Rell grabs my arm, eyes shooting over to Fast Pace. He’s right—we can’t play ourselves in front of him.
Pierce rushes out the room with Fletch close on his tail. I’m ready to sprint back to Brooklyn when Fast Pace and his boys step in front of us, his lips curled up.
“So how long y’all gonna keep up with this little game you got going on?”
Rell glances at me quick but keeps up the act.
“What game? Man, I don’t know what you talking about. And I don’t appreciate you calling my homeboy a snitch!”
Fast Pace smirks then digs into his pocket, pulling out a tape recorder. He holds it in the air and presses play. Steph’s voice fills the room, his raw vocals from the song we mixed with Jasmine. But it’s a verse we never heard before . . .
OK, OK
Single me out
‘Cause I say what they don’t say
This single be out
But watch all day they play
On the radio
‘Cause Holmes, hate don’t pay—
My stomach smacks the concrete forty floors below. Rell’s eyes almost drop out of his head. He has the original recording. But . . . how?
“Where did you . . . where . . .”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, playboy,” Fast Pace says, stuffing the tape back in his pocket.
Out of nowhere, Rell charges full speed into Pace, knocking him to the floor, and the room explodes.
“What the fuck!”
“Aye yo, chill! Easy!”
“Get off!”
“I got him! I got him!”
Two quick jabs to the gut by his boy and Rell slumps, rolling up into a ball.
“Rell, you good?” I whisper, and he moans back as Fast Pace’s boys help him to his feet.
“You fucking dummy!” Fast Pace barks with a swift kick to his ass. “You lucky we up in here with all these cameras and not on the block.” He turns to me. “Yo, I don’t know what kind of game y’all playing but if your boy is still alive, he better watch his back. Word is, people from the strangest places are looking for him as we speak. Ain’t no place safe. Not even home.”
He nods and calls over his shoulder with a laugh as he leaves. “See y’all tonight!”
My ears pop as I walk through the revolving door. My whole brain feels like it’s ready to pop, too. Even outside I can’t seem to breathe right. Back and forth, back and forth . . . I’m pacing, my heart power-drilling against my chest.
“Yo, what the fuck was that?” Rell cries, leaning up against the wall on the corner, recovering.
“I don’t know. But Fast Pace knows everything!”
“How? We were careful! Did you tell anyone?”
“Nah, you?”
“Hell no! What do we do? Fast Pace probably running his mouth and I ain’t with going back to Brooklyn not knowing what we about to walk into.”
So much happened in a matter of a few minutes . . . I need to think.
I pace in a circle as Rell stares up at the clouds. Snitching, the original tape . . . it all has to be connected somehow.
“Yo, where you think he got all that snitching stuff from?” I ask.
“Beats me.” Rell leans against a car parked nearby. “Wait . . . in one of Steph’s notebooks. He had a business card. For a detective.”
I snap my fingers. “And those cops that hemmed us up, they were asking about him!”
“So you think . . . you think he really was a snitch?” Rell is hurt just by the thought.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “We should start there. Call that cop and find out what he knows.”
Rell nods, cursing under his breath. “Aight.”
We head for the train, dragging. Feels like we failed and I don’t even know how. I knew eventually folks would find out about Steph . . . but not like this.
“Not for nothing, but a rap battle competition . . . at the Tunnel,” Rell says, grinning. “Steph would’ve smashed that shit.”
“No doubt. Easily would’ve come home the champion.” I laugh. “Aye yo, why you attack Pace like that? Were you trying to get us killed?”
Rell shrugs with a smirk, slipping the tape out his pocket. “How else was I gonna cop this?”
“Son! You a genius!”
“Man, I didn’t think that’d work, for real, for real! Can’t believe they didn’t cap my ass for . . .” Rell stops short, grabbing my arm. “Wait . . . if cats think Steph’s still alive like Fast Pace was saying, and they looking for him . . . then they’d go to the one place they’d know where to find him.” He looks at me. “B-Voort.”
I stare at him until it hits me. “Oh shit, Jasmine!”
