On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

  “Huh?”

  “‘Way back, when I had the red and black lumberjack.’” She tugs at the plaid shirt under my bubble vest as she quotes Biggie. “‘With the hat to match.’” She tugs at my trapper hat, too. “Finally learned some style from your aunty, huh?”

  Any good I do, she finds a way to take credit. “Learn to keep your pants on your butt and we’ll talk.”

  The garage has graffiti all over it. Aunt Pooh knocks on the side door. Feet shuffle and someone hollers out, “Who is it?”

  “P” is all Aunt Pooh says.

  Several locks click, and when the door opens, it’s like that moment in Black Panther when they go through the hologram and enter the real Wakanda. It’s like we just stepped through a hologram that showed everyone else a trap house and into a studio.

  It’s not the fanciest, but it’s better than I expected. The walls are covered in those cardboard cup holders that restaurants give when you have multiple drinks to carry. Soundproofing. There are several computer monitors at a table, with drum pads, keyboards, and speakers nearby. A mic sits on a stand over in a corner.

  A potbellied bearded guy in a wife beater sits at the table. “Whaddup, P?” he says with a mouthful of gold. His words come out slow, like somebody turned down the tempo on his voice.

  “Whaddup, Doc?” Aunt Pooh slaps palms with him and the other guys. There are about six or seven of them. “Bri, this is Doc, the producer,” Aunt Pooh says. Doc nods at me. “Doc, this is Bri, my niece. She ’bout to murder this beat you got for her.”

  “Hold up, you made that for this li’l girl?” some guy on the couch asks. “What she gon’ do, spit some nursery rhymes?”

  There go the smirks and snickers.

  This is that stale and predictable shit Aunt Pooh warned me about when I first told her I wanted to be a rapper. She said I’d have to do double the work to get half the respect. On top of that, I gotta be just as cutthroat, and I better not show weakness. Basically, I gotta be one of the guys and then some in order to survive.

  I look dude on the couch dead in his eyes. “Nah. I’ll leave the nursery rhymes to you, Father Goose.”

  “Ooh,” a couple of the guys say, and one or two give me dap as they crack up. Just like that, I’m one of them.

  Doc chuckles. “He wish this beat was for him, that’s all. Check it out.”

  He clicks some stuff on one of the computers and a bass-heavy up-tempo beat blasts through the speakers.

  Well, damn. It’s nice as hell. Reminds me of soldiers marching for some reason.

  Or the hands of a school security guard patting me down for drugs I didn’t have.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat ta-ta-tat-tat.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat ta-ta-tat-tat.

  I get my notebook out and flip through. Shit. Nothing I’ve got seems to go with this beat. It needs something new. Something tailored to it.

  Aunt Pooh bounces on her heels. “Oooh-weee! We really gon’ be on the come up once this drops.”

  On the come up.

  “Dun-dun-dun-dun, on the come up,” I mumble. “Dun-dun-dun-dun, on the come up.”

  I close my eyes. The words are there, I swear. They’re just waiting for me to find them.

  I see Long throwing me to the ground. One false move would’ve stopped any chances of a come up.

  “But you can’t stop me on the come up,” I mutter. “You can’t stop me on the come up.”

  I open my eyes. Every single person in here watches me.

  “You can’t stop me on the come up,” I say, louder. “You can’t stop me on the come up. You can’t stop me on the come up. You can’t stop me, nope, nope.”

  Smiles slowly form and heads nod and bob.

  “You can’t stop me on the come up,” Doc echoes. “You can’t stop me on the come up.”

  One by one, they join in. Slowly, heads nod harder, and those few words become a chant.

  “Yo! That’s it!” Aunt Pooh shakes my shoulder. “That’s that shit we—”

  Her phone goes off. She glances at the screen and slips it back in her pocket. “I gotta go.”

  Hold up, what? “I thought you were staying with me?”

  “I got some business to take care of. Scrap will be here.”

  He nods at her, like this is an agreement they made already.

  So that’s why he’s here. What the hell? “This is supposed to be our business,” I say.

  “I said I’ll be back later, Bri. A’ight?”

  She walks out, as if that’s that.

  “Excuse me,” I tell the others, and rush out. I have to jog to catch up with Aunt Pooh. She opens her car door, but I grab it and shut it before she can get in. “Where you going?”

  “Like I said, I got some business to take care of.”

  “Business” has been her code word for drug dealing since I was seven years old and asked her how she made enough money to buy expensive sneakers.

  “You’re my manager,” I say. “You can’t leave now.”

  “Bri. Move,” she says through her teeth.

  “You’re supposed to stay with me! You’re supposed—”

  To put that all aside. But truth is she never said she would. I assumed.

  “Bri, move,” she repeats.

  I step aside.

  Moments later, her Cutlass disappears down the street, and I’m left in the dark, without a manager. Worse, without my aunt.

  Curious eyes wait for me back in the studio. But I can’t show weakness. Period. I clear my throat. “We’re good.”

  “All right,” Doc says. “You gotta come hard on this one. This your introduction to the world, know what I’m saying? What you want the world to know?”

  I shrug.

