. Part of the reason people were upset is because of something that happened to me.”

  He nods, as if that’s all he needs to know. “Well, they probably will make a lot of noise about the song. Folks love to blame hip-hop. Guess that’s easier than looking at the real problems, you know? Just think though, you in legendary company. They did it to N.W.A, they did it to Public Enemy. ’Pac. Kendrick. Shit, anybody who’s ever had something to say on the mic, they’ve come at them ’bout how they said it.”

  “Really?”

  “Hell yeah. You young’uns just don’t know. N.W.A got letters from the FBI over ‘Fuck tha Police.’ Some boy shot a cop and had a ’Pac song playing in the car. Politicians blamed the song.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Exactly,” says Supreme. “This ain’t new. They love to make us the villains for telling the truth.” He sips his orange juice. “You need a real manager to make sure this doesn’t get outta control and that it works to your advantage.”

  A real manager. The Aunt Pooh shade is obvious.

  The bell on the restaurant door dings. Supreme raises his hand to catch the person’s attention.

  Dee-Nice makes his way over. His gold chains are almost as long as his locs. He and Supreme slap palms and end it in a one-armed hug.

  Supreme stretches his neck to look outside. “Okay, I see you with the Beamer.” He lightly elbows Dee-Nice, who laughs. “Already spending that money.”

  “Had to show these boys how it’s done.” He looks at me. “The princess of the Garden. We finally meet. Nothing but props, love.” He gives me one of those palm slap/handshake things that guys sometimes do. “Between that first battle and the song? You killing it out here.”

  Confession: I’m a little tongue-tied. Starstruck even. Dee-Nice is a legend. What the hell do you say if you get a stamp of approval from a legend?

  “I still think it’s bullshit that you lost to Ef-X that time.”

  He and Supreme both laugh. “What?” Dee-Nice says.

  I studied battles way before I ever stepped foot in the Ring. “Two years ago, you and Ef-X battled,” I say. “Your flow was absolutely ridiculous. I’m still in awe that you came up with that rhyme scheme on the spot. You should’ve won, hands down.”

  “Wow. I see you been paying attention.”

  “An MC must be a student before they’re ever a master,” I say. “That’s what my aunt always—”

  The Timbs. Dee-Nice showing up. This is a setup to get me away from Aunt Pooh.

  See, the shoes are bait, like I’m one of those fat bass fish Granddaddy likes to catch in the summer and Dee-Nice is Supreme’s bobber. Having Dee-Nice talk to me will let Supreme know if I’m biting the bait or not.

  But honestly? I swam into this water knowing I’d probably get caught. I knew what this meeting with Supreme was about the moment he texted me. Forget that even being here would hurt Aunt Pooh. Forget the fact that if I take his offer, it’ll mean I have to get rid of her. Forget that if she’s not my manager, she’ll probably stay in the streets. I came here anyway.

  What kinda niece does that make me?

  “Listen, your aunt sounds like cool people,” Supreme says. “But you need more.”

  I bite my lip. “Supreme—”

  “Hear me out,” he says. “Truth is, you’ve got a unique opportunity here, Bri. Situations like this, publicity like this, don’t come around often. You gotta take advantage of it. Dee didn’t have the buzz you’re getting. Look what I did for him. I also got a big deal in the works for my son . . . if he can keep his act straight.”

  Dee-Nice laughs. There’s a joke I’m clearly missing here. “He still giving you problems?”

  Supreme chugs back some orange juice. “He can’t focus worth a damn lately. But that’s a whole ’nother
discussion for another day.”

  Dee-Nice nods. “Straight up though, Bri? This guy here?” He points at Supreme. “Changed my life. I’m able to take care of my whole family now.”

  “For real?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “I was doing battles in the Ring, hoping it would lead to something someday, but my family was struggling. Supreme came along, set up a game plan, now my family ain’t gotta worry about a damn thing. We good.”

  Good. One word, one syllable.

  If I could, I’d give everything I should,

  To make my family good.

  I swallow the tightness in my throat and look at Supreme. “If I work with you, can you make sure my family is okay?”

