On the Come Up(47)

I stare at him. “The specifics in your examples are disturbing sometimes.”

“It could happen. Then what do I do?”

“Um, I’d hope you’d run like hell before he could murder you.”

Sonny’s lips thin. “After that.”

“Call the cops.”

“Bri!” he says as I laugh. “Serious. He could be a fraud.”

“Yeah, he could,” I gotta admit. I mean, the internet is full of lying creeps. And I don’t know if it would be exactly like Sonny’s example, but it could be dangerous.

“Plus, once again, this is a—”

“Distraction,” I say for him.

“Right. Malik’s trying to find out who Rapid really is. I gave him some info and he’s already running with it. We did a bunch of research the other day.”

“Oh. That’s cool.”

My stomach drops. Sonny’s told Malik stuff about Rapid that he hasn’t told me. And they researched him together. Without me.

It’s stupid but it stings.

Sonny bites on his already-raggedy nail. “I’ll tell Rapid let’s wait to meet up. In the meantime, Malik and I will keep researching.”

He and Malik. Like the Unholy Trinity is now a duo.

Fuck. Why am I in my feelings so much?

“This could be some dumbass’s attempt to embarrass me, for all I know,” Sonny goes on. “Considering all the stuff I’ve shared with him . . . I’ll look like a fool.”

That shame in his eyes makes my feelings irrelevant.

I lightly elbow him. “You’re not a fool. He’s the fool if he’s Catfishing you. Because I promise you, I’ll whoop his butt.”

“Even if it’s a fifty-year-old in a basement?”

“Even if it’s a fifty-year-old in a basement. I’ll personally rip his fingers off and shove them down his throat.”

Sonny kisses my cheek. “Thank you for being violent on my behalf.”

“Aww, anytime. You know I’ve got your little disturbing-ass back.”

“It’s only disturbing because you know it could happen.”

Security is a breeze. The new guards are still here. Everybody moves slower through the halls than usual. I think Christmas break makes us long for summer even more.

Sonny nudges me. Up ahead, Malik waits at my locker.

“Will you two be okay?” Sonny asks.

“Yep.” I lie. I really don’t know.

Sonny has to talk to one of his teachers before class, so he goes off toward the visual arts wing. I go up to my locker.

I pop it open and slip off my backpack. “Hey.”

Malik’s eyes slightly widen. “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

I grab my (white) American History book and stuff it in my backpack. “Nope. We’re good.”

“I don’t believe you. You hold grudges like cheapskates hold money.”

Has he been going to Granddaddy’s School of One-Liners? “I told you we’re fine.”

“No, we’re not. Breezy, look.” Malik takes my arm. “I really am sorry, okay? It’s been hell not talking to you.”

Actually, this is hell. The way he’s holding my arm, running his thumb along my skin. Every single part of me is aware that he’s touching me.

No. Scratch that. Shana’s boyfriend is touching me.

I tug out of his grasp. “We’re fine, Malik. Drop it.”

Because I’m making myself drop him.

He sighs. “Will you at least tell me what’s really going—”

“Ay! Princess!”

Curtis makes his way toward us, most likely to make some stupid joke that only Curtis can come up with.

“What, Curtis?” I ask.

His snapback and Jordans match as usual and look brand new. Probably Christmas presents. “You think you big shit now, huh? I ain’t even mad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You ain’t seen Blackout yet?” he asks.

“Blackout?” Malik says.

Blackout is this gossip blog that loves to “throw shade and pour tea” (their words) on black celebs for all of the thirsty people to consume. It’s ridiculous . . . and addictive. How else am I supposed to know which Kardashian is knocked up by a black celebrity this week?

“Yeah. They posted Bri’s song a little while ago,” Curtis says.

I must’ve heard him wrong. There is no way. “Come again?”

Curtis opens the site on his phone. “See?”

There I am, on the front page of Blackout. They posted a picture from when I was in the Ring. The headline? “Teen Daughter of Murdered Underground Rap Legend Lawless Just Killed Us Her Damn Self with This New Heat!”

Side note: Do I have a name or nah? It’s short enough that it could’ve fit, too.

I’m willing to overlook that sexist BS for now. Right below the picture is an embedded player for “On the Come Up,” straight from my Dat Cloud page. According to the listeners count . . .

Ho.

Ly.

Shit.

“Twenty thousand streams!” I shout. “I got twenty thousand streams!”

Every eye in the hall lands on me. Dr. Rhodes is a few feet away, and she looks at me over her glasses.