42
Jasmine
The best part about going to school so close to home is in less than ten minutes, I can be inside my warm room, listening to that new Brand Nubian album. And in this cold, you don’t want much more than that.
My hair is cornrowed half up and the rest pulled into my regular two puffs. Quadir says he likes my natural hair, thinks it’s fly. They should be done with their meeting with Pierce by now. It’s over. No more secrets. No more pretending my brother is still alive. And Quadir and I, we’re . . . something. Nothing official, no titles or nothing like that yet. But it’s the start of something beautiful.
They’ll probably come straight to my crib after. Maybe I should pick up their favorite snacks from the corner store. Or maybe . . .
“Hey, Jasmine!”
The voice comes from the passenger seat of a green Dodge Neon with tinted windows, rolling slowly next to me. The brotha’s brown locks are twisted into two french braids. He knows my name . . . but why don’t I know his? And how long have they’ve been following me?
“You Jasmine, right?” he says, the crook of his mouth pulled up into a half smirk.
I stare back at him, the car too dark for me to see the driver. Did something just move? Is someone in the back seat?
“What? You don’t remember me?” Guy with the brown dreads says, all sweet.
I don’t. And I’m pretty good with names and faces. I would’ve remembered those hazel eyes.
“What you want?” I ask, putting some bass in my voice so I don’t sound shaky.
“Yo, come here for a second.”
Inside the car, hanging off the rearview mirror is a leather medallion . . . a gift you receive when you join the Guerrillas. The block isn’t empty. There’s a few pockets of kids around, walking home. But I never felt more cold and alone.
“Nah,” I say, walking away, arms pumping. If I run, they may hop out and grab me. And I doubt anyone would help if I scream. I just need to make it closer to B-Voort. Then, I can dip and disappear in one of the buildings.
The car crawls beside me. “Jasmine? Yo, Jasmine? We just wanna talk.”
Breathing hard, I’m a few feet from the bodega when the car revs its engine and takes off. It skirts around the corner and stops, cutting me off in the crosswalk. Four brothas hop out.
“Jasmine,” Brown Dreads says, all the sweetness in his voice gone, a dark shadow across his face.
I take two steps back into the wall with a gasp, my muscles already sliding down to my feet. Once I faint, I’ll be an easy wet noodle to throw in the trunk of their car. Life wasn’t flashing before my eyes or nothing, but I did note the last place I would’ve been seen alive is the same corner my dead brother chilled at.
The bell on the bodega door jingles. Ronnie and her girls come out, sucking on red and green Blow Pops, dressed in bubble jackets. They gather right between me and the brothas, giggling to themselves when Ronnie notices me on the wall. She frowns, eyes ping-ponging between me and the brotha by the car.
“Hold up,” she mumbles to her girls. “Yo, Jasmine. You good?”
I don’t answer, too afraid to speak or take my eyes off the brothas for one second.
Ronnie measures me before turning to them.
“Y’all lost?” There’s a bite in her voice. Her girls straigh
ten, tuning in.
Brown Dreads raises an eyebrow. “Nah, we straight.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Ain’t no problem,” he snaps. “This ain’t none of your business, so step.”
Ronnie squares her shoulders, her girls doing the same, rounding on either side of her, forming a wall between us.
“Nah, son,” she says. “I’ll stay.”
Brown Dreads rolls his eyes. “Look, we here to holla at Jasmine. Ain’t no problem. We just want to make sure she’s making the right decision.”
“And you need four grown MEN to do that?” she snaps. “Y’all know how wack y’all look right now? Stepping to a girl like this?”
Brown Dreads takes a deep breath and moves closer to her. “Look, I ain’t gonna tell you again. Go on home and mind your fucking business.”
Ronnie cups her mouth and makes a distinct birdcall sound. Within a minute, brothas are popping out of cars and hopping off benches in the courtyard . . . walking in our direction, hands tucked in their jacket or behind their backs as if reaching for their gun. The wide circle surrounding us slowly shrinks as they inch closer, like lions creeping in on their prey.
