On the Come Up(2)

“You were extremely distracted today,” she says. “You didn’t even do your practice test.”

“Yes, I did!” Kinda. A little. Sorta. Not really. Nah.

“Girl, you didn’t submit any answers until a minute ago. Honestly? You haven’t been focused for a while now. Trust me, when you get your report card next week, you’ll see proof. Bs don’t turn to Cs and Ds for nothing.”

Shit. “Ds?”

“I gave you what you earned. So what’s going on? It’s not like you’ve been missing class lately.”

Lately. It’s been exactly a month since my last suspension, and I haven’t been sent to the principal’s office in two weeks. That’s a new record.

“Is everything okay at home?” Mrs. Murray asks.

“You sound like Ms. Collins.” That’s the young, blond counselor who’s nice but tries too hard. Every single time I get sent to her, she asks me questions that sound like they came from some “How to Talk to Statistical Black Children Who Come to Your Office Often” handbook.

How is your home life? (None of your business.)

Have you witnessed any traumatic events lately, such as shootings? (Just because I live in the “ghetto” doesn’t mean I dodge bullets every day.) Are you struggling to come to terms with your father’s murder? (It was twelve years ago. I barely remember him or it.) Are you struggling to come to terms with your mother’s addiction? (She’s been clean for eight years. She’s only addicted to soap operas these days.) What’s good with you, homegirl, nah’mean? (Okay, she hasn’t said that, but give her time.) Mrs. Murray smirks. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s up with you. So what’s got you so distracted today that you wasted my time and your momma’s hard-earned money?”

I sigh. She’s not giving me that phone until I talk. So fine. I’ll talk. “I’m waiting on DJ Hype to tell me I can battle in the Ring tonight.”

“The Ring?”

“Yeah. Jimmy’s Boxing Ring. He has freestyle battles every Thursday. I submitted my name for a chance to battle tonight.”

“Oh, I know what the Ring is. I’m just surprised you’re going in it.”

The way she says “you’re” makes my stomach drop, as if it makes more sense that anyone else in the world would go in the Ring except for me. “Why are you surprised?”

She puts her hands up. “I don’t mean anything by it. I know you’ve got skills. I’ve read your poetry. I just didn’t know you wanted to be a rapper.”

“A lot of people don’t know.” And that’s the problem. I’ve been rapping since I was ten, but I’ve never really put myself out there with it. I mean yeah, Sonny and Malik know, my family knows. But let’s be real: Your mom saying you’re a good rapper is like your mom saying you’re cute when you look a hot mess. Compliments like that are part of the parental responsibilities she took on when she evicted me from her womb.

Maybe I’m good, I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for the right moment.

Tonight may be the perfect time, and the Ring is the perfect place. It’s one of the most sacred spots in Garden Heights, second only to Christ Temple. You can’t call yourself a rapper until you’ve battled in the Ring.

That’s why I gotta kill it. I win tonight, I’ll get a spot in the Ring’s lineup, and if I get a spot in the lineup, I can do more battles, and if I do more battles, I’ll make a name for myself. Who knows what could happen then?

Mrs. Murray’s expression softens. “Following your dad’s footsteps, huh?”

It’s weird. Whenever other people mention him, it’s like they’re confirming that he’s not some imaginary person I only remember bits and pieces of. And when they call him my dad and not Lawless, the underground rap legend, it’s like they’re reminding me that I’m his and he’s mine.

“I guess. I’ve been preparing for the Ring for a minute now. I mean, it’s hard to prepare for a battle, but a win could jump-start my career, you know?”

“Let me get this straight,” she says, sitting up.

Imaginary alarms go off in my head. Warning: Your teacher is about to gather you, boo.

“You’ve been so focused on rapping that your grades have dropped drastically this semester. Forget that junior-year grades are vital for college admissions. Forget that you once told me you want to get into Markham or Howard.”

“Mrs. Murray—”

“No, you think about this for a second. College is your goal, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

I shrug. “College isn’t for everyone, you know?”

“Maybe not. But a high school education? Critical. It’s a D now, but that D will turn to an F if you keep this up. I had a similar conversation with your brother once.”

I try not to roll my eyes. It’s nothing against Trey or Mrs. Murray, but when you have an older brother who did great before you, if you don’t at least match his greatness, people have something to say.

I’ve never been able to match Trey here at Midtown. They still have the programs and newspaper clippings on display from when he starred in A Raisin in the Sun. I’m surprised they haven’t renamed Midtown “The Trey Jackson School of the Arts Because We Love His Ass That Much.”