On the Come Up(50)

“But I didn’t do anything!”

“It’s the rules,” says Reggie. “All of y’all, off the property. Now.”

The Crowns cuss, but they leave. There are whispers along the line.

“C’mon, y’all,” I say to Frank and Reggie. “Please? Let me in.”

“I’m sorry, Bri,” says Frank. “Y’all have to go.”

“The rules are the rules,” says Reggie.

“But I haven’t done shit! Yet y’all kicking me out because of what my crew did? That’s some bullshit!”

“It’s the rules!” Frank claims.

“Fuck your rules!” Do I speak without thinking? All the time. Does my temper go from zero to one hundred in seconds? For sure. But the way the crowd murmurs, they seem to agree.

“Nah, Bri. You gotta go.” Reggie thumbs toward the street. “Now.”

“For what?” I yell as the crowd gets louder. This time, Scrap grabs my shirt. “For what?”

“’Cause we said so!” Frank tells me and the crowd.

They’re not hearing that though. Somebody starts playing “On the Come Up” from their car and everybody loses their minds.

You know what? Fuck it.

“Run up on me and get done up,” I say loudly.

“Whole squad got more heat than a furnace,” the crowd finishes.

“Silencer is a must, they ain’t heard us,” I say.

“We don’t bust, yet they blame us for murder!” the crowd says.

When that hook hits? Oh my God. Just about everybody gets into it. People bounce around and yell it out with me. It’s a mini concert, right here in the parking lot.

Frank and Reggie shake their heads and go back to the doors. I flip them both off. Somebody yells out, “Y’all some bitches!”

I get props from every direction. If my dad is the king of the Garden, I really am the princess.

But Aunt Pooh glares hard at me. She marches toward the parking lot.

What the hell? I catch her arm. “What’s your problem?”

“You my goddamn problem!”

I step back. “What?”

“I told you not to release that damn song!” she screams, spit flying from her mouth. “Now we can’t come back here!”

“Hold up, you’re blaming my song? I ain’t tell you to get into it with those Crowns!”

“Oh, so this my fault?” she bellows.

“You were the one about to pull your gun on them!”

“Yeah, to protect you!” Aunt Pooh yells. “Man, forget it. Bring your dumb ass on.”

I watch as she marches off. Did she not see how much everyone loves the song? Yet she’s pissed at me because some Crowns got in their feelings over a line?

How am I the dumbass in this?

Aunt Pooh looks back at me. “Come on!”

With her snapping on me like that? “Nah. I’m good. What I look like, riding with somebody who calls me a dumbass when I didn’t do anything wrong?”

Aunt Pooh glares at the sky. She throws her hands up. “Fine! Do what you want.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea—” Scrap starts.

Aunt Pooh stomps toward her car. “Let her dumb ass stay! Shit done gone to her head.”

Scrap looks from her to me but follows her. They hop in the car, and Aunt Pooh peels off.

Honestly? I probably shouldn’t be out here alone. I wasn’t the one who almost got into it with those Crowns, but you never know what a gangbanger will do when they’re in a mood. Just gotta keep my head down, my eyes peeled, and my ears open. Just gotta get home.

I head for the sidewalk.

“Ay! Li’l Law!”

I turn around. Supreme strolls over to me. He’s wearing his shades, even though it’s pitch black out.

“You need a ride?” he asks.

Supreme drives a black Hummer with a gold grille on the front. Milez sits in the passenger seat. Supreme opens the driver’s side door and snaps his fingers at his son.

“Ay, get in the back. I want Bri up front.”

“Why can’t she—”

“Boy, I said get in the back!”

Milez unlocks his seat belt and climbs in the back, mumbling under his breath.

“Say it with your chest if you got something to say!” Supreme says.

Welp. This is awkward. Like when Aunt ’Chelle or Aunt Gina go off on Malik and Sonny about stuff when I’m at their houses. Not sure if I should leave, stay, or act as if nothing’s happening.

I act like nothing happened. This is the most expensive ride I’ve ever been in. Supreme’s dashboard looks like something from the Millennium Falcon with all the screens and buttons. The seats are white leather, and seconds after he cranks up, mine feels all toasty.

Supreme seems to look at his son in the rearview mirror. “You could at least speak to folks.”

Milez sighs and holds his hand to me. “Miles, without a z. My apologies for the stuff I said about your dad in our battle.”

He sounds . . . different. It’s like how when I go with my grandma to one of the nice grocery stores out in the suburbs and she tells me to “talk like you got some sense.” She doesn’t want people to think we’re “some of those hood rats who frequent their establishments.” Trey calls it code-switching.