  “I’ll make sure you and your family are good,” he says. “You got my word.”

  He holds his hand out to me.

  It’s a betrayal to Aunt Pooh, but it’s a way for my mom and Trey. I shake her hand.

  “We ’bout to get paid!” Supreme practically shouts. “You won’t regret this, baby girl, I swear you won’t. But first things first, I gotta come over and talk to your mom. The three of us gotta sit down and—”

  If my life really was a sitcom, this is the moment where the record would scratch. “You, uhhh . . . you gotta talk to Jay?”

  Supreme gives this kinda unsure laugh, as if he thinks he’s missing a joke. “Of course. Is there a problem?”

  Too many problems to name. I scratch the back of my head. “That may not be a good idea right now.”

  “O-kay,” he says slowly, waiting for the rest. That’s all I’m giving him. “I’ll have to talk to her eventually. You know that, right?”

  Unfortunately. And she would shut all of this down, though, in a heartbeat.

  But it’s like how when she does stuff I don’t like and says it’s “for my own good.” This is for hers. I’m willing to do anything to keep that sadness in her eyes from becoming permanent.

  “Let me talk to her first,” I lie to Supreme.

  “All right.” He grins. “Let’s work on getting this money then.”

  Nineteen

  When I get home, all of the recovering addicts are gone, and Jay is putting cans in the kitchen cabinet. Grocery bags cover the table.

  I slide my backpack off and set it on the kitchen floor. “How did you get all of—”

  “Girl, if you don’t put that backpack in your room, I swear!” Jay snaps.

  Goddamn, she’s not even looking at me! Peripheral vision is the devil.

  I toss my backpack in my room. Probably should’ve done that anyway. Those Timbs Supreme gave me are stuffed inside. Nobody’s got time for the interrogation that’ll come once Jay sees them things.

  Supreme went on for hours about all of the plans he has for me. He wants me to do some interviews to address the drama, he wants me to do a song with Dee-Nice and a song with Miles. He wants me to do a mixtape of my own. Said he’s gonna pay for the studio time and the beats.

  It’s hard to be excited, knowing I gotta tell Aunt Pooh that I’m basically dropping her, and knowing I can’t tell my mom yet. I gotta wait for some things to fall in place first. You know, have a seven-figure contract in my hands and be like, “Look what I got!” There’s no way she’ll say no to that.

  Okay, there’s a hundred ways she’ll say no, but I’m gonna try for a yes.

  She’s moved on to the freezer by the time I return to the kitchen. She slides a pack of chicken in, next to the frozen vegetables that are already in there.

  I peek in one of the bags. There are crackers, bread, chips, juice. “Did Aunt Pooh bring all of this?”

  “No, I got it,” Jay says.

  “How?”

  She keeps her head in the freezer as she stuffs another pack of frozen meat inside. “I got my EBT card in the mail today.”

  EBT? “You got food stamps? But you said we weren’t gonna—”

  “You can say a whole lot before things happen,” she says. “You never truly know what you will or won’t do until you’re going through it. We needed food. Welfare could help us get food.”

  “But I thought you said they don’t give college students food stamps unless they have a job.”

  “I withdrew from school.”

  She says it as casually as if I asked her about the weather.

  “You what?” I’m so loud, nosy Ms. Gladys next door probably heard me. “But you were so close to finishing! You can’t quit school for some food stamps!”

  Jay moves around me and gets a box of cereal from a bag. “I can quit to make sure you and your brother don’t starve.”

  This . . .

  This hurts.

  This physically fucking hurts. I feel it in my chest, I swear. It burns and aches all at once. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

  She crosses over to me, but I watch the glimmer of sunlight that’s shining through the window and lighting up the tile on the floor. Granddaddy used to say, look for the bright spots. I know he didn’t mean literally, but that’s all I’ve got.

  “Hey, look at me,” Jay says. She takes my chin to make sure that I do. “I’m fine. This is temporary, okay?”

  “But becoming a social worker is your dream. You need a degree for that.”