The three brothas by the car watch them approach, fidgeting. Brown Dreads glances over his shoulder and the driver shakes his head at him.
Ronnie crosses her arms, her neck rolling. “Like I said, I’ll stay. But my pop’s peoples may wanna holla at you.”
Brown Dreads smacks his lips, glaring at me. “This is what you really want, then?”
The first of the lions reach us, standing in front of Ronnie. “Ma, is there a problem?”
Ronnie smirks at Brown Dreads. “Nah, I think we good. Right?”
He looks at me again. “Yeah,” he mumbles, backing toward the car.
“Don’t come around here again.”
“We ain’t,” he says, glaring at me. “And she better not come sniffing around us either.”
I clutch my chest, holding Daddy’s medallion tight like a lifeline as the brothas hop in their whip and drive off.
Ronnie’s room is not that much different than mine. The gold daybed with a white ruffle comforter set sits up against a pink wall layered with posters cut out of Word Up!, Vibe, and Right On! magazines. All women. Lil’ Kim, Mary J. Blige, Total, Aaliyah, Foxy Brown, Monica, and Brandy. I notice a Lauryn Hill poster in the corner and smile.
“You want a drink?” she asks, pouring some Alizé into a blue plastic cup.
“No thanks,” I say, trying to keep the disgust out of my voice.
She chuckles and pours a cup. “Here.”
I hold my breath and take a sip. It doesn’t burn like the drink Pierce gave me in the club, but it does sizzle over my fried nerves.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
She picks up a see-through neon-blue rotary phone off her desk and dials a number. The closed door muffles the music playing in the living room.
“Hi, Ms. Gray. It’s Ronnie. Good . . . is Quadir there? Oh okay, well, could you just tell him to hit up me AND Jasmine back at my crib? Okay. Thanks.” She hangs up and shrugs. “He’ll call us back.”
“Oh,” I mumble, fidgeting with my coat as I stand. “Well, I should probably get home.”
She sucks her teeth. “Girl, sit down. You can’t be in these streets alone. Whoever those fools were probably know where you live. So you might as well just wait for Quady and Rell.”
Wait for Quady . . . here? I rather take my chances outside.
“Uh. Okay. Thanks.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes. “You know how to play spades?”
“Um . . . no.”
“Come on,” she huffs up from her chair. “I’ll teach you. Pay attention, though.’”
In the living room, it’s a party. The stereo on HOT 97. A card table set up with four chairs. Girls scattered around, drinking and smoking weed. I recognize some from school and some from around the way, but none of them have ever been cool with me. Ronnie takes a seat, pulling a stool up next to her.
“Watch first, then I’ll teach you.”
I give her a sharp nod. I have no interest in this game, but I should at least act grateful after she saved my life.
Ronnie looks across the table and nods at Tamika Hawkins, shuffling a deck before dealing.
“How many books y’all want?” Chanté Williams asks, writing team names on a torn piece of loose-leaf paper.
“Hmmm . . .” she says. “I got five. What you got, Tasha?”
La’Tasha Mayes studies her cards. “I got four, easy.”
“Aight. Don’t be reneging like last time.”
“Damn, I said my bad,” she laughs.
I grip the cup and take a longer sip. Not trying to make drinking a habit, but the unfamiliar faces make me nervous.
“So . . . who were them Negros out there?” La’Tasha asks as they start to play.
“I don’t know.” It ain’t a lie but it ain’t the whole truth either.
“They knew you. Your face was about to be on the back of a milk carton.”
“Tasha, leave her alone,” Ronnie says with a smirk.
There she goes again, saving me. She’s being really nice. She must not know about me and Quady yet.
“If I didn’t say it before, thank you . . .” I offer. “And . . . I’m real sorry about you and Quady.”
The rooms goes silent, eyes staring at Ronnie. Shit, why did I say that?
Ronnie doesn’t even spare me a glance, tossing out another card.
“Whatever. That fool ain’t shit anyways,” she mumbles. “And are you paying attention? You better not ask a whole bunch of questions when it’s your turn.”