  He wheels his chair closer to me, leans forward, and asks, “What’s the world done to you lately?”

  It put my family in a messed-up situation.

  It pinned me to the ground.

  It called me a hoodlum.

  “It’s done a hell of a lot,” I say.

  Doc sits back with a smile. “Let ’em know how you feeling then.”

  I sit in a corner with my notebook and my pen. Doc’s got the beat on repeat. It gives the floor a pulse, making it thump slightly beneath me.

  I close my eyes and try to soak it in, but every time I do, Long and Tate sneer back at me.

  If I was Aunt Pooh, I would’ve whooped their asses, no lie. Anything just to make those cowards regret even looking at me twice.

  I’m not Aunt Pooh though. I’m weak, powerless Bri who had no choice but to lie there on the ground. But if I was Aunt Pooh, I’d tell them . . .

  “Run up on me and get done up,” I mutter, and write it. Done up. The good news? A lot rhymes with “done up.” The bad news? A lot rhymes with “done up.” I tap my pen against my palm.

  Across the garage, Scrap shows Doc and his boys his two pieces. One’s got a silencer, and the guys damn near drool over it. Aunt Pooh says Scrap’s got more heat than a furnace—

  Wait.

  “Run up on me and get done up. My squad got more heat than a furnace,” I mumble as I write. “Silencer is a must, they ain’t heard us.”

  Heard us.

  Nobody hears us around here. Like Dr. Rhodes. Or all those politicians who flooded the neighborhood after the riots. They did all these “stop the gun violence” talks, like we were to blame for that boy’s death. They didn’t care that it wasn’t our fault.

  “We don’t bust, yet they blame us for murder,” I say under my breath.

  Scrap points his Glock at the door to show it off. He even cocks it. If I had one, I would’ve aimed it and cocked it yesterday.

  “This Glock, yeah, I cock it, and aim it,” I write. Wait, no, something should come before that. Aim it. Ain’t it. Frame it . . . Claim it.

  Truth is, if I would’ve had that Glock, that would’ve just given Tate and Long another reason to call me a thug. Well, you know what?

  “You think I’m a thug, well I claim it,” I mut
ter. “This Glock, yeah, I cock it and aim it. That’s what you expect, bitch, ain’t it? The picture you painted, I frame it.”

  I’ve got this.

  Half an hour later, I step up to the mic and put the headphones over my ears.

  “You ready?” Doc says in the headphones.

  “I’m ready.”

  The music starts. I close my eyes again.

  They wanna call me a hoodlum?

  Fine.

  I’ll be a goddamn hoodlum.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

  Run up on me and get done up.

  Whole squad got more heat than a furnace.

  Silencer is a must, they ain’t heard us.

  We don’t bust, yet they blame us for murder.

  You think I’m a thug? Well, I claim it.

  This Glock, yeah, I cock it and aim it.

  That’s what you expect, bitch, ain’t it?

  The picture you painted, I frame it.

  I approach, you watch close, I’m a threat.

  Think I bang, think I slang, claim a set.

  Cops can draw, break the law, ’cause you fret.

  Yet I bet you won’t even regret.

  But you can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

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

  Wrote me off, called your squad, but you lucked up.

  If I did what I wanted and bucked up,

  You’d be bound for the ground, grave dug up.

  Boys in blue rolling all through my neighborhood,

  ’Cause I guess that they think that we ain’t no good.

  We fight back, we’ve attacked, then they say they should

  Send in troops wearing boots for the greater good.

  But let me be honest, I promise,

  If a cop come at me, I’ll be lawless.

  Like my poppa, fear nada. Take solace

  In my hood going hard in my honor.

  ’Cause you can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

  I’m a queen, don’t need gray just to prove it.

  Rock a crown, and you ain’t gon’ remove it.

  Royalty in my blood, didn’t choose it,

  ’Cause my daddy still king and the truest.

  Strapped like backpacks, I pull triggers.

  All the clips on my hips change my figure.

  ’Cause I figure they think I’m a killer,

  May as well bust them thangs, go gorilla.

  I hate that my momma got struggles.

  Bills and food, she be trying to juggle,

  But I swear, I’m gon’ pop like a bubble

  And make sure she don’t have no more troubles.

  So you can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me on the come up.

  You can’t stop me, nope, nope.

  Nine

  Aunt Pooh never came back. Scrap walked me home.

  I left her voice mails, texted her, everything. That was yesterday, and I still haven’t heard back. Her girlfriend Lena hasn’t heard from her either. Aunt Pooh does this sometimes though. Will ghost for a bit, then pop back up out of nowhere, acting as if everything’s all good. If you ask her what she’s been up to, she’ll be like, “Don’t worry ’bout it,” and move on to something else.

  Honestly, it’s best that way. Look, I know my aunt does foul stuff, okay? But I’d rather see her as my hero than as somebody else’s villain. Can’t lie though, I’m pissed that she left me like she did.

  I got the song done, Doc polished it up, put it on a USB for me, and that was that. No problems at all. But Aunt Pooh should’ve been there. She was supposed to tell me if a line was off or hype me up when a verse was good. She’s supposed to tell me what to do with it.

