On the Come Up(19)

Aunt Pooh doesn’t go from zero to one hundred—she goes from chill to ready to kill. But I don’t want to have her in prison over Long and Tate. “They’re not worth it, Aunty.”

“How much time you get, Bri?” Scrap asks.

Damn. He makes it sound like I’m going to prison. “Three days.”

“That ain’t bad,” he says. “They take your candy?”

“Nah, why?”

“Let me get some Starbursts then.”

“That’ll be a dollar,” I tell him.

“I ain’t got cash. I can pay you tomorrow though.”

This fool did not. “Then you can get the Starbursts tomorrow.”

“Goddamn, it’s just a dollar,” Scrap says.

“Goddamn, it’s just twenty-four hours,” I say in my best Scrap voice. Aunt Pooh and the others crack up. “I don’t do credit. That’s against the Ten Snack Commandments, bruh.”

“The what?” he says.

“Yo! That shit!” Aunt Pooh backhands my arm. “Y’all, she redid Big’s ‘Ten Crack Commandments.’ It’s dope as hell, too. Bri, spit that shit.”

This is how it goes. I let Aunt Pooh hear some rhymes I wrote, she gets so hype over them that she tells me to rap them for her friends. Trust, if you’re whack, a gangbanger will be the first to let you know.

“All right.” I throw my hoodie on. Aunt Pooh pounds out a rhythm on the hood of the car. More people in the courtyard drift over.

I nod along. Just like that I’m in my zone.

I been at this game for months, and the money’s been gradual,

So I made some rules, using Big’s manual

A couple of steps unique, for me to keep

My game on track while I sell these snacks.

Rule numero uno, never let no one know,

how much cash I stack, ’cause it’s fact

that cheddar breeds jealousy ’specially

when it comes to Basics. They’ll be quick to take it.

Number two, never tell folks my next move.

Don’t you know competition got a mission and ambition

to make exactly what I’m getting?

They’ll be at my spots where it’s hot with plans to open up shop.

Number three, I only trust Sonny and Leek.

Li’l kids will set my ass up, properly gassed up,

hoodied and masked up. Huh, for a couple bucks

Stick me up on playgrounds when no one’s around.

Number four is actually important the more:

No eating the stash while I’m making the cash.

Number five, never sell no junk where I bunk.

I don’t care if they want some chips, tell them dip.

Number six—them things called refunds? See none.

Make the sale, take the bills, let them bail, and be done.

Seven, this rule gets people up in arms,

but no credit or discounts, not even for my mom.

Family and biz don’t gel, like bubble guts and Taco Bell

Find myself saying, “What the hell?”

Number eight, never keep no profits in my pockets

and wallets. Deposit. Or buy a safe and lock it.

Number nine is just as bad as number one to me:

No matter where I’m at, keep an eye for police.

If they thinkin’ I’m suspicious, they ain’t trying to listen.

They’ll unload them mags, make me a hashtag.

Number ten, two words—perfect timin’.

I want some lines then? Do early grinding,

missing out on clientele, that’s a hell no.

If they don’t see me out, they going straight to the store.

Using these steps, I’ll have cash out the anus,

to get what I need, and help out with bill payments,

and sell more cookies, than that famous named Amos.

On my mom and on my dad, and word to Big, one of the greatest.

“What?” I finish.

A collective “Ohhhhh!” goes up. Jojo’s mouth is wide open. One or two GDs bow to me.

There’s absolutely nothing like this. Yeah, they’re gangbangers, and they’ve done all kinds of foul shit that I don’t even wanna know about. But I’m enough to them, so frankly, they’re enough to me.

“A’ight, a’ight,” Aunt Pooh calls over to them. “I need to talk to the superstar in private. Y’all gotta go.”

Everybody but Scrap and Jojo leave.

Aunt Pooh lightly pushes Jojo’s head. “Go on, li’l badass.”

“Dang, Pooh! When you gon’ let me claim?”

He means claim colors, as in become a Garden Disciple. This little boy’s always trying to join, like it’s the Maple Grove basketball team. He’s been throwing up GD signs for as long as I’ve known him.

“Forever never,” Aunt Pooh says. “Now go.”

Jojo makes this sound like a tire pump spitting air. “Man,” he groans, but he pedals away.

Aunt Pooh turns to Scrap, who still hasn’t left. She tilts her head like, Well?

“What?” he says. “This my car. I stay if I wanna.”

“Man, whatever,” Aunt Pooh says. “You good, Bri?”

I shrug. It’s weird. Ever since Long called me a “hoodlum,” it’s like the word’s branded on my forehead, and I can’t get it off me. Hate that this is bothering me so much.