On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

  I’ve always had this theory that God is a sitcom writer who loves to put me in ridiculous situations. Like, “Hahahaha, not only does she have to beg for food, but she has to do it in front of Milez. Hilarious!”

  This show needs to go in a new direction.

  Jay follows my eyes over to Milez. “That’s that boy you battled, isn’t it? The one with that dumb song?”

  How does she know? “Yeah.”

  “Ignore him.”

  If only. As dumb as “Swagerific” is, I can’t go around the neighborhood without hearing it.

  I’m waiting for Aunt Pooh to tell me what to do with “On the Come Up.” She’s still MIA though. I’m not worried. Like I said, she does this sometimes.

  “C’mon.” Jay tugs at my arm. “We’re only getting food. That’s all we need. Some of these other folks aren’t so lucky.”

  The first table is covered in canned goods. These two elderly ladies—one black and one white—staff the table. They wear matching Christmas sweaters.

  “How many in your household, dear?” the black one asks Jay.

  Her table partner watches me with the smallest smile, and the look in her eyes makes me wanna scream.

  Pity.

  I wanna tell her that this isn’t how it normally is for us. We don’t usually get in long lines at community centers and beg for food. We sometimes have an empty fridge, yeah, but it used to be guaranteed to fill back up.

  I wanna tell her to stop looking at me like that.

  That I’m gonna fix this one day.

  That I wanna get the hell up out of here.

  “I’m gonna walk around,” I mumble to Jay.

  The food’s on one side of the gym, and clothes, toys, and books are on the other side. Near the toys and books, little kids circle Milez and do his dance. A camerawoman catches that action.

  I get as far away from them as I can and go to the shoe table. It’s about as long as the tables in Midtown’s cafeteria and sectioned off by sizes. All the shoes are secondhand, at least. I glance around the women’s size six section for the heck of it.

  Then, I see them.

  They’re taller than most of the other shoes. There’s a small scuff on the toe of the left one, but they’re new enough that the little leather tag hangs from the chain.

  Timbs.

  I pick them up. These aren’t the knockoffs like I got at the swap meet either. The little tree carved into the side is proof.

  Real Timbs that could easily be mine.

  My eyes drift to my own shoes. Jay said to only get food. These Timbs should go to someone who might not have any shoes at all. I don’t need them.

  But I do. My insoles have almost rubbed out. It started days ago. I haven’t told Jay. I can deal with a little discomfort, and she doesn’t need to worry about getting me shoes right now.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I could take these, but the moment I walk out of here with them, I’m fucked. We’re fucked. It means we’ve gotten to the point that we need shoes that someone decided to give away.

  I don’t wanna be that person. Yet I think I am that person.

  I cover my mouth to hold back the sob. Jacksons don’t cry, especially not in community centers with eyes full of pity and news cameras looking for pitiful moments. I suck it up, literally suck it up by taking a deep breath, and put the boots on the table.

  “Why don’t you try them on, Li’l Law?” someone behind me asks.

  I turn around. Santa wears dark shades that hide his eyes, has two gold fangs in his mouth, and rocks a couple of gold chains. Unless the traditional Santa look changed and nobody told me, that’s Supreme, my dad’s old manager.

  “Ain’t nothing like some real Timbs,” he says. “Go ’head. Try ’em on.”

  I fold my arms. “Nah, I’m good.”

  There are rules for battling, and there are rules for after the battle. Rule numero uno? Stay on guard. Last time I saw Supreme, I whooped his son’s butt in the Ring. Doubt he was happy about that. How I know he’s not about to come at me sideways?

  Rule number two? Don’t forget anything. I haven’t forgotten how he laughed at that garbage Milez said about my dad. I can’t let that slide.

  Supreme chuckles to himself. “Boy oh boy. You just like your daddy. Ready to fight, and I ain’t hardly said anything to you.”

  “Do I need to be ready to fight?” I mean, hey, knuck if you buck.

  “Nah, I ain’t mad. You made Milez look like a damn fool up in the Ring, yeah, but I can’t hold that against you. His head was somewhere else.”