The girls whip their heads around.
“Wait, you don’t know how to play spades?” Tamika asks, almost dropping her cup.
“Oh snap, we’ll teach you,” Chanté says. “Aight, ready? First, dealer gives us cards and we each have to write down how many books we think we could win, based on the hand dealt. Dealer goes first, puts down the first card, then we each gotta put down a card from the same suit. Hearts for hearts, diamonds for diamonds, nah mean? Whoever has the highest card wins the book.”
Ronnie throws a king of diamonds on the table. Everyone throws out diamond cards, and she collects. King being the highest, the book is won.
“Spades is the highest of all the suits. Jokers are wild,” Chanté says. “And if you can’t play a card from the suit, you gotta play whatever you got, but if you want to win the hand, you throw out the spade.”
“And what’s reneging?”
“That’s when you play a card from another suit when you could’ve played the right suit,” Ronnie says. “Like playing a heart when you should’ve played the diamond you had.”
“Girl,” La’Tasha says, pouring herself another drink, “how you black and don’t know how to play spades? That’s like . . . the law?”
“Ooo! Y’all hear that?” Ronnie says, her shoulders bopping. “Chanté, turn that up!”
Chanté jumps over to the stereo raising the volume on Lil’ Kim’s “Crush on You.”
The girls sing along hard, like they trying to be rappers.
“Aye yo, Jasmine,” Tamika says, throwing out a ten of clubs. “Who’s your favorite? Lil’ Kim or Foxy Brown?”
I say it extra fast. “Psst. None of them.”
The table glares at me.
“You serious?” La’Tasha asks, seeming hurt. “What you got against Kim?”
“Or Foxy?” Tamika snaps.
I shrug, taking another long sip. The alcohol has me talking reckless.
“I mean, they only getting all this attention ’cause they dressing half-naked and rapping about sex. They’d be nothing if they covered themselves up for a change.”
Ronnie cocks her head to the side. “So what? You rather them dress in kente cloth, grow dreadlocks, and rap about herbs?”
“Nah, but . . . what kind of message are they sending us wome
n? That the only way to get ahead in the game is to play into man’s porn fantasy?”
Ronnie sighs, throwing out an ace of spades. “My daddy taught me that anything a man can do, a woman can do too. So if a man can rap about sex, why can’t a woman?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But nothing. And if you can’t see how you wrong for judging them, then you a hypocrite.”
My back straightens. “I ain’t no hypocrite.”
“Who are you or anyone to judge the way they want to live their lives? No one judging you for living yours.” She glances at my medallion. “To me, when they talk about sex, they just sound . . . powerful.”
“Powerful? You bugging.”
She smirks. “You know how gully you gotta be to break the mold everybody tries to bake you in? How I see it, Kim and Foxy took all the shit that Negros throw at us—calling us bitches, hoes, I pay your bills, blah blah blah—and started using it on themselves. It’s like they took men’s weapons and used it against them. ’Cause once you let someone know they weak-ass words can’t hurt you, that you don’t need them, that you got your own, they no longer have any power over you. And you can be, do, say whatever you want.”
“And so what they talking about sex?” Tamika says, her neck rolling. “Men talk about sex in songs all damn day! How it makes them feel good. So what, chicks can’t feel good?”
Ronnie chuckles, throwing down a four of hearts.
“Word. Like, how dare ladies enjoy sex, too?”
They dap each other up, laughing. I’ll be honest, I never expected they’d have such feminist views. Maybe I really am too . . . judgmental.
“Aight, I feel you,” I say with a smile. “Guess I never really looked at it like that. But . . . if taking back your power means you can be whoever you want to be . . . how about be a teacher and help children to read. A doctor and help cure cancer. A humanitarian and help feed the world’s poor. A social worker and help kids in the hood. If your only goal is a selfish one . . . if your looks is only thing you care about . . . what does that say about you?”
Ronnie stares up at me, her face unreadable, but something hit her at the right angle.
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 22
