I nod, checking the time. “I . . . I gotta get to class.”
Mack laughs. “Good. Keep getting them good grades in school and everything. I’ll holla at you later. Aye yo, about Steph. I’m serious, don’t go trying to handle that shit yourself. You find out anything you come holla at me first. Aight?”
We dap up and I climb out the car. Mack’s been pushing this college thing for the past few months. But that one little talk I had with Pierce got me looking at everything different.
You wanna be rich or you wanna be wealthy?
“Here! Take this!”
Ronnie comes out of nowhere, shoving a brown paper shopping bag into my hands.
“What the hell?” I stutter, trying to balance it before everything tumbles out.
“Tell your friend I don’t want any of his shit no more.”
A dusty Valentine’s Day teddy bear falls by my kicks. “Why?”
Ronnie cocks her head to the side and chuckles. “He didn’t tell you? Quady and I broke up. Nah, let me step back, I dumped his wack ass!”
“Wait, y’all broke up?” I can feel the smile take up my whole face. Why didn’t he tell me? This is the best news I’ve heard in forever.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t get too happy about it. Surprised you don’t know. I thought y’all talked about everything.”
I dodge her jab with a shrug. “Man, I don’t know. Maybe he thought y’all were gonna get back together and didn’t want to say something too fast.”
Ronnie seems a little surprised by this but then shakes her head. “Nah, Rell . . . I’m . . . we through, that’s all. Probably seeing somebody already.”
I think of Jasmine and my jaw tightens. Looks like Ronnie’s been crying. Face all puffy, eyes swollen. Now I feel bad, maybe she really did care about Quady.
“Aight, look, Ronnie. I’m sorry y’all two are beefing. But . . . I ain’t trying to get between it! Why can’t you give this to him yourself?”
“’Cause I hate him! And he ain’t here today. He over at that new school, Bishop or whatever.”
I blink hard.
“Wh-what?” I say.
Ronnie don’t miss a thing.
“Ha! You didn’t know about that either, did you?” She laughs. “Says he gonna use the money from y’all little business to go school, then college. He trying to get away from you and me.”
Now normally, I’m the cool, calm, collected type. Not too much really ruffles my feathers, y’knowwhatumsayin? But this chick right here . . . even her voice irks me. I drop the bag on the ground and brush past Ronnie, heading into school, her laugh echoing behind me.
Breaking up with chicks like Ronnie, that’s one thing. But nah, no way Quady would just up and change schools without telling me. And how she know about our business? I know he wouldn’t tell that blabber-mouth broad what we up to. Nah, he ain’t that stupid.
But love makes you do stupid things. Like ditch your girlfriend and best friend for a different school, talking about college, talking about leaving Brooklyn. Plans that have nothing to do with me or making Steph famous when we supposed to be in this together. Love makes you dumb.
And I know that dumbass better not be falling in love with Steph’s sister.
34
Quadir
I hate looking like sheep.
That’s the first wack thing I notice about Bishop. Everyone looks the same, dressed in dark-purple polos and khaki pants. I mean, Rell’s the flashy fashionable one of our set, but I like having a little swag too. If I go to this school, that’d be impossible.
The hallways are different too. No one’s chilling, clowning, spitting bars . . . everyone seems mad pressed to make it to class on time, like some nerds.
Other than that, I really can’t find nothing wrong, as hard as I try.
The coach wanted me to do a day visit, shadow one of the other players’ schedules and practice with the team so I could get a feel for the school. Everyone’s real cool and friendly, even the teachers. All the kids talk about colleges, taking the SAT, scholarships, stuff I don’t talk about with anyone back around the way. But they also talk about music, videos, and TV shows. One girl’s locker was wallpapered with magazine covers.
After practice, I dap everyone up as we leave the gym and spot her puffs from the door, chilling by the gate. Jasmine grips the straps of her book bag, eyeing each student as if they’re about to rob her.
“Hey,” I mumble. I told her to meet me here after school.
“Pierce called,” she says, her voice mad hard. Guess she’s not over last night.
“Oh, word? What he want now?”
She swallows. “He wants Architect and Fast Pace to do a song together.”
Feels like someone chucked a basketball right into my stomach. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit.”
I slump against the gate next to her. This game we’ve been playing has me worn out. The late-night partying, running all over Brooklyn, the pretending, the lying . . .
“I don’t know how long we’re gonna be able to keep this going. Maybe it’s time.”
Jasmine nods, seesawing on her heels. “What’d you think Pierce will do?”
“You mean after he throws us out the window?” I chuckle. “Probably come and spray the whole block just to get to anyone we know.”
“Guess that’s the worst-case scenario.”
“Or . . . maybe he’ll still fuck with us. Maybe he’ll even understand why we did it.”
Jasmine looks up at the school and chuckles. “Why did we do it, Quadir?”
“Jasmine . . .” I sigh. “You know why.”
She stares at me with stone cold eyes. “You ready?”
I didn’t want to answer her. I didn’t want to go anywhere she had in mind. I wanted to be back in her living room listening to music, hear her sing again. If she only knew how many times I’ve listened to her track with Steph, just to hear her voice. But a promise is a promise.
