On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

“Yes, sir,” Jay claims. “We’ll be all right.”

  “I ain’t ask if you will be, I asked how you doing now.”

  “I’m handling it,” says Trey.

  “With that li’l mess you call a job?” Granddaddy asks.

  Granddaddy thinks Trey should get a “real job.” Last week, he went into this whole thing about how “this new generation don’t wanna work hard,” and that making pizzas “ain’t a man’s job.” See, Granddaddy was a city maintenance worker for forty years. Was one of the first black men to hold a job there, too. Let him tell it, if Trey isn’t coming home sweaty and grimy, he’s not working hard enough.

  “I said I’m handling it,” Trey says.

  “Mr. Jackson, we’re fine,” Jay says. “Thank you for asking.”

  Granddaddy takes out his wallet. “Least let me give you something.”

  “I can’t take—”

  He counts out a couple of twenties and puts them in Jay’s hand. “Stop all that foolishness. Junior would want me to.”

  Junior’s my dad and the key to ending any argument with my mom.

  “No,” Jay says. “If he were here, he’d be giving you money.”

  Granddaddy chuckles. “That boy was generous, wasn’t he? The other day, I was looking at this watch he bought me and got to thinking ’bout it.” He taps the gold piece that stays on his wrist. “It’s the last thing he gave me, and I almost didn’t take it. I would’ve regretted that, had I known . . .”

  Granddaddy goes quiet. Grief hasn’t left my grandparents. It hides in the shadows and waits for moments to hit.

  “Keep that money, Jayda,” Granddaddy says. “I don’t wanna hear another word about it, you hear me?”

  Grandma comes over. “Just don’t go wasting it.”

  Jay rolls her eyes. “Hi to you too, Mrs. Jackson.”

  Grandma looks at her from head to toe and purses her lips. “Mm-hmm.”

  I’ll be the first to say my grandma’s stuck-up. I’m sorry, but she is. Main reason she doesn’t like Jay is ’cause she’s from Maple Grove. She’s called Jay that “ol’ hood rat from the projects” plenty of times. Then again, Jay has called her “that ol’ bougie heffa” just as much.

  “I hope you use that money for my grandbabies and not some of the other mess you probably into,” Grandma says.

  “Excuse me?” says Jay. “What other mess?”

  “Louise, c’mon now,” Granddaddy says.

  Grandma kisses her teeth and looks at me. “Brianna, baby, don’t you wanna sit with us?”

  It’s the same question every Sunday. Thankfully, I’ve got a system for this. Every other Sunday, I sit with my grandparents. That way, Grandma isn’t disappointed that I’ve chosen Jay over her more and Jay isn’t disappointed that I’ve chosen my grandparents over her. Basically, it’s joint custody: church pew edition.

  It’s tricky, but it’s my life. So, since I was with Jay last Sunday, this Sunday goes to my grandparents. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s my girl,” Grandma says all smugly. She clearly hasn’t caught on to my scheme. “What about you, Lawrence?”

  She means Trey. He’s Lawrence Marshall Jackson III. Grandma rarely uses his nickname.

  Trey puts his arm around our mom. “I’m good.”

  That’s his answer every week.

  Grandma purses her lips. “All right. C’mon, Brianna.”

  Jay gives my hand a slight squeeze as I slide past her. “See you later, baby.”

  She knows I split my Sundays between them. Told me that I don’t have to. But I’ll do anything to keep the peace.

  I follow Grandma toward the front of the sanctuary. She and Granddaddy have a spot on the second row that’s theirs. See, the first row is for folks who wanna show off. The second row is for folks who wanna show off but wanna act like they’re subtler about it.

  Grandma squints as she eyes me up and down. “You look tired. Bags under your eyes and everything. That woman been letting you stay up all kinds of hours, hasn’t she?”

  First of all, dang, the shade. Second of all, “I go to bed at a decent hour.” Sometimes. That’s not Jay’s fault. Blame my PlayStation.

  Grandma goes, “T’uh! I’m sure you do. You looking kinda po’, too.”

  Not poor, but po’, as in skinny, which I’m not. That’s the country way of saying it. As bougie as Grandma wants to act, according to Granddaddy she’s just “one foot out the backwoods and one toe from ignorant.”