  “It wasn’t somewhere else that much. He said that disrespectful line about my daddy.”

  “Yep, you definitely Law. Mad over a line.”

  “It wasn’t just a line.”

  “Yeah, but that was just a battle. Milez only wanted to get under your skin. Nothing personal.”

  “Well, personally, screw him and you.” I turn back around.

  We’re silent until Supreme says, “You need them boots, don’t you?”

  The lie comes out easily. “No.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of if you do. I been there myself. My momma dragged me to all kinds of giveaways like this when I was a shorty.”

  “My mom hasn’t ‘dragged me’ to a bunch of giveaways.”

  “Ah, a first-timer,” he says. “First time always the hardest. Especially with them sympathetic looks folks give you. You learn to ignore them eventually.”

  Impossible.

  “Listen, I ain’t come over to get in your business,” he claims. “I saw you and Jayda come in and figured I’d give props. You did the damn thing in the Ring.”

  “I know.” No, I don’t, but I have to act like I do.

  “I saw something in you that I ain’t seen in a long time,” he says. “We folks in the industry call it ‘It.’ Nobody can explain what ‘It’ is, but we know It when we see It. You got It.” He laughs. “Damn, you got It.”

  I turn around. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. Law would be proud as hell, no doubt.”

  I get a twinge in my chest. Can’t tell if it hurts or if it feels good. Maybe it’s both. “Thanks.”

  He sticks a toothpick in his mouth. “Shame you ain’t doing nothing with It.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I looked you up. You ain’t got no music out there or anything. You missed out on an opportunity. Shit, Milez lost the battle and it still gave him buzz. If you had the right management, you’d be even bigger than him right now.”

  “My aunt’s my manager.”

  “Who? That li’l girl who used to follow Law around?”

  Aunt Pooh idolized my dad. Says she stayed with him like a shadow. “Yeah, her.”

  “Ah. Let me guess: She saw that Dee-Nice got a million-dollar deal and now she wanna keep throwing you in the Ring and hope it gets you one, too.”

  Yeah, but that’s none of his business.

  Supreme puts his hands up. “Hey, I don’t mean no harm. Hell, that’s what half the neighborhood’s trying to do now. But I’ll be honest, baby girl. If you wanna make it, you’ll need more than the Ring. You gotta make music. That’s what I told Dee-Nice. Now look at him.”

  “Wait, you’re his manager?”

  “Yep. He brought me on a year ago,” Supreme says. “The Ring didn’t get him a deal. It just got him some attention. His music got him a deal. Same thing with your daddy. All it took was the right buzz, the right song at the right time, then bam! He blew up.”

  The right song. “How do you know if something is the ‘right song’?”

  “I know hits when I hear ’em. Got yet to be wrong. Look at ‘Swagerific.’ I’ll admit, it’s a simple-ass song, but it’s a hit. One song is sometimes all it takes.”

  I’ve got one song.

  “Anyway,” Supreme says, “just thought I’d give props. I probably wouldn’t be where I am now if it wasn’t for your daddy, so if you ever need help”—he hands me a business card—“hit me up.”
/>
  He starts to walk away.

  He knows hits when he hears them, and I need one. Maybe then I won’t be back at this giveaway next year. “Wait,” I say.

  Supreme turns around.

  I take my phone from my pocket. “I have a song.”

  “Okay?”

  There’s a pregnant pause as he waits for the rest.

  “I, um . . .” Suddenly words are hard. “I . . . I don’t know if it’s good or not . . . My classmates like it, but I . . .”

  He smirks. “You wanna know what I think about it?”

  I do and I don’t. What if he says it’s garbage? Then again, why do I suddenly care what he thinks? My dad fired him. His son dissed me.

  But he made my dad a legend. He got Dee-Nice a million-dollar deal. Plus, Milez may be trash, but Supreme’s doing something right for him. “Yeah,” I say. “I’d like your opinion.”

  “All right.” He takes some earbuds from his pocket. “Let me hear it.”

  I pull up the song and hand him my phone. Supreme sticks his earbuds into the plug, puts them in his ears, and hits Play.