“Where are we going?”
She zips up her coat. “Just follow me.”
We head toward DeKalb Avenue in silence, Jasmine stomping fast. We’re a few blocks from school when she finally opens up.
“How was Bishop?” she asks, her voice still hard.
“It was . . . cool,” I admit with a smile. “I kinda like it.”
“That’s good. You, um, deserve to be happy. Is Ronnie gonna come with you? You know her pops got the money to send her anywhere.”
“Nah. It ain’t really her . . . thing. Plus . . . we ain’t together no more.”
Jasmine keeps straight, the corner of her lip twitching as she clears her throat.
“Oh. Really? What happened?”
I shrug. “Things change. So do people.”
We walk in silence for a while. I don’t know what to say, if anything. I kind of want to talk about us, but the timing don’t seem right. Ain’t never been this nervous around a girl before. Maybe ’cause she ain’t just some girl. She’s a whole other level.
“You ever hear of Weeksville?” she asks as we approach a corner.
“You mean that place over by Buffalo Ave, where they give tours of all them old houses from like the 1800s or something? Yeah. Never been, though.”
Jasmine smiles at me. “Weeksville Village was made up of seven hundred freed slaves. It was one of the country’s first free black communities where blacks owned property and ran businesses. I mean, they had their own schools, churches, newspaper, even an old-folks home.”
“Is that where we going?”
“Nah, I just like talking about black history. Anyways, ain’t that fly, though? All these black people living together like one big tribe, working in unity, keeping each other safe. That’s what my daddy wished B-Voort could be for us. A village, helping one another.”
“Maybe we already are.”
“If so, then someone would know what happened to my brother. We turning left up here.”
We head down a block I don’t recognize.
I’m not even sure we’re in Bed-Stuy. The sun has already faded. If we blink for two seconds it’ll be dark.
“Jasmine, where we going? I promised I’d help you, but I ain’t about to walk into the valley of the shadow of death, willingly.”
“It’s just up here, come on.”
She walks ahead a bit, and I’m looking over my shoulder when she stops in front of an old prewar apartment in the middle of the block. To the right of it, an abandoned lot, prepping for construction. I wasn’t paying attention, to the street signs or nothing. Where the hell are we?
“Back here,” Jasmine says, walking down the narrow path between the building and the lot.
“Jazz, hold up!”
I follow her to the back of the building, where she stops, staring at a patch of grass, trashed with chips of concrete, wet plastic bags, and glass beer bottles, the area shaded by tall weeds.
“This is it.”
“This is what?” I ask as a ripped piece of yellow plastic ribbon tied to one corner of the building waves at me. I step closer to read it . . . POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS.
No. She wouldn’t. Nah.
“Jasmine . . .”
She takes a deep breath and meets my eye. “This is where Steph died.”
35
Jasmine
It’s quiet back here. You can barely hear an ambulance or a car horn. A strangely peaceful place for my brother to die.
But in the distance, Big plays out of someone’s open apartment window, “Who Shot Ya?” My stomach tenses; the breeze hitting my neck makes my whole body shiver.
Quadir stares at me, his mouth hanging open. “Nah . . .”
“This spot, right here, is where they found him.” I keep my voice level. Don’t want him to know about the storm inside me. He won’t listen to everything I have to say otherwise.
Quadir paces around, circling the perimeter of the grass patch, his fingers tangled together, holding the back of his head, breathing heavy.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles.
I don’t fault him. I threw up the first time I came back here alone.
Quickly, I pull the folder I stole from Mom months ago out of my book bag. So in her own world, I’m surprised she hasn’t noticed it’s gone.
“I read the police report. But even standing here, none of it makes sense.”
“Where’d you get that from?”
“Not important. What’s important is the details. They said they found Steph behind this building, shot point blank in the chest.”
“Jazz . . . I really can’t hear this,” he says, waving his hands by his ears as if swatting away a fly.
“I mean, the person shot him so close that it couldn’t have been no robbery or a random accident. It means he was facing his killer, even to the very end.”
Quadir is still pacing, biting his nails. “We shouldn’t be here, Jazz. We shouldn’t.”
“You know how they say, when kids are kidnapped without a struggle, it sometimes means that the kid might’ve known his capturer? What if that’s the same with Steph? What if he knew who the killer was, and that’s why he was over here? Steph wouldn’t come around here otherwise. We don’t have no family over here. No friends . . . technically.”
“What you mean by that ‘technically’?”
“Remember at the funeral, you said, he was at the studio before he died?”
“Yeah. Funky Slice Studio, downtown.”
“I went by there and checked. Steph’s never been up in that studio.”
His face is a question mark. You could see the wheels turning.
“But . . . you heard that last CD. He had to record it in a studio. The quality was too good!”
I rip one of Steph’s old notebooks out my bag and turn to the first page.
“You see this little drawing? That three lines with the snake down the middle, you’ve seen Steph draw this all the time, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw this same drawing in the booth at Kaven’s studio. It was Steph. I know it. And Kaven’s studio is only . . .” I turn in the opposite direction and point. “Three blocks that way. It’s mad close! If Steph was leaving the studio and heading home, he would’ve walked this way.”
