On the Come Up(58)

“I don’t wanna be that person!” I scream so that every single one of them hears me. “They’re just gonna explain the shit away! Don’t you get that?”

“Bri—”

“Sonny, you know they will! That’s what they do. Hell, they’re already doing it with the ‘drug dealer’ rumors. This gets in the news? They’ll mention every time I’ve been sent to the office, every goddamn suspension. Hell, they’ll use those Ring videos. Anything to make it seem like what happened was okay ’cause I’m not from shit! You think I wanna deal with that?”

I fight to breathe. They don’t get it. That video can’t be released. Because all of a sudden, even more people will try to justify what happened to me, and it’ll get so loud that I may start thinking that I deserved it to begin with.

I didn’t. I know I didn’t. I wanna keep knowing that I didn’t.

The room is blurry, but I blink it into focus. “Screw y’all,” I mumble, and throw my hoodie over my head.

I leave and don’t look back.

When I get home, Jay’s lying across the living room sofa. The remote’s in her hand, and the theme music for As We Are fades off. She’s addicted to that soap opera.

“Hey, Bookie,” she says as she sits up. She stretches and yawns, revealing the big hole under the arm of her T-shirt. She says it’s too comfortable to get rid of. Plus, it’s got Dad’s first album cover on it. “How was Malik’s?”

The shortest answer is the best answer. “Fine. How was As We Are?”

“It was too good today! Jamie finally found out that baby ain’t his.”

She’s super upbeat. I think she fakes for me though.

“Whoa, for real?” I ask.

“Yep! It’s about damn time.”

When I was younger, Granddaddy would let me watch soap operas with him every afternoon in the summer. He loves his “stories.” As We Are was our favorite. I would sit on his lap, the air conditioner in the window blowing on us and my head resting back against his chest as Theresa Brady pulled off her latest scheme like a boss. Now it’s me and Jay’s thing.

She tilts her head and stares at me long and hard. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I can fake, too.

“Don’t worry, I’m calling the superintendent’s office about this,” she says, and goes toward the kitchen. “Those bastards should not be back on the job. You hungry? We have some sausages left over from breakfast. I can make you a sandwich.”

“No thanks. I ate at Malik’s.” I plop down on the sofa. Now that As We Are is off, the afternoon news is starting.

“Our top story: A student rally turned violent earlier today at Midtown School of the Arts,” the newscaster says. “Megan Sullivan has more.”

“Turn that up, Bri,” Jay calls from the kitchen.

I do. The reporter stands in front of my now-deserted school.

“The day had only begun at Midtown School of the Arts,” says Megan Sullivan, “when students took to the steps and rallied.”

They show cell-phone footage from this morning of everybody in front of the building, chanting, “‘You can’t stop me, nope, nope!’”

“School officials say there were concerns among students regarding recent security measures,” Sullivan says.

Jay comes to the doorway with the loaf of bread in her hand, untwisting the tie. “Security measures? You mean the fact those two were back on the job?”

“However, what started as a peaceful rally quickly turned violent,” says Sullivan.

There go the screams as punches get thrown and Long and Tate are knocked out of view. The news bleeps the “Oh, shit” that the person recording yelps.

“Security officials were physically attacked by several students,” Sullivan says. “According to eyewitnesses, it didn’t take long for the melee to begin.”

“We were all standing around outside, trying to figure out what was going on,” this white girl says. She’s in the vocal music department. “Then people started chanting a song.”

Oh. No.

Another cell-phone video is shown. In this one, my classmates say my lyrics.

“‘Run up on me and get done up!’”

“The song, called ‘On the Come Up,’ is said to be by local rapper Bri,” Megan Sullivan says. They show my Dat Cloud page. “The track, with its violent nature, includes attacks against law enforcement and is said to be a hit among young listeners.”

Next thing I know, my voice comes through the TV, with bleeps where the curse words should be. But it’s not the whole song. It’s bits and pieces.

Pin me to the ground, boy, you **** up . . .

If I did what I wanted and bucked up, You’d be bound for the ground, grave dug up . . .

Strapped like backpacks, I pull triggers.

All the clips on my hips change my figure.

But let me be honest, I promise, If a cop come at me, I’ll be lawless . . .

The loaf of bread falls from Jay’s hands. She stares at the TV, frozen.

“Brianna.” She says my name like it’s her first time saying it. “Is that you?”





Eighteen


Words won’t come out of my mouth. But the words I wrote blare from the TV.