On the Come Up(33)

“So,” Sonny begins. “There’s this guy I’ve been talking to—”

I whip my head toward him so fast. “Full name, date of birth, and social security number.”

“Goddamn, Bri. Can I finish?”

“Nope.” If his plan was to distract me from being the talk of the school, he succeeded. “Where’d you meet?” I ask.

“We haven’t met. Only talked online.”

“What’s his name?”

“I only know his screen name.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen like me.”

“What does he look like?”

“I haven’t seen pictures of him.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re sure there’s a guy?”

“Positive. We’ve been talking for weeks—”

I seriously grab my chest. “Jackson Emmanuel Taylor, there is a guy you’ve been talking to for weeks, and I’m just hearing about it?”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re so damn dramatic. And nosy. And can’t keep shit to yourself. So yeah, you’re just hearing about it.”

I punch his arm.

He grins. “I love you too. The problem is, I only know this guy’s screen name, Rapid_One, and—what are you doing?”

I scroll through my phone. “Cyberstalking. Go on.”

“Creep. Anyway, he messaged me a few weeks ago. He does photography and sent me a picture of my rainbow fist in Oak Park.”

Sonny does graffiti around the Garden and posts it on Instagram under the alias “Sonn_Shine.” Malik and I are the only people who know it’s him. “Ooh! He lives here. What’s his address?”

“I’m sure you’ll find it, Olivia Nope.”

Sonny and I were obsessed with Scandal. Kerry Washington is goals. “You know, I’m actually flattered by that.”

“Of course you are. Anyway, he said he connected with it and came out to me. We’ve been DM’ing every day since.”

He gets this shy, un-Sonny-like smile as we climb the steps.

“Oh my God, you like him!” I say.

“Obviously. I think he likes me too, but we technically don’t know each other, Bri. We haven’t even exchanged pics. Who does that?”

“Two people born in the social media generation who, despite being labeled as shallow and vain, are actually super self-conscious and would rather hide behind avatars than reveal themselves.”

Sonny just stares at me.

I shrug. “Saw it on Instagram.”

Sonny tilts his head. “I’m not sure if you just came at me or not. Anyway, I recently read this book about these two guys who fall for each other over email. Reading that made me go, ‘Damn. Maybe this could work out for us too.’”

“But?” I ask. There is obviously a but.

“I can’t get distracted. I’ve got too much at stake.”

“If you mean all that college prep stuff—”

“Life prep stuff, Bri. My ACT and SAT scores will get me into a good art school, help me get scholarships. Get me out of the Garden. I know, nothing is guaranteed, but damn, for at least four years, maybe I can live somewhere other than that neighborhood with all its bullshit. Somewhere I don’t have to worry about colors, stray bullets. Homophobes.”

I get that . . . and I don’t. I’ve caught glimpses of things Sonny and Aunt Pooh both deal with in the neighborhood, but I won’t ever know-know because I don’t live it.

“Plus, I gotta set the example for my little sisters,” Sonny says. “They have to see me make it or they won’t think they can make it.”

“People go to college and have relationships, Sonny.”

“Yeah, but I can’t risk it, Bri. Luckily, Rapid understands. We’re taking our time or whatever. I guess I haven’t told you and Malik about him because it’s been nice to not have to explain shit and just . . . exist, you know?”

Meaning he doesn’t feel like he can “just exist” with me and Malik. I think I get it though. It’s kinda like the rap side of me. I don’t wanna have to explain shit. I just wanna be.

I kiss his cheek. “Well, I’m glad you have him.”

Sonny cuts me a side-eye. “You’re not getting mushy on me, are you?”

“Never.”

“You sure? Because that felt extra mushy.”

“It was not mushy.”

“Actually, I think it was,” he says.

“Is this mushy?” I give him a middle finger.

“Ah. There’s my Bri.”

Troll.

We get in line for security. There’s a woman and a man I’ve never seen before, directing people through the metal detectors, one at a time.

I suddenly feel sick.

I didn’t have anything on me that day. I don’t have anything on me today. Not even candy. I’m done selling that shit, since it makes people think I’m a drug dealer.

Yet I’m shaking as if I really am a drug dealer. It’s like how when I go in a store in Midtown-the-neighborhood, and the clerks watch me extra close or follow me around. I know I’m not stealing, but I get scared that they think I’m stealing.

I don’t want these new guards to assume, too. Especially when I can see the very spot where Long and Tate pinned me down. There’s no blood there or anything, but it’s one of those things I’ll never forget. I could lay my face on the exact same spot without a second thought.