Quadir studies the page. “So . . . what do you think happened?”
I inhale deep. “I think . . . Steph owed whoever he was supposed to sell drugs for money. I think the brotha saw him leaving Kaven’s studio and followed him. I think they reached the corner and he approached Steph. Maybe told him he wanted to talk in private. They walked around back here, and then . . . that dude we saw on Coney Island shot him.”
It feels good to lay out the story to someone, all the pieces of the puzzle that have been locked inside my head for days.
Quadir sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed.
“He wasn’t selling drugs, Jazz.”
“I know, I know! I didn’t want to believe it either,” I say, walking around him. “But that box under his bed tells another story. Mom was mad stressed about money since Daddy died. He probably was doing it to help us out. Or maybe to pay for time at Kaven’s studio to work on his demo. And that’s why . . . we have to go to Kaven’s studio.”
He frowns, scoffing. “What for?”
“Them security cameras . . . one of them must’ve captured Steph leaving, maybe even catch his killer. I swear Quady, this is gonna work! We’ll finally be able to know who killed Steph.”
Quady stares at the spot, his eyes filled with sadness. He holds his breath, shaking his head.
“Jazz . . . I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“That bag of jacks we found. They weren’t Steph’s. They were mine.”
He says it so fast I didn’t think I heard him right.
“Huh?”
“The crack . . . it was mine,” he coughs out, tears in his eyes. “Steph . . . he took them from me I think . . . ’cause he didn’t want me getting caught up.”
“Took them . . . from you . . . how?”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t even look at me. That chill I felt before is gone, and I’m on fire. I put so much trust in him. How could he lie to me like this?
“All this time . . . you had me thinking my brother was a fucking hustler, selling that poison . . . and it was you!”
“Jazz, I swear, I was gonna tell you.” He reaches for my hands and I snatch them away.
“You got him killed,” I whimper.
“What? Nah.”
“All that weight, Quady . . . No one gives drugs away for free. You don’t get something for nothing. Someone definitely was trying to get paid. Did you . . . tell someone you gave it to Steph?”
“Yo, word on my moms . . . I didn’t. And I don’t owe nobody nothing.”
“Who’d you get them from?”
Quadir straightens. “Come on, Jazz . . . you know I can’t tell you that, you know what’s up.”
“But I tell you everything!”
Quadir flinches, his hands held up in prayer.
“I’m sorry. But I promise, I swear I’ll help you find out what happened. ’Cause maybe you right. Maybe he was at Kaven’s and he walked this way.”
“But . . . if he wasn’t selling drugs, why would anyone want to kill him?”
“Maybe something else was going on. He had so many secrets.” He looks me square in the eye. “Don’t we all?”
Something shatters inside me. That protective shell that stopped the thoughts in the back of my head from creeping to the front. The space feels tight, the buildings caving in around us, and I’m suffocating. I gag before I take off running.
“Jasmine! Jasmine!”
“Leave me alone, Quady! Just leave me alone!”
I run. Running from that one dark thought coating my eyes . . .
That maybe it really was my fault he was killed after all.
36
July 20, 1998
Jarrell beatboxed on a bench, a slow lazy
rhythm, as he observed the scene. They weren’t at the B-Voort courts or the nearby park. They were at a different park, deep in the crook of Bed-Stuy.
“Yo, why are we here?” he asked in a low voice. “This place is mad corny.”
Quadir set his book bag down on the bench gently as if planting an explosive. He unzipped it, grabbing his water bottle, and rubbed his sweaty hands dry on his new hunter-green basketball shorts with a shrug.
“I’m saying, we always hang at the same spots. Figured we try someplace different.”
Steph sets down his identical book bag next to Quady’s and bends to retie his sneaker, surveying the perimeter. His pops always taught him to take in his new surroundings no matter if he’s in the hood or the boardroom. A car parked nearby provided the day’s sound track, a demo by a new artist named Fast Pace. Steph knew he was from around this part of Bed-Stuy, so no surprise he would be played heavy. Picnic tables by the gates were set up for a summer family reunion, the grills smoking, sweet honey sauce filling their noses.
Jarrell snickered. “Yo, you think I can pass as family and cop me a plate of BBQ spare ribs and some rice?”
“They Puerto Rican. You ain’t gonna fit in.”
“So what? I can salsa! Watch, I’mma do like Tupac did in Poetic Justice.” He stretched his arms out wide, grinning and with a pitched voice says, “COUSIN!”
Steph laughed from his belly, looking at Quadir to join in. But Quadir was razor-sharp focused on the game being played on the court.
“Quady? You good?”
Quadir didn’t smile as sweat ran down his sideburns. They hadn’t even been outside an hour yet.
“Yeah,” he stuttered. “Why you ask?”
“Um, aight,” Steph said, though his gut told him to push further. “You ready to play? Who you know up here? Can’t just be rolling up on someone else’s turf.”
Quadir froze, his eyes widening. “What you mean, someone else’s turf?”
Steph chuckled, but the hairs on his neck prickled. “I mean, imagine if some random cats came to B-Voort, trying to jump in. They’d look mad suspect. So . . . you know somebody here, right?”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 19
