On the Come Up(21)

I blink. “I . . . I’m going in a studio?”

Aunt Pooh grins. “Yep.”

“And I’m making a song?”

“You damn right.”

“Yooooooo!” I put my fist at my mouth. “For real? For real?”

“Hell yeah! Told you I was gon’ make something happen!”

Damn. I’ve dreamed of going into a studio since I was like ten. I would stand in front of my bathroom mirror with my headphones on my ears and a brush in my hand like it was a mic, as I rapped along with Nicki Minaj. Now I’m gonna make my own song.

“Shit.” There’s a slight problem. “Which song will I do though?”

I’ve got tons in my notebook. Plus, a hell of a lot more ideas that I haven’t written down. But this is my first real song. It’s gotta be the right one.

“Look, whatever you do is gon’ be a banger,” Aunt Pooh says. “Don’t sweat it.”

Scrap shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “You need to do something like that song ol’ boy you battled got.”

“That ‘Swagerific’ trash?” Aunt Pooh asks. “Man, get outta here! That shit ain’t got no substance.”

“It ain’t gotta have substance,” Scrap says. “Milez lost last night, yet that song so catchy, he got even more folks talking ’bout it. Shit was trending this morning.”

“Hold up,” I say. “You mean to tell me that I won the battle, am clearly the better rapper, and yet he’s getting all the buzz?”

“So basically,” Scrap says, “you won the popular vote ’cause everybody loved you in the Ring, but you still lost the election since he the one getting fame?”

I shake my head. “Too soon.”

“Touché,” he says, because he’s Scrap, and sometimes he says touché.

“Look, don’t worry ’bout that, Bri,” Aunt Pooh says. “If that fool can blow up ’cause of some garbage, I know you can—”

“Pooh!” This skinny older man zigzags across the courtyard. “Lemme holla at you!”

“Goddamn, Tony!” Aunt Pooh groans. “I’m in the middle of an important conversation.”

It’s not that important. She goes over to him.

I bite my lip. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t mean the actual selling drugs part. She hands them the product, they hand her the money. Simple. I mean I don’t know how she can do it, knowing that at one time somebody else was the dealer and my mom, her sister, was the junkie.

But if I make this rap stuff happen, hopefully she’ll give all that up.

“Real talk, Bri,” Scrap says. “Although Milez getting all the attention, you oughta be proud. You got skills. I mean, he blowing up, and I don’t know what the hell gon’ happen for you, but yeah, you got skills.”

What kinda shady-ass compliment is this? “Thanks?”

“The Garden need you, for real,” he says. “I remember when your pops was on the come up. Every time he made a music video around the neighborhood, my li’l ass tried to get in it. Just wanted to be in his presence. He gave us hope. Hardly anything good ever come from around here, you know?”

I watch Aunt Pooh slip something into Tony’s shaky hand. “Yeah, I know.”

“But you could be the something good,” says Scrap.

I hadn’t thought about it like that. Or the fact that so many people looked up to my dad. Enjoyed his music? Yeah. But he gave them hope? It’s not like he was the “cleanest” rapper.

But in the Garden, we make our own heroes. The kids in the projects love Aunt Pooh because she gives them money. They don’t care how she gets it. My dad talked about foul shit, yeah, but it’s shit that happens around here. That makes him a hero.

Maybe I can be one, too.

Scrap slurps the rest of the milk from his bowl. “‘Swagerific, so call me terrific,’” he raps with a little shoulder bounce. “‘Swagerific. Swagerific . . . Swag, swag, swag . . .’”





Seven


Here’s the thing about my brother’s car: You hear it before you see it.

Scrap’s still rapping “Swagerific” to himself when I notice that all-too-familiar grumble getting closer. Granddaddy says Trey needs a new tailpipe. Trey says he needs money for a new tailpipe.

That old Honda Civic pulls into the Maple Grove parking lot, and heads turn in its direction like they always do. Trey parks, gets out, and seems to look straight at me.

Welp. This isn’t good.

He crosses the parking lot. His hair and his beard have grown out since he moved back home. Granddaddy says he looks like he’s in a midlife crisis.

Grandma says our dad spit Trey out. They look exactly alike, right down to their dimples. Jay claims he even walks like Dad, with this swagger about him as if he’s got everything figured out already. He’s in his Sal’s uniform—a green polo with a pizza-slice logo on the chest and a matching hat. He’s supposed to be heading to work.

A GD in the courtyard notices him and nudges one of his friends. Soon all of them watch Trey. With smirks.

When he’s close to me, Trey goes, “I guess phones are useless now, huh?”

“Good morning to you too.”