On the Come Up(37)

“Yeah,” Shana says. “I’ve already heard that some of the parents are okay with it because they heard you were a drug dealer. They want Long and Tate back.”

That’s a slap to my face if there ever was one. “Are you serious?”

That explains why that boy yelled out “Free Long and Tate.” Well, he’s an asshole too, but still, that gives some insight.

“It’s ridiculous,” says Malik. “Who knows what could happen though once I post the video?”

Oh, I know what could happen. It could end up all over the news and social media. People all over the world will watch me get thrown onto the ground. Eventually, it’ll be forgotten, because guess what? Something similar will happen to another black person at a Waffle House or Starbucks or some shit, and everybody will move on to that.

I’d rather forget that it happened at all. Besides, I don’t have time to worry about that stuff. My family doesn’t have heat.

Malik leans forward. “You have a chance to do something here, Bri. This video gets out and you speak up? It could actually change things at our school.”

“Then you speak up,” I say.

He sits back. “Wow. Let me get this straight: You’d rather rap about guns and stuff you don’t do instead of speak up in a positive way about something that actually happened to you? That’s some sellout shit, Bri.”

I look him up and down. “Excuse you?”

“Let’s be real,” he says. “Only reason you rapped like that is ’cause that’s how everybody raps, right? You thought it would be an easy way to a hit song and make money.”

“Nah, ’cause not everybody has lines about getting pinned to the goddamn ground!”

I’m so loud, several heads turn our way.

“It’s none of your business why I rapped what I rapped,” I say through my teeth. “But I said what I wanted to say, including about the incident. That’s all I’m gonna ever say about it. But if I did rap that way just to get a ‘hit’ and make money, then good for me, considering all the bullshit my family’s dealing with. Until you wake up in a cold house, then come at me, bruh.”

It seems to hit him over the span of a few seconds—his eyes widen as he probably remembers that Jay lost her job, he looks horrified that he forgot that we don’t have gas, and he opens and closes his mouth like he regrets what he said. “Bri, I’m sorry—”

“Screw you, Malik,” I say, for multiple reasons.

I slide out of the booth, throw my hoodie over my head, and storm out of the shop.





Twelve


I didn’t talk to Malik for the rest of the day. We passed each other in the halls, and as far as I was concerned, he was a stranger. He got on the bus that afternoon, and I guess the fact I wouldn’t speak to him made him sit up front with Shana.

Sonny hates it.

“When you two fight, it’s like Captain America versus Iron Man, and my ass is Peter Parker, in awe of both of you,” he said. “I can’t pick sides, dammit.”

“I don’t want you to. But you do know Peter was technically on Iron Man’s side, right?”

“Not the point, Bri!”

I hate he’s in this position, but it is what it is. I’m not talking to Malik until he apologizes. I mean, come on, sellout? I was already pissed at him for making Shana laugh at my expense. Okay, and a little pissed that he brought her in the first place. Can you blame me though? I had no clue there was something between them, and then all of a sudden I’m the third wheel on what I thought was lunch with my best friend.

And what I stupidly assumed was a date. But I’m madder at myself about that. I always get feelings for boys who will never have feelings for me. I’m just destined to be that person.

Anyway, I can’t worry about Malik. At the moment I’m more worried about this almost empty refrigerator I’m standing in front of.

It’s the second day of break, and I’ve been here a minute now. Long enough that I’ve counted how many items there are. Eighteen, to be exact. Eight eggs, four apples, two sticks of butter, one jar of strawberry jelly (to go with the one jar of peanut butter in the cabinet), one gallon of milk, one gallon of orange juice, one loaf of bread. The freezer isn’t much better—a ten-pound bag of chicken, a bag of peas, and a bag of corn. That’ll be dinner tonight and tomorrow night, too. Don’t know what we’ll have for dinner after that. Christmas is a giant question mark.

Trey reaches past me. “Stop letting the cold air out of the refrigerator, Bri.”

Make that seven eggs. He grabs one and the bread.

“You sound like Grandma.” I could have the refrigerator open ten seconds and here she comes talking about, “Close that door before you spoil the food!”

“Hey, she had a point,” Trey says. “You run up the light bill like that, too.”

“Whatever.” I close the refrigerator. The door is covered in new bills. The gas bill got paid, which is why the house is warm and the fridge is almost empty. When it came down to more food or heat, the cold weather made Jay choose heat—we’re supposed to get snow flurries next week. She said we can “stretch” the food we have.

I can’t wait for the day we don’t have to stretch or choose. “What am I supposed to do for breakfast?”