  I haven’t uploaded it online. One, I don’t know what to do with it. How do I promote it? I do not wanna be that random person on Twitter, going into threads and dropping Dat Cloud links that nobody asked for.

  Two, as dumb as this will sound, I’m scared. To me it’s like putting nudes online. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but it’s like putting part of me out there that I can’t hide again.

  There’s already a part of me out there that I can’t hide. Somebody at school uploaded a video of Long and Tate pinning me to the ground. It doesn’t show them throwing me down or anything that happened before that. Whoever recorded it called it, “Drug dealer caught at MSOA.”

  Drug dealer. Two words.

  Since they think I’m a drug dealer,

  Nobody could really give a

  Fuck.

  The video’s barely got views. It’s messed up, but I’m glad nobody’s watching it.

  Trey peeks into the bathroom. “Dang, you ain’t ready yet?”

  “Treeey!” I groan. I’m just standing here, putting gel on my edges, but who wants their older brother sticking his nose in the bathroom while they’re getting ready? “Do you know what privacy is?”

  “Do you know what timeliness is?” He looks at his watch. “Church starts in twenty minutes, Bri. Ma’s ready to go.”

  I comb my baby hairs into a swoop. “Don’t know why we’re going in the first place.” Straight up, it would take Jesus himself to make me go back to the same church that let me go. For real, for real. Even then, I’d tell him, “Let me think about it.”

  “I don’t know why Ma wants to go either,” Trey says. “But she does. So hurry up.”

  This makes no sense, I swear. Trey heads outside, and I’m not far behind. Jay’s already in her Jeep.

  “All right, y’all,” she says. “You know folks will be talking about me losing my job. Try to ignore it and don’t get smart, okay?”

  She looks dead at me in her rearview mirror.

  “Why are you looking at me?”

  “Oh, you know why.” She puts the truck in reverse. “Got a mouth like your daddy.”

  Also like her. But anyway.

  Christ Temple is only a five-minute drive away. The parking lot is so full, cars are parked in the gravel lot next door that the church owns. That’s where we end up, instead of in the church secretary spot that Jay used to have. They’ve taken the sign down.

  Jay greets people inside with a smile like nothing’s happened. She even hugs Pastor Eldridge. He opens his arms toward me. I give him a S’up nod and keep it moving. Trey does, too. Our petty doesn’t discriminate.

  We have a pew near the back that may as well have our names on it. From here we can see some of everything. Service hasn’t started yet, but there are people all around the sanctuary, talking in little clusters. There are the older “mothers,” as they’re called, up in the front row with their big hats on.

  Some of the deacons are over to the side, including Deacon Turner with the Jheri curl. My stank-eye is strong for that one. A few months ago, he got up in front of the congregation and ranted about how parents don’t need to hug and kiss their sons because it makes them gay. Sonny’s parents said that rant was a “bunch of bullshit.” They haven’t brought Sonny and his sisters back to church since. I’ve flipped Deacon Turner off every chance I get since.

  Like now. He’s not wearing his glasses though, which e
xplains why he just waves at me. So I give him the double-middle-finger special.

  Trey pushes my hands down. His shoulders shake from fighting a laugh.

  Grandma’s up front with her group from the decorating committee. Her hat’s the biggest of them all. She says something to her friends, and they glance back at us.

  “Heffa bet’ not be talking about me,” Jay says. “With that synthetic mess on her head. Wig looking like roadkill.”

  “Ma!” Trey says. I snort.

  Granddaddy comes up the center aisle. He can’t take a step without somebody saying, “Morning, Deacon Jackson!” This is the only place where people don’t call him “Senior.” His round belly looks like it’ll pop out of his vest. His purple tie and handkerchief match Grandma’s dress and hat. My grandparents always match. Not just on Sundays, either. They’d show up to Markham’s football games in identical tracksuits to watch Trey. He didn’t play—he was a drum major—but the band is just as important as the football team at HBCUs. Shoot, more important.

  “All right now, y’all,” Granddaddy says to us.

  That’s his way of saying good morning. He leans across the pew and kisses Jay’s cheek. “Glad to see y’all made it today.”

  “Of course, Mr. Jackson,” Jay says. “Nothing could keep me from the house of the Lord. Glory!”

  I side-eye her. Not that Jay doesn’t love the Lord, but she gets extra-Christian when we’re in church. Like her, Aunt Gina, and Aunt ’Chelle weren’t just twerking to bounce music last night in our living room. Less than twenty-four hours later, and every other word out of Jay’s mouth is “glory” or “hallelujah.” I doubt even Jesus talks like that.

  Granddaddy leans toward me and points to his cheek. I kiss it. It’s fat and dimpled, like my dad’s was.

  “Always gotta get my sugar from my Li’l Bit,” he says with a smile. He eyes Trey, and the smile is gone. “Boy, you know you need to go to a barbershop. Got more hair than a white man who done got lost on a hike.”

  I smirk. Only Granddaddy.

  “You really gotta start this morning?” Trey says.

  “You the one gon’ have wildlife running out your head. Y’all making it, Jayda?”

  He knows. Not surprised. As the head deacon, Granddaddy finds out everything.