Jasmine presses Play, and the first song rumbles, unlike anything we’ve heard Steph record before.
“Son,” Jarrell laughs in shock.
I grin up at the ceiling. “Good looking out, Steph.”
This is it.
Kaven looks as if his brain is off somewhere in space the way he’s staring at the floor, listening to Steph. We wait, eager for him to do . . . something. Say a word, a grunt, anything. He cuts the CD off, leans back in his chair, and shrugs.
“It’s not enough.”
“What you mean?” Jarrell pops off. “Is your hearing aid working? This is off the hook!”
“I ain’t say it wasn’t. But what you got here, it’s not enough for a whole song. It’s just two verses. You need at least three and a hook if you want something solid.”
Behind us, Jasmine gazes around the studio in awe, scoping out the equipment like a nosy kitten.
“Can’t you pull from another song?” I ask.
“It won’t have the same flow. That’s like mixing oil and water. Just won’t taste right.”
“Son, I only eat ranch and blue cheese, so I don’t know what you talking about, but we making music here, not salad dressing!”
Kaven rolls his eyes. “You got anything else?”
“Man, don’t you know any singers that are trying to get put on? I mean, damn, you supposed to be a producer!”
He chuckles. “Not for the pennies you giving me, I don’t.”
There’s something about Kaven I don’t like. Yeah, he’s a man of few words, and when he does talk, he’s mad blunt but never has anything helpful to say. It always feels like he’s holding in something important. Something necessary that I can’t put my finger on.
I palm the movie ticket stubs in my coat pocket and check the time. One o’clock in the morning. I bet Ronnie already got some brotha on the phone, making all kinds of promises. She’ll have that coat by the end of the week.
“Hey,” Jasmine whispers, touching my shoulder. “You okay? You look . . . stressed.”
Stress don’t even cover it. It’s not that I didn’t think Ronnie and I were already headed to the exit, but . . . man, I don’t know. I feel grimy for jumping to conclusions about her. Despite all her flaws, Ronnie always kept it real. You gotta respect people like that.
“Yeah, I’m aight,” I mumble, rubbing my face. “Just tired.”
Jasmine smiles. “It’s gonna be aight. We’ll figure something out. I mean, we didn’t come this far to come this far.”
I chuckle. “That’s something Steph would say.”
“Yeah . . . something our dad used to say.”
Jasmine looks not only exhausted, but real sad, and I suddenly remember how hard all of this has been on her. Here I am, stressing over a breakup, and she missing her brother and her pops. I wish we were alone. Not that I want to do nothing nasty, just kinda looking for that peace and calm I always feel with her. Maybe I could convince her to sing for me again . . .
“YOOOO!”
Jasmine jumps back and the room turns to me.
“Jasmine! Jasmine can do it!”
“What?” Jarrell and Jasmine snap.
“Jasmine can do the hook and the missing verse.”
Jarrell shakes the wax out his ears.
“Son, you talking about Jasmine?” he asks, pointing at her. “Like ‘Jazzy Jazz’ Jasmine or another Jasmine?”
“Quady . . . no,” Jasmine whispers, backing into the security monitor.
“Jasmine can spit, just like Steph. And she can blow!”
“Man, how you know?”
“’Cause . . . I’ve heard her. She’s . . . amazing.”
“Nah, he’s playing,” Jasmine says with a nervous laugh. “I can’t sing like that.”
Jarrell eyes widen, and he brings a fist up to his mouth. “Whoa . . . you ain’t never been this shook before. You really can sing.”
“What d’you think?” I ask Kaven.
He rubs his hands together with a nonchalant shrug. “It can work.”
“But . . .” Jarrell says, scratching his head. “What she gonna sing, though?”
I grab Jasmine’s hand and run toward the door. “Give us an hour.”
27
Jasmine
Mad. Scared. Excited. Stunned. I don’t know what to be first.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” I snap as we rush into Steph’s room. I’ve said this about ten times so far.
Quady dives under the bed and pulls out a shoebox full of notebooks.
“Jazz, I know you hate me now, but once you do this, you gonna love me!”
My breath hiccups on the word “love.”
Get a hold of yourself, Jasmine. He has a girlfriend.
“All you gotta do is spit one of Steph’s poems. Some of his stuff could easily be verses on a song. Just put your own swag on it.”
He flips through the pages, landing on one he bookmarked toward the end.
“I can’t just spit Steph’s stuff’s like it’s my own!”
“Why not? Rappers write songs for other rappers all the time. Big wrote rhymes for Lil’ Kim!”
“I am not no Lil’ Kim, and I ain’t about to be,” I snap.
“You ain’t got to. Just gotta come as hard as her.”
I hold my breath and count to ten. “I’m. Not. Ready!”
“Yes. You. Are!” He shoves the book in my hand. “You have to be. For Steph. For all the other ladies out there. ’Cause it’s your dream too.”
I grip Steph’s book, trying to hold in tears. “I can’t believe you got me out here about to play myself.”