  “I’m eating fine, Grandma,” I tell her.

  “Mm-hmm. Don’t look like it to me. She probably don’t cook, do she? These young mothers live in drive-thrus. Probably giving you hamburgers every night. A mess!”

  I didn’t even say anything but go off.

  Grandma picks at my hair. “And why she always putting your hair in these ol’ braids? You got good hair! It don’t need to be in this mess.”

  What the hell is “good” hair? Hell, what’s “bad” hair?

  “Lord, that woman don’t know how to take care of you,” she goes on. “You know you can come back home, right?”

  As far as she’s concerned, her and Granddaddy’s house will always be my “home.” Seriously, she acts like I’m just visiting Jay. I can’t lie, I used to wanna go back to them too. When your mom is only your mom on weekends and holidays, she’s just one step up from being a stranger. Living with her was brand new.

  But now, I know how hard she fought to get us in the first place and how much it would hurt her if we left. That’s why I tell Grandma, “I know. But I wanna stay with my mom.”

  Grandma goes, “Hm!” like she doubts it.

  Sister Daniels switches her way over. She’s another member of the “saved and bougie” crew. Wanna act like she doesn’t lay her head down in the Maple Grove projects every night. Grandma hugs her and smiles all in her face, knowing she badmouths Sister Daniels every chance she gets. In fact, Grandma started the rumor that she has roaches. That’s why the food committee never asks Sister Daniels to cook for events anymore and now they ask Grandma.

  “Girl, you know you looking sharp today!” Sister Daniels claims.

  I can practically see Grandma’s head swell. You gotta be careful with church compliments though. The person’s probably thinking the exact opposite of what they’re saying but says something nice in case Jesus is listening in.

  “Thank you, girl,” Grandma says. “My niece bought this at one of them outlet malls she likes.”

  “I can tell.”

  Oh, that was shade. By the quick glare that crosses Grandma’s face, she knows it, too.

  She straightens out her skirt. “What you doing over here, girl?” Which is church speak for “You better get up out my face.”

  “Oh, I wanted to check on Brianna,” Sister Daniels says. “Curtis told me what happened at school. You all right, baby?”

  I look across the aisle. Curtis waves at me with the biggest grin.

  Curtis is Sister Daniels’s only grandson. With his mom in prison, he lives with his grandma, and he’s always yapping to her. Like in fifth grade, he said something that pissed me off, so I popped him in his mouth. He ran and told his grandma. His grandma told my grandma and I got a whooping. Snitch.

  Grandma whips around at me. “What happened at school, Brianna?”

  I didn’t wanna tell her. It’s gonna lead to a million questions I don’t wanna deal with. “Nothing, Grandma.”

  “Oh, it was something,” says Sister Daniels. “Curtis said security threw her on the ground.”

  Grandma gasps. Sister Daniels lives for gasps like that.

  “Threw you?” Grandma says. “What in the world they do that for?”

  “They thought she had drugs on her,” Sister Daniels says before I can say a word.

  Another gasp. I close my eyes and hold my forehead at this point.

  “Brianna, what you doing with drugs?” says Grandma.

  “I didn’t have drugs, Grandma,” I mumble.

  “Sure didn
’t,” Sister Daniels says. “She been selling candy. Curtis claims them guards love to start mess. They’re at fault, but Brianna still got suspended.”

  Welp, no need to tell my own story. I’ll just let Sister Daniels take over at this point. In fact, why don’t I just let her write my autobiography since she knows so damn much?

  “They gave you three days, right, baby?” she asks.

  “Three days?” Grandma shrieks.

  The dramatics. I rest my chin in my hand. “Yes.”

  “What you selling candy for anyway?” says Grandma.

  “Probably to help her momma out,” says the expert in all things Bri. Surprise! It’s apparently not me.

  “Lord, I knew you wasn’t looking right,” Grandma says. “You didn’t act like this when you lived with us.”

  “Carol and I were talking”—Sister Daniels lowers her voice—“and this whole thing odd, ain’t it? Pastor would pay a salary out his own pocket before he let somebody be without. He don’t easily let folks go. Unless . . .”