  I fold my arms to keep them still. Usually I can read people, but his face is as blank as a brand-new notebook. He doesn’t nod along or anything.

  I could puke.

  After the longest three minutes of my life, Supreme takes his earbuds from his ears, unplugs them from my phone, and hands my phone back to me.

  I swallow. “That bad?”

  The edges of his lips turn up and slowly form a full smile. “That’s a hit, baby girl.”

  “For real?”

  “For real! Goddamn. That song right there? Could jump-start your career.”

  Holy shit. “Please don’t play with me.”

  “I’m not. The hook’s catchy, the verses are good. You ain’t put that online yet?”

  “No.”

  “I tell you what,” he says. “Upload it and text me the link. I’ll make a couple of calls and see what I can do to get you some buzz. Everybody’s on vacation now, so it’ll have to be after the holidays. But damn, if I talk to the right people, you could be on your way.”

  “Just like that?”

  He flashes those gold fangs in a smile. “Just like that.”

  Jay comes over with a box. “Bri, let’s—”

  She squints at Santa. It takes a second, but she says, “Supreme?”

  “Long time no see, Jayda.”

  She doesn’t return his smile, but she doesn’t give him a stank-face either. “What you doing here?”

  Supreme slings the Santa bag over his shoulder. “I was just telling Bri that I used to come to giveaways like this when I was a shorty. I figured my son and I may as well give back now that we’re in a better position. Plus, it’s good for him to remember how blessed he is.”

  I almost roll my eyes. How would these people feel if they knew Milez was here to see how messed up we are to remind him how good he’s got it? He’s gonna go to his nice house in the suburbs and forget this in a week, tops, while we’re still struggling.

  My situation shouldn’t be his after-school special.

  “You look good,” Supreme tells Jay. Not in a flirty way, but the way people do when somebody’s gotten clean. “Y’all hanging in there?”

  “Yep,” Jay says. “Don’t have any other choice.”

  “You know, you can always hit me up if you need help,” Supreme says. “Law was like a little brother to me. No matter what went down with us, he’d want me to—”

  “Brianna and I should get going,” Jay says.

  Dad’s what I call a “depends on the day” topic. Some days Jay will tell me stories that make up for the memories I don’t have. Other days, it’s like his name is a bad word that we shouldn’t say. Today, he must be a bad word.

  Jay turns to me. “C’mon.”

  I follow her across the gym and glance back at Supreme. He gives me the saddest smile.

  The line for the giveaway’s been shut down. A couple of volunteers tell all these people on the sidewalk to leave. No cameras around to catch the cuss words that fly or to see the mom with the baby on her hip who begs them for food.

  The worst part is walking past them as your mom carries a box of food, knowing you can’t give a single thing away because you need it all.

  I help Jay load the box into her Jeep. It’s packed full of canned goods, boxed goods, and a frozen turkey.

  “We should be okay for a while,” she says. “I’ll be like Bubba from Forrest Gump with that turkey.”

  Forrest Gump is my favorite movie. (Wait, no, second favorite. Wakanda forever.) I don’t know, there’s something about the idea that this simple-ass dude witnessed so much history. Makes me think that anything is possible. I mean, if Forrest Gump can meet three presidents, I can make it out of the Garden one day.

  We leave as more cars pull into the parking lot. The news camera may have to come back. At this rate, somebody’s gonna cause a scene.

  “We’re lucky we got there when we did,” Jay says.

  It’s scary that luck decided whether we got food or not. That’s what happened in Forrest Gump though. Luck put him in the right places at the right times.

  What if I just had a Forrest Gump moment with Supreme?

  Jay glances over at me. “What were you and Supreme talking about?”

  I shift in my seat. I haven’t told her about the song. Thing is, if I jump to conclusions fast, Jay teleports to them. Doesn’t matter what the song is actually about, she’d hear one line about Glocks and bury me eight feet deep. Six feet wouldn’t be enough.

  I wanna see what I can do with the song first. I mean, it’ll be hard for her to be pissed if it gets me a million-dollar deal like Dee-Nice got, right?