“Imagine it’s just us, Jazz. No one else. That’s all you have to do.”
The poem sitting in my hand weighs a ton.
“We still need a hook. I’mma need a while.”
Quadir looks at the clock on the wall and winces. “You got thirty minutes.”
I grab a pencil off his desk and plop on the bed.
“That’s all I need.”
As soon as I step in the booth, I know I’m never going to be the same. The energy baked into the walls could power a whole city. I soak it in, the voice inside me ready to roar.
Most of the narrow space is painted indigo except for the dark-gray sound-absorbing foams glued to the panels. It’s humid, there’s a sweet hint of weed in the air, the floors slightly sticky, but within moments, I already feel at home.
“Have a seat,” Kaven says behind me, handing me black headphones as big as my head. I place them like a tiara in front of my puffs and hop on the leather stool.
“What’s all this?” I ask, pointing to the wall on the right, tagged up with different names and designs.
“Every emcee that comes and blesses the mic . . .” He gives the mic three taps. “Leaves their name on the wall.”
“Reminds me of 5Pointz. You know, out in Queens? With all the graffiti?”
Kaven smirks and adjusts the mic to my height. “What you know about that, young queen?”
Out the glass panel window in the engineering room, Quadir and Rell watch over the audio board.
“My dad took us there.”
“Aight, you ready?”
I place Steph’s notebook on the music stand with all my notes and take a deep breath.
“Ready.”
But I wasn’t ready. When Steph’s voice invades my earphones, spitting the first verse, I forget how to talk. By take number eleven, a tadpole has grown into a full-grown frog in my throat.
“Okay, queen,” Kaven says over the intercom, his voice flat. “Take five.”
I nod back in response, my neck sweating, clothes sticking. Kaven, Quadir, and Rell are arguing in the other room. I can’t hear them, but Rell’s arms are flying around, and Kaven only shrugs. Quadir catches me staring and we lock eyes.
My hands shake as I sip on my third bottle of water when he closes the door behind him.
“What’s up?”
“Hey,” I say, my voice almo
st gone.
“You good, Jazz? You need something?”
“I’m straight. Why?”
He rubs his head, glancing back at the audience watching us.
“You sure? ’Cause you not sounding like . . . you.”
I blow out some nervous air pent up in my lungs. They’ve either sent him in here to talk some sense into me or dead the whole idea.
“What am I supposed to sound like? You only heard me sing once, and now you got me—”
“If you scared, then just say it.”
“I ain’t scared!”
“Ain’t no shame in admitting it. You scared. You don’t want to mess this up. The stress and pressure . . . it’s mad crazy. But, deadass, you got this on lock, Jazz. You got the pipes. You know it. I know it. Steph knew it, too.”
I rub my temples and check the time. We’ve been at it for almost two hours.
“It’s just that, every time I hear his voice . . . maybe this was a mistake.”
Quadir stuffs his hands in his pockets, pacing around.
“That day on Coney Island, when you were singing . . . you remember what set you off?”
I shrug. “Nah.”
“I do. You were missing Steph bad that day.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” I try forgetting my tears as much as possible.
Quadir pulls up a stool, his back to the window. “A couple of months after Big died, I was reading this interview in Vibe with Puff Daddy. He said after Big’s funeral, he was mad depressed. Hanging around his home, moping. Couldn’t eat, sleep, nothing. Then, he heard that Police song on the radio, ‘Every Breath You Take,’ and a lightbulb went off. He jumped in the studio and produced that monster hit, dedicated to Big. And he kept at it. Now look at him. Bad Boy on top of all the charts!”
“So what you saying?”
He looks me square in the eye. “Pain . . . it can either make you or break you. And we trying to get made out here. You gotta keep going and remember who you doing this for. ’Cause you ain’t just doing this for Steph; you doing this for you.”
We let some silence hang between us as I wipe a tear away. Can’t believe I’m crying in front of him again. But he’s right.
“Aight,” I say. “I’m ready. Will you . . . stay with me?”
Quadir eyes widen.
“Um, yeah. No doubt,” he says, and closes the door, standing in front of it.
I shake the tremors out my hands and close my eyes, searching for that note, deep in the pit of my stomach. But in order to find it, I have to think of Steph. I have to focus on our memories. I have to fully feel the pain I’ve been wishing away. I think of the last time I saw him, and my stomach tightens.
“Queen, you ready?” Kaven says over the intercom.
I nod, digging my nails into my knees.
Steph, I hope you watching this.
The beat comes in slow. Steph’s voice starts the song off first. Every time I hear him, it unhinges me. It’s like he’s still alive until I remember he’s not. He’s gone. He shouldn’t be. He should be with us . . .
I see some ladies tonight
At the house party DJ savin’ my life
My jeans say “ice” on ‘em and my Avi is white
Ni-kes got Mike on ‘em and they say he in flight
I ain’t saying the price
‘Cause this is Brooklyn, son
Where the crooks is from
And I ain’t lookin’ dumb
This the season
Where rings come
Off the hand
Like a rerun
We seen “What’s Happening!!”
