On the Come Up(75)

I try not to sound too disappointed as I answer on the speaker. “Hey, Supreme.”

“Whaddup, baby girl?” he says. “I got big news.”

“Oh yeah?” I may not sound disappointed, but I can’t make myself sound upbeat either. Unless Supreme is about to tell me he’s got a deal for me, nothing can amp me up. And even that can’t save Aunt Pooh.

“Hell yeah. Hype wants you to come on his show next Saturday,” Supreme says. “He saw the petition and the news story and wants to give you a chance to speak.”

“Oh, wow.” See, DJ Hype is more than just the DJ at the Ring. He’s a radio legend. I don’t think there’s a hip-hop head in the world who hasn’t heard of Hype’s Hot Hour on Hot 105. The show plays live around the country, and all the interviews end up on his YouTube channel. Some of them even go viral, but that’s usually only if a rapper acts a fool. But Hype’s known to push the right buttons to make folks act a fool.

“Yeah. Of course, he’ll wanna talk about the Ring incident, the Instagram video. Even that li’l music video you put up yesterday.” Supreme chuckles. “It’s creative, I’ll give you that.”

Damn, I forgot about that, too.

Wait, why’d he call it a li’l music video though? As if there’s not much to it. “That video is supposed to explain the song.”

“Let the song speak for itself,” he says.

“But people were saying—”

“Look, we’ll get into all that later,” he says. “This is a big opportunity, all right? I’m talking life-changing shit. It’s gon’ put you in front of an even bigger audience. Only thing I need is for you to be ready. All right?”

I stare at the last text I sent Aunt Pooh. How can I be ready for anything when I know nothing about her?

But I force the words out. “I’ll be ready.”





Twenty-Four


It’s been almost exactly five days to the hour, and Aunt Pooh hasn’t gotten back to me yet.

I don’t know what to do. Do I tell my mom or my brother? I could, but it may not be worth the drama if it turns out she didn’t do anything. Do I call the cops? Both of those options are a hell no. I’d have to tell them Aunt Pooh may have committed murder, which is basically snitching. Not only that, but she committed murder on my order.

I’m out of options and full of fears.

Good thing is we aren’t in the dark anymore. Granddaddy gave my mom enough to pay the light bill and to get us some groceries. Since the lights are back on, the stove is back on. I didn’t know how much I missed hot dinners. Things are looking up.

School is another story though. For one, it still feels like a prison. Two, there’s Malik. He got on the bus Tuesday morning and sat with Shana. His eye was only slightly bruised and the swelling had gone down. I guess he still hasn’t told anyone what happened. It’s our secret.

It’s so secret that he not only won’t speak to me about it, but he won’t speak to me, period.

I get why. Honestly, I hate putting him in this position. Hell, I hate being in it myself. But he has to know that if anyone hears a word about this, it’s just as bad as ratting on Aunt Pooh. And on me.

I’m gonna try to talk to him tonight, after this PTA meeting with the superintendent. The Midtown auditorium is packed. Dr. Rhodes talks to some man in a suit and tie. Not far away, Mrs. Murray chats with some of the other teachers.

Sonny and I follow our moms and Aunt ’Chelle down the middle aisle. Jay’s still in the skirt and blouse that she wore for an interview today. She even brought the little briefcase that she carries her résumés in. Aunt ’Chelle came straight from the courthouse in her security uniform, and Aunt Gina left the beauty shop early. She says Wednesdays are slow anyway.

Malik’s with Shana and some of the other kids from the coalition. They’re standing on the side aisles, holding posters for the superintendent to see with stuff like, “Black or brown shouldn’t mean suspicious,” and, “Are grants more important than students?”

Sonny leans in to me. “You think we should be over there?”

Across the room, Malik laughs at something Shana says. He’s in full Malik X mode, with a wooden black power fist hanging from a necklace. His sign says, “School or prison?” with a picture of an armed cop.

Last thing he probably wants is me over there. “No,” I say. “Let him do his thing.”

“I’ll be glad when you two fix whatever’s going on,” Sonny says.

I lied and told him that Malik and I had an argument after he went to babysit his sisters. Technically, it’s not a lie. There is an argument between us. It just hasn’t been spoken. Yet.

Aunt Gina finds us some seats near the front. We’ve barely sat down when this balding Latino man goes up to the podium.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m David Rodriguez, president of the Midtown School of the Arts Parent-Teacher Association,” he says. “Thank you all for coming out tonight. I think I can speak for everyone when I say there are concerns regarding recent events here at the school. I invite Superintendent Cook to the podium to discuss the next steps and answer any questions we may have. Please welcome him.”

The older white man who was talking to Dr. Rhodes makes his way to the podium to polite applause.