On the Come Up(42)

She gives me hope and scares me at the same time.

“Our li’l miracle.” She looks over at me. “I love you. You know that, right?”

I feel a slight twinge in my chest again. This one definitely feels good.

“I know,” I say. “I love you too.”





Thirteen


Christmas manages to be Christmas.

Even though it’s Sunday and we kinda owe it to Jesus to go to church on his birthday, none of us wake up until around eleven so we miss service. I’ve never understood those movies that show families up at the crack of dawn, all cheerful because, “Yay, Christmas!” For us it’s, “Yay, sleep!” Seriously though, sleeping in is the best part about Christmas. Wearing pajamas most of the day is the ultimate bonus. My Pikachu onesie feels like perfection.

It’s noon before we start breakfast. Jay always makes apple cinnamon pancakes on Christmas, and today is no different thanks to the bag of flour from our community center box. We’re supposed to have bacon, too, the thick kind that I would marry if it was legal, but there wasn’t any bacon in the box.

We take plates to the den, and the three of us sit on the couch, slathering our pancakes in jelly and butter. After breakfast, it’s usually time for presents, except this year there’s absolutely nothing under the tree. Jay couldn’t afford Christmas, and Trey obviously couldn’t either. Besides, I’m used to it. If there are three gifts under our tree, it’s a miracle. Zero isn’t far from that.

It’s fine.

Jay goes to her room to call elderly relatives who are surprisingly still alive, and Trey and I load up this Michael Jackson video game on the Wii Dad bought when we were younger. I swear to God, this game is one of the best things in existence. It teaches you how to dance like MJ. Technically you could move the Wii controllers in the right direction and win, but Trey and I get into it. The kicks, the crotch pops, all of it. Doesn’t help that we’re both competitive as hell.

“Look at that kick!” Trey says as he does one. It gets a “perfect” rating on the game. His kicks are always super high. It’s a skill he carries from his drum major days. “Ooooh-weee! You can’t keep up, girl!”

“Lie!” I hit a twirl that gets a “perfect.” Of course. I know every move by heart. My love for Mike started when I saw a YouTube video of the first time he performed “Billie Jean.” I was six, and Michael was magic. The way he moved effortlessly. The way the crowd responded to every kick, every step. It didn’t hurt that he had my last name. I loved him like I knew him.

I watched that performance until I learned every move. My grandparents played “Billie Jean” at family gatherings, and I put on a show. Cookouts, Sunday dinners, funeral repasts, didn’t matter. Everybody got a kick out of my performance, and I got a kick out of their reactions.

Yeah, dude had his problems—some stuff I won’t try to figure out—but his talent remained. No matter what, he was always Michael Goddamn Jackson.

I wanna be like that. Wait, not exactly like that, no offense to Mike, but one day I want people to look at me and say, “Despite the fact this girl lost her father to gun violence, had a drug addict for a mom, and is technically a ghetto statistic, she’s Brianna Goddamn Jackson, and she’s done some amazing shit.”

I push Trey’s chest and moonwalk away from him, hit a spin, and land on my tiptoes while flipping him off with both middle fingers. Like a legend.

Trey cracks up. “That ain’t an MJ move!”

“Nope, that’s a BJ,” I say.

“That don’t sound right.”

“I know, shut up.”

He falls back on the couch. “All right, you win this round. I can’t beat that.”

“I know.” I plop down beside him. “Since I win, you know what you gotta do.”

“Hell no.”

“It’s the rule!”

“It’s Jesus’s birthday, therefore that rule does not apply since it’s a clear violation of one of the Ten Commandments.”

I tilt my head. “You’re getting religious on me?”

“You didn’t win! I conceded.”

“That’s. A. Win.” I clap my hand with each word. “So do it.”

“Man,” he groans, but he gets down on his knees and worships me. “All hail, the most excellent Bri.”

“Who’s better at MJ than me,” I add.

“Who’s better at MJ than me.”

“And who beautifully kicked my ass.”

“And who beautifully . . .” He mumbles the rest to the point it sounds like gibberish.

I put my hand to my ear. “What was that?”

“Who beautifully kicked my ass!” he says louder. “There? Happy?”

I grin. “Yep!”

“Whatever,” he mumbles as he gets back on the couch. “Be ready next time.”

Jay comes back in the den, holding the phone with her cheek and shoulder. Her hands are occupied with a box. “Here they are. Y’all, say hey to Uncle Edward.” She shifts the box to one hand and holds the phone out.

“He ain’t dead?” Trey asks.

I elbow him. Rude ass. “Hey, Uncle Edward,” we say. He’s Jay’s mom’s uncle, making him my great-great-uncle. I’ve never seen him in my life, yet Jay makes me speak to him whenever they chat.