  “You and your brother are my first dream. That other one can wait to make sure you two are okay. That’s what parents do sometimes.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” I say.

  “But I want to.”

  That makes this harder. Having to is a responsibility. Wanting to is love.

  She holds my cheek. “I listened to your song.”

  “You did?”

  “Mm-hmm. I’ve gotta admit it’s catchy. It’s pretty damn brilliant, too, Ms. Brilliant Bri.” She smiles and runs her thumb along my cheek. “I get it.”

  Three words, yet they somehow feel as good as a hug. “Really?”

  “I do. But you get where I was coming from, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. You don’t want people to make assumptions about me.”

  “Exactly. We have to prepare ourselves, baby. That local news story may only be the start. I need you to stay low during all of this.”

  “What? I can’t go outside? Or go to school?” I’m totally fine with that.

  “Girl!” She lightly smacks my arm. I laugh. “I don’t mean that low. Your butt is still going to school, so don’t even try. I mean . . .” She pauses, searching for the words. “I mean don’t provoke them. Don’t respond to anything, don’t do anything. Just . . . act like they’re talking about somebody else. Don’t be getting all on Tweeter or whatever, making comments.”

  She’s gotta step up her social media game. “I can’t even troll people who come at me?”

  I’m a pro at trolling gamer boys online. In fact, I may put it on my future résumé as a skill, alongside rapping and laying edges. Honestly, trolling is easy. All you gotta do is find multiple ways to call a gamer boy’s penis little and he’ll rage.

  “You better not say anything, period,” Jay says. “Matter of fact, hand me your phone.”

  She holds her palm out.

  My eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. Give me your phone.”

  “I promise I won’t—”

  “Phone, Bri.”

  Craaap. I take it out of my pocket and set it in her hand.

  “Thank you,” she says, and slips it into her own pocket. “Go study for that ACT.”

  I groan. “Really?”

  “Really. The test will be here before you know it. That needs to be your priority. Gina says that Sonny’s been studying for two hours a day. You could learn something from him.”

  Dammit, Sonny. His overachieving ass. Got me looking like I’m slacking. Okay, I am, but that’s not the point.

  Jay turns me toward the hallway. “Go. Only thing I better hear is you studying.”

  “Um, how do you hear somebody—”

  “Just go study, girl!”

  She doesn’t
make me study for two hours. No, that’s too short for my mom apparently. It’s four hours before she brings me my phone. Four. I don’t know what words are anymore.

  Jay steps over my dirty clothes and junk on my bedroom floor.

  “I oughta make you clean this nasty-ass room before I give you this phone,” she says. “Bet’ not be bringing roaches up in my house.”

  Grandma used to say the same thing. They make it sound like people smuggle them into houses. Do I look like I wanna be anywhere near a roach? They’re right below Big Bird on my “Things I Don’t Mess With” list.

  Jay sets my phone on my desk and maneuvers around clothes and junk again. “Just trifling!” she says.

  “I love you, too,” I call after her. I’ve got texts from Sonny and Malik that I delete. Yes, I’m still in my feelings about how things went down at Malik’s house.

  I’ve got tons of notifications from Dat Cloud, too. It’s been like that for a minute now though. I usually open the app to make that annoying red-circled number go away and close it. But when I open it today, there are a lot of unread messages waiting for me.

  Probably trolls. I mean, I dish it, so I should be able to take it, right? Trust, as many times as I’ve been called “nigger” and “bitch” by gamer boys, I can take a hell of a lot. Just need a moment to prepare myself.

  The first one is from a user called “RudeBoi09.” Great sign. I open it. There’s a link and below that he wrote:

  This is bullshit! Don’t let them censor you, Bri!

  Huh?

  I don’t click the link. What I look like, trusting somebody named RudeBoi? It could be a virus or porn. But the next message from another user has the same link with a comment:

  You got them big mad hahahaha!

  The third message has the link, too. The fourth and fifth. New texts from Sonny pop up on my screen.

  U okay?

  Call me.

  Love u.

  He sent me the link, too. I click it. It takes me to an article on the website of the Clarion, the local newspaper. The title stops my heart.