That’s on Patchen and
Bainbridge, same kids
You know them play-the-last-car-on-the-train kids
Them make-your-mama-shake-her-head
“It’s a shame” kids
Can’t snitch where we from
No-name kids
Anyway, getting back to this bashment
Honies walking ‘round like a fashion pageant
For real, it’s like I’m steel and her ass a magnet
Guess that’s how it feel when opposites attracting
I failed chemistry, but biology passed and
If you feel chemistry, let anatomy happen
Before I know what I’m doing, I humming with him, like I used to do when we’d practice in his room. And when it’s time for the hook, I sing.
Nah, I don’t just sing. I light the mic on fire!
Tell the DJ keep on playin’ that sound
And when it hit replay, we keep on blazing it down
So Brooklyn, where you at? Brooklyn, where you at?
This one’s for Brooklyn
This one’s for Brooklyn
This one’s for Brooklyn
I open one eye, just to check. Rell is going ballistic, cheering behind the glass, bopping his shoulders. Quadir just stands there, a grin across his face, looking mad proud. Even emotionless Kaven slowly rises to his feet, and I jump into my verse . . .
Hold up!
I brought Queens to a Brooklyn party
That’s an oxymoron
Here’s some more on who I be
“Mona Lisa . . .”
Mona Lisa smiling
Mona Lisa with an Afro or braids Fulani
Find me
Reading books in a Brooklyn lobby
So intrigued you took up a new hobby
Other chicks get you hooked on body
I got you Hooked on Phonics
“Every Little Step”
Now you hooked like Bobby. . . .
Hehe . . . Damn, did I say that?
New Bob Marley
DJ, can you play that?
Cause I be thirteen
I don’t mean Iverson’s sneaker
I mean I’m the keynote speaker
Step to the podium, break on linoleum
Stepping all over that boys’ club sign with “men only” written
On the banner. . . .
Cause this gon’ be the anthem
I’ll show ya you can wear a skirt and still wear the pants, son!
Everybody put your hands up!
Fulton Ave, Ralph Ave . . . gotta stand up
By the second hook, I become the song. Every note, every inflection, every beat, I own. Steph comes in for his last verse, and when it’s time, I blow out the final melody. The walls vibrate and my ears pop as I carry out the last note. I’m exhausted but overjoyed.
Kaven turns on the intercom and I can hear Rell cheering. “Damn, where this girl been all night?”
“Yo, you did it!” Quady says, pulling me into a tight squeeze, and I find myself softening in his arms, the safest place I’ve been in months. Standing there in the soundproof booth, the world is gone, and the seconds feel like days. His hands grip my back, nose inhaling my neck, then quickly, he steps aside, clearing his throat as the door swings open.
Rell rushes inside the booth and tackle-hugs me.
“Jazzy Jazz! That was hot! I can’t believe it. Son, you murdered that shit!”
“I told you,” Quadir says, lightly punching his shoulder.
“Whatever, you stay wrong all the time.”
“Again?” I say to Kaven, leaning in the doorway
“For safety, yes. But I think we got it. You got one more in you?”
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”
We record the song two more times. Each time better than the last.
“Yo! That’s a wrap, Jazz,” Rell says over the intercom.
Quadir opens the door. “Come on out, Jazz. We done.”
“Cool,” I say with a satisfied sigh, when I notice a familiar scribble on the lower right corner of the wall.
“Hey, Quady, come here for a sec,” Rell calls.
While the boys talk to Kaven, I jump off the stool and bend low to examine the doodle. I trace the Roman numeral three with a snake up the middle. I’ve seen him draw this a zillion times in his notebooks.
“Steph,” I w
himper, taking in the room once more. It doesn’t make sense. What would he be doing here, and how would the boys not know about it? Wouldn’t Kaven recognize Steph’s voice?
When I walk out the booth, Kaven is playing back the song, grinning.
“Gonna sweeten it a bit, but it’ll be ready by tomorrow,” he says to Rell.
“Bet. I’mma cop it after school.”
“I’ll roll with you to bring it to . . . you know who,” Quadir says. “Ready to go, Jazz?”
“Huh? I mean, yeah. Ready.”
I slip on my jacket in a daze. That’s not him. That can’t be him. That can’t . . .
“Has a kid named Steph ever been up in here?”
The words blurt out before I can stop them, and the room freezes. Jarrell and Quadir heads snaps up.
Kaven’s mouth sits in a straight line for a moment too long. “Who?”
That “who” felt heavy.
“His name . . . is Steph. Brown skin, tall, braids. Scar on his cheek. You ever see him?”
Kaven folds his arms. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
He’s lying, a voice inside my head screams.
“Jasmine! Jazzy Jazz,” Jarrell says with a fake laugh. “You bugging. You know that kid ain’t from around here. It’s been a long night. Why don’t we all head home, okay?”
“Jazz, what you doing?” Quady says under his breath behind me. “You trying to blow up our spot?”
“No, it’s just that—”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 15
