On the Come Up(26)

“Business” has been her code word for drug dealing since I was seven years old and asked her how she made enough money to buy expensive sneakers.

“You’re my manager,” I say. “You can’t leave now.”

“Bri. Move,” she says through her teeth.

“You’re supposed to stay with me! You’re supposed—”

To put that all aside. But truth is she never said she would. I assumed.

“Bri, move,” she repeats.

I step aside.

Moments later, her Cutlass disappears down the street, and I’m left in the dark, without a manager. Worse, without my aunt.

Curious eyes wait for me back in the studio. But I can’t show weakness. Period. I clear my throat. “We’re good.”

“All right,” Doc says. “You gotta come hard on this one. This your introduction to the world, know what I’m saying? What you want the world to know?”

I shrug.

He wheels his chair closer to me, leans forward, and asks, “What’s the world done to you lately?”

It put my family in a messed-up situation.

It pinned me to the ground.

It called me a hoodlum.

“It’s done a hell of a lot,” I say.

Doc sits back with a smile. “Let ’em know how you feeling then.”

I sit in a corner with my notebook and my pen. Doc’s got the beat on repeat. It gives the floor a pulse, making it thump slightly beneath me.

I close my eyes and try to soak it in, but every time I do, Long and Tate sneer back at me.

If I was Aunt Pooh, I would’ve whooped their asses, no lie. Anything just to make those cowards regret even looking at me twice.

I’m not Aunt Pooh though. I’m weak, powerless Bri who had no choice but to lie there on the ground. But if I was Aunt Pooh, I’d tell them . . .

“Run up on me and get done up,” I mutter, and write it. Done up. The good news? A lot rhymes with “done up.” The bad news? A lot rhymes with “done up.” I tap my pen against my palm.

Across the garage, Scrap shows Doc and his boys his two pieces. One’s got a silencer, and the guys damn near drool over it. Aunt Pooh says Scrap’s got more heat than a furnace—

Wait.

“Run up on me and get done up. My squad got more heat than a furnace,” I mumble as I write. “Silencer is a must, they ain’t heard us.”

Heard us.

Nobody hears us around here. Like Dr. Rhodes. Or all those politicians who flooded the neighborhood after the riots. They did all these “stop the gun violence” talks, like we were to blame for that boy’s death. They didn’t care that it wasn’t our fault.

“We don’t bust, yet they blame us for murder,” I say under my breath.

Scrap points his Glock at the door to show it off. He even cocks it. If I had one, I would’ve aimed it and cocked it yesterday.

“This Glock, yeah, I cock it, and aim it,” I write. Wait, no, something should come before that. Aim it. Ain’t it. Frame it . . . Claim it.

Truth is, if I would’ve had that Glock, that would’ve just given Tate and Long another reason to call me a thug. Well, you know what?

“You think I’m a thug, well I claim it,” I mutter. “This Glock, yeah, I cock it and aim it. That’s what you expect, bitch, ain’t it? The picture you painted, I frame it.”

I’ve got this.

Half an hour later, I step up to the mic and put the headphones over my ears.

“You ready?” Doc says in the headphones.

“I’m ready.”

The music starts. I close my eyes again.

They wanna call me a hoodlum?

Fine.

I’ll be a goddamn hoodlum.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

Run up on me and get done up.

Whole squad got more heat than a furnace.

Silencer is a must, they ain’t heard us.

We don’t bust, yet they blame us for murder.

You think I’m a thug? Well, I claim it.

This Glock, yeah, I cock it and aim it.

That’s what you expect, bitch, ain’t it?

The picture you painted, I frame it.

I approach, you watch close, I’m a threat.

Think I bang, think I slang, claim a set.

Cops can draw, break the law, ’cause you fret.

Yet I bet you won’t even regret.

But you can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me on the come up.

You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

Pin me to the ground, boy, you fucked up.

Wrote me off, called your squad, but you lucked up.

If I did what I wanted and bucked up,

You’d be bound for the ground, grave dug up.