On the Come Up(82)

“Nice socks,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “Go ahead and clown me. I don’t care. Peter Parker is that dude.”

“He is.” I sip my water. “That’s why I wouldn’t clown you. In fact, I think I have the same pair.”

Curtis laughs. “For real?”

“Yep.”

“That’s cool,” he says.

A loud clang comes from outside, like a large door closing on a vehicle. They must have loaded up all the drug dealers to take downtown.

“I’m sorry about your aunt,” Curtis says.

He makes it sound like she’s dead. Around here though, folks in jail get Tshirts in their honor just like folks in the grave. “Thank you.”

We’re quiet for a long while. I finish up the water and set the glass on his grandma’s coffee table, beside an ashtray that’s definitely been used. Unless it’s for Curtis, which I doubt, Sister holier-than-thou Daniels smokes. Go figure.

“Thanks again for helping me.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “But I wouldn’t be against it if you decided to write a song about me as a token of your appreciation.”

“Boy, bye. A shout-out? Maybe. An entire song? No.”

“A shout-out?” he says. “C’mon, you gotta give me more than that. How about a verse?”

“Wow. A whole verse, huh?”

“Yep. Something like, ‘Curtis is my homie, he gon’ always know me, and when I’m making money, I’m gon’ go buy him a pony. What!” He crosses his arms, B-boy style.

I bust out laughing. “You thought you could beat me in a battle, rhyming like that?”

“What? Girl, that’s skill.”

“No, that’s a mess.”

“Hold up, you can’t call anybody a mess with how you’re looking right now.” He thumbs some of the wetness from my cheek away. “Getting your snot and tears all over my grandma’s sofa.”

His hand lingers. Slowly, it cups my cheek.

I get this pang in my stomach, like a little knot that’s twisted up tight, and I think—well, hope—that I’m still breathing. When he moves closer, I don’t move away. I can’t think; I can’t breathe. I can only kiss him back.

Every single inch of me is aware of him, of the way his fingertips graze the back of my neck, the way his tongue perfectly tangles with mine. My heart races, and it somehow tells me I want more and to take my time all at once.

I wrap my arms around his neck and lean back on the couch, pulling him down with me. Touching him is a need. My fingers find his hair, coiled and soft, his back. Boy’s got a donk that’s meant for squeezing.

Curtis grins, his forehead against mine. “You like that, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“A’ight then. Let’s see if you like this.”

He kisses me again, and slowly, his hand travels under my sweatshirt and under my bra. He grazes a spot that makes me stop kissing him long enough to make a sound I’ve never made before. I feel it in more places than my chest.

“Shit, girl,” he groans, and pulls back. He props himself up over me, out of breath. “You’re killing me here.”

I smirk. “I’m killing you?”

“Yeah.” He kisses my nose. “I like it though.”

He cups my cheek, leans down, and kisses me again, slow and steady. For a while, nothing exists beyond us and this kiss . . .





Twenty-Seven


. . . Until Curtis’s grandma comes home.

By then we’re just watching TV. She still gives me a suspicious eye. Curtis asks to borrow her car so he can take me home. She gives him the keys and says, “We gon’ have a li’l talk later, boy.”

That talk’s gonna find its way to my grandma.

The courtyard is deserted when we leave. The only signs that anything happened are the clusters of footprints all over the dirt. Scrap’s car remains in its normal spot. It’s weird that nobody’s sitting on the hood of it.

Curtis drives his grandma’s Chevy with one hand. The other hand holds mine. We don’t really say much, but I don’t think we have to. That kiss said more than words really could.

He pulls up in front of my house. I lean over and kiss him again. It’s the best way to slow down time. But I have to go inside, so I pull away. “I need to go talk to my mom about . . . my aunt.”

I can barely say it to Curtis. How can I say it to Jay?

He gives my lips a feathery-soft peck. “It’ll be okay.”

Those are just words though. Reality is, I take off Curtis’s shoes, put my raggedy ones back on, and go inside. Some song about how “Jesus will” plays on my mom’s phone in the kitchen, and she hums along, not knowing that Jesus will have to perform a miracle when it comes to Aunt Pooh.

“Hey, Bookie,” she says. She stands over a pot. “We’re having spaghetti tonight.”

My legs shake almost too much for me to stand. “Aunt Pooh.”

“What about her?”

“She . . . she got arrested.”

“Goddammit!” She holds her forehead and closes her eyes. “This girl. What she do this time? Get into a fight? Speeding? I told her all those traffic tickets would—”