  “We were just talking about the battle and stuff,” I tell her. “Supreme thinks I have It. You know, that thing that makes stars stars.”

  “He’s right about that. Shoot, I saw It myself on that battle video.”

  “You watched my battle?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  “I was pissed about your grades. That’s more important. But I watched that video right after it went up on the Ring’s YouTube page. You were incredible, Bri. I’m not surprised. When you were little, you turned everything into a microphone. If I couldn’t find my hairbrush, I knew you were babbling into it somewhere. Your daddy would say”—she deepens her voice—“‘Our li’l miracle gon’ be a superstar.’”

  “Miracle?”

  “I had four miscarriages before I finally had you.”

  “Oh.”

  Miracle. One word. Kinda rhymes with mythical.

  It seems kinda mythical,

  That I’d be called a miracle.

  Jay blinks fast but keeps her eyes on the road. Sometimes she stares at me like she’s looking for herself, and sometimes I stare at her when she’s not looking. Not in a creepy way, but enough to get an idea of who she used to be and get a glimpse of what I could be.

  She gives me hope and scares me at the same time.

  “Our li’l miracle.” She looks over at me. “I love you. You know that, right?”

  I feel a slight twinge in my chest again. This one definitely feels good.

  “I know,” I say. “I love you too.”

  Thirteen

  Christmas manages to be Christmas.

  Even though it’s Sunday and we kinda owe it to Jesus to go to church on his birthday, none of us wake up until around eleven so we miss service. I’ve never understood those movies that show families up at the crack of dawn, all cheerful because, “Yay, Christmas!” For us it’s, “Yay, sleep!” Seriously though, sleeping in is the best part about Christmas. Wearing pajamas most of the day is the ultimate bonus. My Pikachu onesie feels like perfection.

  It’s noon before we start breakfast. Jay always makes apple cinnamon pancakes on Christmas, and today is no different thanks to the bag of flour from our community center box. We
’re supposed to have bacon, too, the thick kind that I would marry if it was legal, but there wasn’t any bacon in the box.

  We take plates to the den, and the three of us sit on the couch, slathering our pancakes in jelly and butter. After breakfast, it’s usually time for presents, except this year there’s absolutely nothing under the tree. Jay couldn’t afford Christmas, and Trey obviously couldn’t either. Besides, I’m used to it. If there are three gifts under our tree, it’s a miracle. Zero isn’t far from that.

  It’s fine.

  Jay goes to her room to call elderly relatives who are surprisingly still alive, and Trey and I load up this Michael Jackson video game on the Wii Dad bought when we were younger. I swear to God, this game is one of the best things in existence. It teaches you how to dance like MJ. Technically you could move the Wii controllers in the right direction and win, but Trey and I get into it. The kicks, the crotch pops, all of it. Doesn’t help that we’re both competitive as hell.

  “Look at that kick!” Trey says as he does one. It gets a “perfect” rating on the game. His kicks are always super high. It’s a skill he carries from his drum major days. “Ooooh-weee! You can’t keep up, girl!”

  “Lie!” I hit a twirl that gets a “perfect.” Of course. I know every move by heart. My love for Mike started when I saw a YouTube video of the first time he performed “Billie Jean.” I was six, and Michael was magic. The way he moved effortlessly. The way the crowd responded to every kick, every step. It didn’t hurt that he had my last name. I loved him like I knew him.

  I watched that performance until I learned every move. My grandparents played “Billie Jean” at family gatherings, and I put on a show. Cookouts, Sunday dinners, funeral repasts, didn’t matter. Everybody got a kick out of my performance, and I got a kick out of their reactions.

  Yeah, dude had his problems—some stuff I won’t try to figure out—but his talent remained. No matter what, he was always Michael Goddamn Jackson.

  I wanna be like that. Wait, not exactly like that, no offense to Mike, but one day I want people to look at me and say, “Despite the fact this girl lost her father to gun violence, had a drug addict for a mom, and is technically a ghetto statistic, she’s Brianna Goddamn Jackson, and she’s done some amazing shit.”