by Angie Thomas
What kinda shady-ass compliment is this? “Thanks?”
“The Garden need you, for real,” he says. “I remember when your pops was on the come up. Every time he made a music video around the neighborhood, my li’l ass tried to get in it. Just wanted to be in his presence. He gave us hope. Hardly anything good ever come from around here, you know?”
I watch Aunt Pooh slip something into Tony’s shaky hand. “Yeah, I know.”
“But you could be the something good,” says Scrap.
I hadn’t thought about it like that. Or the fact that so many people looked up to my dad. Enjoyed his music? Yeah. But he gave them hope? It’s not like he was the “cleanest” rapper.
But in the Garden, we make our own heroes. The kids in the projects love Aunt Pooh because she gives them money. They don’t care how she gets it. My dad talked about foul shit, yeah, but it’s shit that happens around here. That makes him a hero.
Maybe I can be one, too.
Scrap slurps the rest of the milk from his bowl. “‘Swag-erific, so call me terrific,’” he raps with a little shoulder bounce. “‘Swag-erific. Swag-erific . . . Swag, swag, swag . . .’”
Seven
Here’s the thing about my brother’s car: You hear it before you see it.
Scrap’s still rapping “Swagerific” to himself when I notice that all-too-familiar grumble getting closer. Granddaddy says Trey needs a new tailpipe. Trey says he needs money for a new tailpipe.
That old Honda Civic pulls into the Maple Grove parking lot, and heads turn in its direction like they always do. Trey parks, gets out, and seems to look straight at me.
Welp. This isn’t good.
He crosses the parking lot. His hair and his beard have grown out since he moved back home. Granddaddy says he looks like he’s in a midlife crisis.
Grandma says our dad spit Trey out. They look exactly alike, right down to their dimples. Jay claims he even walks like Dad, with this swagger about him as if he’s got everything figured out already. He’s in his Sal’s uniform—a green polo with a pizza-slice logo on the chest and a matching hat. He’s supposed to be heading to work.
A GD in the courtyard notices him and nudges one of his friends. Soon all of them watch Trey. With smirks.
When he’s close to me, Trey goes, “I guess phones are useless now, huh?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“You know how long I been driving around looking for you, Bri? You had us worried sick.”
“I told Jay I was going for a walk.”
“You need to tell folks where you’re going,” he says. “Why couldn’t you answer your phone?”
“What are you talking—” I take it out of my hoodie pocket. Damn. I’ve got a ton of texts and missed calls from him and Jay. Sonny and Malik have texted me too. That little half-moon in the top corner explains why I didn’t know. “Sorry. I put it on Do Not Disturb for school and forgot to turn it back on.”
Trey tiredly wipes his face. “You can’t be—”
Loud laughs erupt across the courtyard from those GDs. They’re all looking at Trey.
Trey looks right back at them, like, We got a problem?
Aunt Pooh comes over, smirking too. “My dude,” she says as she slips money in her pocket. “What you doing?”
“I’m getting my little sister, that’s what.”
“Nah, bruh.” She eyes him from head to toe. “I mean this shit! You the pizza boy? C’mon, Trey. Really?”
Scrap busts out laughing.
I don’t see a damn thing funny though. It took my brother forever to find something, and nah, making pizzas ain’t “goals,” but he’s trying.
“I mean, damn,” Aunt Pooh says. “You spent all that time in college, being Mr. Big Man on Campus with the good grades and shit, and this the result?”
Trey’s jaw ticks. It’s nothing for these two to get into it. Trey usually doesn’t hold back, either. Aunt Pooh’s not that much older than him, so that whole “respect your elders” thing is a no-go.
But today, he says, “You know what? I don’t have time for immature, insecure folks. C’mon, Bri.”
“‘Immature’? ‘Insecure’?” Aunt Pooh says the words like they’re nasty. “The hell you talking ’bout?”
Trey pulls me toward the parking lot.
We pass the GDs. “How he gon’ be the big homie’s son and making pizzas?” one says.