  She raises her eyebrows as if there’s a message hidden in them.

  Grandma goes, “Hm!”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Um, huh? “Unless what?” I say.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Grandma says as they glance at Jay. “You know what they say, folks ain’t ever truly clean once they been on that mess.”

  Wait, what?

  “Chiiile,” Sister Daniels says. “You better keep your eyes and ears open, Louise. For your grandbaby’s sake.”

  I’m sitting right here. “My mom’s not on drugs.”

  Sister Daniels sets her hand on her hip. “You sure ’bout that?”

  The “yes” is on the tip of my tongue, but it sits there a second.

  I mean . . . I don’t think she is.

  For one, eight years is a hell of a long time to be clean. Two, Jay wouldn’t go back to all of that. She knows how much it messed us up. She wouldn’t put me and Trey through that again.

  But.

  She put us through it in the first place.

  The choir fills in the stands and the band starts an upbeat song. People clap along around the sanctuary.

  Sister Daniels pats Grandma’s knee. “Be watchful, Louise. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Four hours later, church is over.

  The spirit forgot the concept of time—I mean, the spirit hit Pastor Eldridge hard. He huffed and puffed until a praise break broke out. Grandma took off running, as always, and that wig went flying, as always. Granddaddy tucked it under his arm, looking like he had overgrown armpit hair.

  After service is over, everyone files into the church basement for “fellowship.” I can’t help but shiver a little bit every time I come down here. It’s like this place is haunted. They have portraits of all the old, dead pastors on the walls. None of them smile, like they’re judging us for not tithing enough. Doesn’t help that the place is decorated like a funeral home. I’m convinced that one day, Jesus is gonna jump out from a corner and scare the bejesus out of me.

  Question: If Jesus scares you, do you call on Jesus? Do you even say, “Oh my God?”

  Stuff to ponder.

  Anyway, fellowship at Christ Temple really means snack time, and snack time really means fried or baked chicken, potato salad, green beans, pound cake, and soda. I don’t think church folks know how to just “snack.”

  Grandma and a couple of her girlfriends serve the food, including Sister Daniels. They wear plastic gloves and plastic hairnets that seem a bit too thin for my germaphobe liking. Granddaddy and some of the deacons chat over in a corner. Granddaddy sips on a diet soda. Anything other than diet and Grandma will go off about him not watching his sugar. Trey’s gotten cornered by a couple of the other deacons not far away. He looks like he’d rather be invisible. Jay’s talking to Pastor Eldridge and laughs and smiles like nothing’s wrong.

  I’m still in line to get food. There’s an unspoken rule that when your grandparent is serving, you have to get in the back of the line. I’m not complaining. Grandma’s over the chicken, and she’ll save a big piece for me. She’ll tell Sister Grant to give me the corner edge of the peach cobbler, too. Peach cobbler is the love of my life, and the corner edge is perfection.

  Somebody comes up behind me. Their breath brushes against my ear as they say, “You didn’t get into too much trouble with your grandma, did you, Princess?”

  Without any hesitation, I ram my elbow back, straight into his gut. The “ow!” makes me smile.

  Curtis has called me “Princess” since we were seven. He said it was because people call my daddy the “King of the Garden.” It’s always irked me, too. Not so much being called a princess—trust, I’d make a badass one—but the way he says it. Princess, like it’s an inside joke but he’s the only one who gets it.

  Hope he “gets” that elbow.

  “Dang,” he says. I turn around, and he’s bent over. “Violent butt.”

  “Snitching butt,” I say through my teeth. “Just had to go and tell your grandma what happened, huh? You knew she was gon’ blab.”

  “Ay, I just told her what happened at school, like a good grandson’s supposed to do. Ain’t my fault she’s telling everybody and their momma you got thrown onto the ground.”

  “Wow. You think what they did to me is funny?”

  The smirk disappears. “Nah. Actually, I don’t.”

  “Sure you don’t.”

  “Seriously, Bri, I don’t. It’s messed up. I’m sick of them making assumptions about us.”

  I feel that in my soul. There are more people with an idea of who they think I am than there are people who really know who I am.

