On the Come Up(46)

“Somehow, it’s gonna work out,” Jay says. “Somehow, someway, it will.”

It sounds like she’s telling herself that more than us.

The whole thing throws me off. When Mr. Watson blows the bus horn, I’m still getting dressed. Jay takes me to school instead.

She holds my headrest as she backs out of the driveway. “Don’t let this rent situation distract you, Bri. I meant what I said, it’s gonna work out.”

“How?”

“I don’t have to know how.”

I’m so sick of folks saying that. First, Aunt Pooh and now Jay. They really don’t know how it will work out and they’re hoping it miraculously will. “What if I get a job?” I say. “It would help.”

“No. School is your job,” she says. “I got my first job when I was thirteen, after my momma died, so I could help my daddy out. I didn’t get to be a teenager because I was so focused on bills. Thought I was grown. That’s partially why I ended up with Trey at sixteen.”

Yeah, my mom and dad were those stereotypical teen parents. They were grown when I came along, but Trey made them grow up way before that. Granddaddy says my dad had two jobs at sixteen and still pursued rapping. He was determined that . . .

Well, that we wouldn’t end up like this.

“I don’t want you to grow up too fast, baby,” Jay says. “I did, and it’s not something I can ever get back. I want you to enjoy your childhood as much as possible.”

“I’d rather grow up than be homeless.”

“Hate that you even have to think like that,” she murmurs. She clears her throat. “But this is on me. Not you and not Trey. I’m gonna figure something out.”

I stare down at my dad’s old chain, hanging from my neck. I probably shouldn’t wear it around the Garden—that’s like asking to get robbed—but school should be fine. Besides, everybody will be showing off the new clothes and shoes they got for Christmas. I wanna show off something, too. But if we need rent . . . “Maybe we could pawn—”

“We’re not getting rid of that chain.” Damn. She read my mind.

“But—”

“Some things are worth more than money, baby. Your daddy would want you to have it.”

He probably would. But he wouldn’t want us to be homeless, either.

We pull up at Midtown-the-school. It’s too cold for a lot of people to hang around outside. Sonny’s out here though. He waves at me from the steps. He sent me a text earlier and said he needs to talk to me.

“Later,” I tell Jay, and start to hop out.

“Hey,” she says. “Can I get a kiss or something?”

We don’t usually do all of that, but I guess this is one of those days she needs it more than I do. I kiss her cheek.

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too.”

She gives a quick peck to my temple. I’m halfway up the steps when she rolls down the window and goes, “Have a good day, Bookie!”

I freeze.

Oh, God. She didn’t.

I don’t know what the hell it means, but “Bookie” has been Jay’s exclusive nickname for me for as long as I can remember. It’s a miracle I didn’t think my actual name was “Bookie” when I was little, considering how much she used it.

The few people who are out here definitely heard her. I throw my hood over my head and hurry up the stairs.

Sonny smirks. “You do know you’ll always be Bookie, right?”

“Zip it, Sonny Bunny.” That’s his mom’s nickname for him.

“Screw you.” He picks at my pendant. “Damn. That was Uncle Law’s, huh?”

“Yep. My mom gave it to me. What’s up? You said we needed to talk.”

We climb the steps. “I should be asking what’s up with you. You didn’t text Malik back all break.”

I didn’t. I actually haven’t talked to him since he called me a sellout and made me the butt of his jokes to Shana. “What, he’s got you playing middleman now?” I ask Sonny.

“Unfortunately, I’m the middleman by default. You’re still pissed about what he said at Sal’s, huh?”

I should be madder at myself, but yeah, I am still pissed. And hurt. But admit that? Hell nah. I may as well admit that I stupidly had feelings for him and thought we had a chance.

We definitely don’t have one now. According to the text Sonny sent me on New Year’s Day, Shana and Malik are officially a couple.

Whatever.

“I’m fine.” I tell Sonny what I’ve been telling myself. “You really waited out here in the freezing cold to talk to me about Malik?”

“Ha! Hell no. I don’t care about y’all that much.”

I side-eye him. He cheeses. Such. A. Troll.

“But for real, this is what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.

Sonny shows me his phone. It’s a text message from Rapid, sent this morning, and it consists of one simple-but-not-so-simple question: Wanna meet up?

My mouth drops. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Sonny says.

“Holy shit.” There’s one problem though. “Why haven’t you responded?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Part of me is like, hell yeah. The other part feels like this shit is too good to be true. What if he’s really a fifty-year-old man who lives in his mom’s basement and has a malicious plot to murder me and leave my body parts spread out across his backyard, unknown to anyone, until twenty years from now when a stray dog sniffs me out?”