“Law probably rolling in his grave at this weak shit,” another says, shaking his head. “Good thing li’l momma keeping it going for him.”
Trey doesn’t respond to them, either. He’s always been “too nerdy to be Law’s son.” Too soft, not street enough, not hood enough. I don’t think he cares though.
We get in his car. There are candy wrappers, receipts, fast food bags, and papers all over. Trey is messy as hell. Once I lock my seat belt, Trey pulls out.
He sighs. “Sorry if it seemed like I was coming at you, Li’l Bit.”
Trey was the first person in the family to call me that. Word is he didn’t get why everybody was obsessed with me when our parents brought me home because I was just a “li’l bit cute, not a lot.” It stuck.
For the record, I was a whole lot cute.
“You had us worried,” he goes on. “Ma was about to ask Grandma and Granddaddy to look for you. You know it’s bad if she was about to do that.”
“Really?” Grandma would’ve never let her live that down, either. Seriously, I could be grown with kids of my own and Grandma would be one cough away from death, telling Jay, “Remember that time you couldn’t find my grandbaby and called me for help?”
The petty is strong in that one.
“Yeah, really,” Trey says. “Besides, you don’t need to be hanging out in the projects.”
“It’s not that bad over there.”
“Listen to yourself. Not that bad. It’s bad enough. Doesn’t help that you’re hanging around Pooh, considering all that she’s into.”
“She wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”
“Bri, she can’t stop something from happening to herself,” he says.
“I’m sorry for that stuff she said back there.”
“I’m not bothered,” he says. “She’s insecure about her predicament and picks on me to make herself feel better.”
Thanks to that psychology degree, my brother can read folks like a pro. “Still doesn’t make it right.”
“It is what it is. But I wanna talk about you, not me. Ma told me what happened at school. How are you feeling?”
If I close my eyes tight enough, I can still see Long and Tate pinning me to the ground. I can still hear that word. “Hoodlum.”
One damn word and it feels like it’s got all the power over me. But I tell Trey, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, and Denzel Washington is my daddy.”
“Damn, for real? The good genes skipped you, huh?”
He side-eyes me. I grin. Trolling him is a hobby.
“Asshole,” he says. “But for real, talk to me, Bri. How are you feeling?”
I rest my head back. There are a couple of reasons my brother majored in psychology. One, he says he wants to keep somebody from ending up like our mom did. Trey swears that if Jay had gotten counseling after seeing Dad die, she wouldn’t have run to drugs to deal with the trauma. Two, he’s always in somebody’s business about their feelings. Always. Now he has a degree to certify his nosiness.
“I’m sick of that school,” I say. “They always single me out, Trey.”
“Ever thought that maybe you should stop giving them a reason to single you out?”
“Hold up, you’re supposed to be on my side!”
“I am, Bri. It’s bullshit that they’re always sending you to the office. But you also gotta chill a little bit. You’re a classic case of oppositional defiant disorder.”
Dr. Trey is in the building. “Stop trying to diagnose me.”
“I’m simply stating facts,” he says. “You tend to be argu
mentative, defiant, you speak impulsively, you get irritable easily—”
“I do not! Take that shit back!”
His lips thin. “Like I said, ODD.”
I sit back and fold my arms. “Whatever.”
Trey busts out laughing. “You’re predictable at this point. Sounds like that ODD helped you out last night though. Congrats on the Ring win.” He holds his fist to me.
I bump it. “You watch the battle yet?”
“Haven’t had time. Kayla texted me about it.”
“Who?”
He rolls his eyes. “Ms. Tique.”
“Ohhhh.” I forgot she has a real name. “It’s so damn cool that you work with her.” Even though it’s kinda sad that somebody as dope as Ms. Tique has to make pizzas for a living. “I’d be starstruck around her.”
Trey chuckles. “You act like she’s Beyoncé.”
“She is! She’s the Beyoncé of the Ring.”
“She’s something, all right.”
He probably doesn’t realize he’s all dimples at the moment.
I pull my head back a little with my eyebrows raised.