  “On God, bruh,” Curtis says, “them guards gon’ get what’s coming one day. On God.”

  This is one time I don’t think he’s lying on God. “Don’t do anything stupid, Curtis.”

  “Look at this. The princess is worried about li’l ol’ me?”

  “Ha! Hell no. But if you think they’re bad now? Let something happen. We’ll be lucky if they let us back through the doors.”

  Let’s be real: We’re black kids from one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. All it takes is one of us messing up, and suddenly all of us messed up. I’ve probably made things worse already.

  “You right,” Curtis admits. “I would ask how you’re doing after all of that, but that’s a stupid question. The rumors at school probably ain’t helping, huh?”

  “What rumors?”

  “That you sell drugs, and that’s why Long and Tate went after you.”

  So that person who uploaded the video isn’t the only one. “What the hell? How they figure that?”

  “You know how it goes. It somehow went from you slipping folks candy in the halls to you slipping folks weed in the halls.”

  “Woooow.”

  “Look, ignore all that nonsense,” Curtis says. “Just remember you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Now I’m amused. “Look at this. You’re acting like you actually care about me.”

  He bites his lip and stares at me for one long, awkward moment, in a way he hasn’t stared at me before. Finally, he says, “I do care about you, Bri.”

  What?

  Curtis reaches around me, his arm brushing against my arm, as he gets a Styrofoam plate from the table. His eyes meet mine.

  “Brianna, baby,” Sister Daniels says. It’s my turn in line. “What you want, green salad or potato salad?”

  My eyes are still locked with Curtis’s though.

  He straightens up with a smirk. “You gon’ stare or you gon’ get some food?”

  Ten

  “Is Curtis cute?”

  Sonny looks at me like I grew an extra head. “Which Curtis?”

  I nod ahead. “That Curtis.”

  It’s Wednesday, my first day back from suspension. Curtis is in one of the front rows of the bus. A “diamond” earring glistens in one of his ears, and his snapback matches his sneakers. He brags about his rat
ing in some basketball video game to Zane-with-the-nose-ring. Loud as always and putting it “on God, bruh” that he’d beat Zane in a game, as always.

  Sonny squints his eyes. He tilts his head one way and then the other. “I guess? He’s no Michael Bae Jordan.”

  Lord. Ever since Black Panther, Sonny has sworn that Michael B. Jordan is the standard for fineness. I can see why though. When he took his shirt off in the movie, Sonny and I looked at each other and went, “Goddamn!” During that whole scene, Sonny squeezed my hand, going, “Bri . . . Bri!”

  It was a moment.

  “Nobody is Michael B. Jordan, Sonny,” I remind him.

  “You’re right. That is some one-of-a-kind fine,” he says. “But I guess Curtis is cute in the same way rodents are weirdly adorable? You know how you’ll see a baby mouse and will be like, ‘Aw, cute!’ Until that bitch is raiding your cabinet, eating the Halloween candy you hid from your little sisters.”

  “That’s oddly specific.”

  “Um, you asked me if Curtis is cute. The only odd one is you, Bri.”

  Touché. That question has been bugging me since Sunday. I mean, maybe he is a little bit cute? He’s short and kinda thick, which I like, can’t lie, and he’s got these really full lips that he bites a lot, especially when he’s smiling. His eyes are softer than you’d expect, like even though he talks a lot of shit, he’s really a teddy bear. He’s not a pretty boy, but I can’t stand pretty boys anyway. They usually act like they know they’re pretty. He’s just the right amount of cute that can be considered fine.

  But it’s Curtis.

  Curtis.

  Sonny glances at his phone and slips it back in his jacket pocket. He got on the bus alone this morning. Malik wanted to work on his documentary in the lab before school.

  “What’s got you wondering about Curtis’s looks or lack thereof?” Sonny asks. “Being on lockdown made you that desperate?”

  I push him so hard, he tips over, laughing all the way down.

  Sonny sits up. “Vi-o-lent. Seriously, where’s this coming from?”

  “We talked at church about me getting suspended, and he was actually decent.”

  “Damn, Bri. He talked to you like a human being, now all of a sudden you’re thirsty for him? What kind of heterosexual bullshit is that?”