Trey notices me staring. “What?”
“Are you trying to be her Jay-Z?”
He laughs. “Shut up. We’re supposed to be talking about you.” He pokes my arm. “Ma told me she broke the news about her job before you ran off. How are you feeling about that?”
Dr. Trey is still on duty. “I’m scared,” I admit. “We were already struggling. Now it’ll only be harder.”
“It will be,” he says. “I can’t lie—between my student loans and my car note, feels like most of my check’s already gone. Things are gonna be extra tight until Ma gets a job or I get a better one.”
“How’s your job search going?” He’s been looking for something since his first day at Sal’s.
Trey runs his fingers through his hair. He definitely needs a haircut. “It’s okay. Just taking a while. Thought about going back to school to get my master’s. That would open up a hell of a lot more doors, but . . .”
“But what?”
“That would take away hours I could be working. It’s all good though.”
No, it’s not.
“But I promise you this,” he says, “no matter what happens, it’s gonna be okay. Your almighty, all-knowing big brother will make sure of that.”
“I didn’t know I had another big brother.”
“You’re such a hater!” He laughs. “But it’ll be fine. Okay?” He holds his fist to me again.
I bump it. Things can never go wrong on Dr. Trey’s watch.
He shouldn’t have to fix this though. He shouldn’t have had to come back to Garden Heights. At Markham State, he was king. Literally, he was the homecoming king. Everybody knew him from starring in campus productions and from leading the drum majors. He graduated with honors. Worked his ass off to get there in the first place, only to have to come back to the hood and work in a pizza shop.
It’s bullshit, and it scares me, because if Trey can’t make it by doing everything “right,” who can?
“All right, so this ODD of yours,” he says. “We need to get to the root of it, then work—”
“I do not have ODD,” I say. “End of discussion.”
“End of discussion,” he mocks.
“Don’t repeat what I say.”
“Don’t repeat what I say.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Bri is right.”
“Bri is ri—” He looks at me.
I grin. Got him.
He pushes my shoulder. “Smartass.”
I bust out laughing. As awful as the situation is and as big of a pain in the butt as he can be, I’m glad I have my big brother to go through it with me.
Eight
When I wake up the next morning, my headphones hang lopsided off my head as my dad raps in them. I fell asleep listening to him. His voice is as deep as Granddaddy’s, a bit raspy at times, and as hard as the stuff he raps about. To me it’s as warm as a hug. It always puts me to sleep.
According to my phone, it’s eight a.m. Aunt Pooh will be here in about an hour to take me to the studio. I flipped through my notebook most of last night, trying to figure out what song to record. There’s “Unarmed and Dangerous.” I wrote that after that kid got killed, but I don’t know if I wanna be political from jump. There’s “State the Facts,” which reveals too much personal shit—I’m not ready for that yet. There’s “Hustle and Grind,” which has potential. Especially that hook.
I don’t know though. I don’t freaking know.
Laughs come from somewhere in the house, quickly followed by a “Shhh! Don’t be waking my babies up.”
I lift my headphones off. It’s Saturday morning, so I know who those laughs belong to.
I slide into my Tweety Bird slippers. They match my pajamas. I will always be a fool for that little yellow bird. I follow the voices toward the kitchen.
Jay’s at the table, surrounded by recovering drug addicts. One Saturday per month, she has meetings with people she knew from when she lived on the streets. She calls the meetings check-ins. The community center used to hold them, but they ran out of funds and had to stop. Jay decided to keep the program going herself. Some of these folks have come a long way, like Mr. Daryl, who’s been clean for six years and works in construction now. There’s Ms. Pat, who just recently got her GED. Others, like Ms. Sonja, show up once in a while. Jay says the shame of falling off the wagon makes her stay away.
Sonny’s and Malik’s moms are here, too. Aunt Gina sits on the counter with a plate of pancakes in her lap. Aunt ’Chelle’s already starting dishes at the sink. They were never on drugs, but they like to help Jay cook breakfast and even make bagged lunches for folks like Ms. Sonja, who may not get a good meal otherwise.
Sometimes we barely have food, yet Jay finds a way to feed us and other people, too.
I don’t know if it impresses me or annoys me. Maybe it’s both.
“I’m telling you, Pat,” Jay says, “your momma will come around and let you see your kids. Keep working on gaining her trust. I understand the frustration though. Lord, do I understand. After I finished rehab, my in-laws put me through it when it came to my babies.”
I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear this.
“I’m talking court cases, supervised visits—how you gon’ have some stranger supervise me as I spend time with my babies? All these stretch marks I got from bringing them big heads into the world, and you don’t trust me around them?”
The others chuckle. Um, my head is normal-size, thank you very much.
“I was pissed,” Jay says. “Felt like everybody held my mistakes against me. Still feels like that sometimes. Especially now as I go on this job hunt.”
“They giving you a hard time?” Mr. Daryl asks.
“The interviews start out fine,” says Jay. “Until they ask about my gap of unemployment. I tell them the truth, and suddenly I become another junkie in their eyes. I don’t hear back.”
“That’s such bull,” Aunt ’Chelle says, picking up Ms. Pat’s empty plate. Malik looks nothing like his momma. She’s short and plump, he’s tall and lanky. She says he’s his daddy’s clone. “You know how many rich white folks come to the courthouse on drug possession?”
“A whole lot,” says Jay.
“Too many,” Aunt ’Chelle says. “Every single one gets a little slap on the wrist and goes right back into society, like it’s all good. Black folks or poor folks get on drugs?”
“We’re ruined for life,” Jay says. “Sounds about right.”
“You mean sounds about white,” says Aunt Gina, pointing her fork. Sonny is his momma’s twin, right down to their short, curly cuts.
“Mm-hmm. But what can I do?” Jay says. “I just hate that I don’t know what’s gonna happen nex—”
She spots me in the doorway. She clears her throat. “See? Y’all woke my baby up.”
&
nbsp; I inch into the kitchen. “No, they didn’t.”
“Hey, Li’l Bit,” Aunt Gina says in that careful way that people only use if they feel bad for you. “How you doing?”
She must know what happened. “I’m fine.”
That’s not enough for Jay. She tugs at my hand. “C’mere.”
I sit on her lap. I should be too big for this, but somehow, I always fit perfectly in her arms. She snuggles me close, smelling like baby powder and cocoa butter.
“My Bookie,” she murmurs.
Sometimes she babies me, like it’s her way of making up for when she wasn’t around. I let her do it, too. I wonder though if she only sees me as her baby girl who used to snuggle up with her until I fell asleep. I don’t know if the snuggles are for who I am now.
This time, I think the snuggles are for her.
Aunt Pooh picks me up as planned. I tell Jay that we’re just hanging out. If I told her I’m going to a studio, she’d say I can’t go because my grades dropped.
The studio is in an old house with peeling paint over on the west side. When Aunt Pooh knocks on the front door, some older woman talks to us through the screen and sends me, Aunt Pooh, and Scrap to the garage in the back.
Yeah, Scrap’s here. Aunt Pooh must’ve brought him for backup, because this house . . .
This house is a mess.
Hard to believe anybody lives here. A couple of the windows are boarded up, and weeds and vines grow up the walls. Beer cans litter the grass. I think I spot some needles, too.
Hold up. “Is this a trap house?” I ask Aunt Pooh.
“That ain’t your business,” she says.
A pit bull lying in the backyard suddenly perks his head up and barks at us. He charges our way, but a chain keeps him near the fence.
Guess who almost peed herself? That’d be me. “Who’s this guy again?” I ask Aunt Pooh.
“His name is Doc,” she says, her thumbs tucked into the waist of her pants, either to hold them up or so she can easily get to her piece. “He ain’t big-time or nothing like that, but he’s talented. I got you a dope beat for a good price. He gon’ mix it and everything. Have you sounding professional.” She looks me up and down with a grin. “I see you rocking the Juicy special.”