by Angie Thomas
Drug bust?
Shit.
I rush over to the window and lift a blind myself. Curtis’s grandma’s apartment faces the courtyard, and I’ve got a clear view of everything. If Maple Grove was an ant bed, it’s like somebody just stomped on it. SWAT team members knock down apartment doors, and Garden Disciples rush outside or get dragged out with guns pointed in their faces. A few brave ones make runs for it.
Aunt Pooh lies flat on the courtyard, her hands cuffed behind her back. A cop pats her down.
“Please, God,” I pray. “Please, God.”
God ignores me. The officer pulls a baggie from Aunt Pooh’s back pocket. Suddenly, the sky is no longer our limit. That bag of cocaine is.
I back away from the window. “No, no, no . . .”
Curtis looks out, too. “Oh, shit.”
For days, I thought I’d lost her, and I just got her back. Now . . .
There’s suddenly an invisible hand gripping every single muscle inside my chest. I gasp for air.
“Bri, Bri, Bri,” Curtis says, taking my arms. He guides me toward the sofa and helps me sit down. “Bri, breathe.”
It’s impossible, like my body doesn’t even know what breathing is, but it knows what crying is. Tears fall from my eyes. Sobs make me gasp harder, louder.
“Hey, hey,” Curtis says. His eyes catch mine. “Breathe.”
“Everybody . . .” I gulp for air. “Everybody leaves me.”
I sound as small as I feel. This is my mom telling me Daddy left us to go to heaven. This is her backing out of the driveway, even as I scream for her not to leave me. Nobody ever realized they took part of me with them.
Curtis sits beside me. He hesitates at first, but he gently guides my head so it’s resting on his shoulder. I let him.
“Yeah, people leave us,” he says softly. “But it doesn’t mean we alone.”
All I can do is close my eyes. There’s yelling and sirens outside. The cops are probably taking down every single Garden Disciple in Maple Grove.
Slowly, breathing becomes a habit again. “Thank you—” My nose is so stopped up, I sound funny. I sniff. “Thank you for getting me.”
“It’s all good,” Curtis says. “I was watering my grandma’s plants when I saw you and Pooh talking in the courtyard. Then the SWAT van rolled up. Knowing what I know ’bout Pooh, I knew you had to get up outta there.”
I open my eyes. “You water your grandma’s plants?”
“Yeah. Somebody gotta keep these things alive while she at work.”
I sit up some more. There are potted plants and flowers all over the living room and kitchen. “Damn,” I say. “You’ve got a lot of work.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Plus, she’s got a couple on the stoop. I like helping her with them though. They easier to deal with than a dog or a little brother or sister.” Curtis stands up. “You want some water or something?”
My throat is kinda dry. “Water would be good.”
“No prob—” He frowns at my foot. “Yo, what’s wrong with your shoe?”
“What?” I look down at them. One fake Timb is much shorter than the other. That’s because the entire heel is missing.
My shoe literally came apart.
“Fuck!” I bury my face in my hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
At this point, this shit is laughable. Of all the days and times for my shoe to fall apart, it had to happen while my life is falling apart.
“Look, I got you, okay?” Curtis says. He unties his Nikes. He slides them off and holds them toward me. “Here.”
He can’t be for real. “Curtis, put your shoes back on.”
Instead he goes down on one knee in front of me, puts his right sneaker on my right foot, and ties it super tight. He carefully removes my other Not-Timb, slips his left Nike on, and ties it too. When he’s done, he straightens up.
“There,” he says. “You got shoes.”
“I can’t keep your shoes, Curtis.”
“You can at least wear them to go home,” he says. “A’ight?”
Not like I have any other options. “All right.”
“Good.” He goes to the kitchen area. “You want ice in your water or nah?”
“No, thank you,” I say. The yelling and shrieking has quieted down. I can’t make myself look outside though.
Curtis brings me a tall glass of water. He sits beside me, wiggling his toes in his Spider-Man socks. There’s a hell of a lot I don’t know about him, and what I’m seeing doesn’t match up with what I thought.
“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 T-shirts 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—”
“There was a drug bust,” I murmur.
Jay opens her eyes. “What?”
My voice is thick. “There was a SWAT team, and they found coke on her.”
My mom just stares at me. Suddenly, she picks up her phone. “God, no. Please, no.”
She calls the police station. They can’t provide any info yet. She calls Lena, who’s sobbing so hard I can hear her from across the room. She calls Trey, who’s at work but says he’ll go by the station on his way home. She calls Scrap. His phone goes to voice mail. I think they got him, too.
Jay goes to her room, closes the door, and stays there. I don’t think I’m supposed to hear her crying, but it’s the only thing I hear all night.
I can’t stop her from crying. I can’t save Aunt Pooh. And now with her gone and nobody else for the Crowns to target, I may not even be able to save myself.
I’m powerless.
Jay doesn’t come out of her room the next day, or the next. When I get up Saturday morning, she’s still in there. Trey’s in his room, sleeping off a late-night shift. Supreme picks me up and takes me downtown for my interview with Hype.
Supreme runs his mouth the whole drive, but I barely hear him. My mom’s sobs won’t leave my ears. Besides, he’s saying the same ol’ shit. This is a major deal. I’m on my way. This interview will take me to a new level.
But it won’t save Aunt Pooh.
Supreme must realize I’m not saying much because he glances away from the road long enough to sneak a look over at me. “You good, Li’l Law?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Oh, you wanna stand on your own two, huh?” he teases.
Ain’t shit funny. I’ve got no choice but to stand on my own two. Excuse me if I don’t wanna wear the name of the person who’s not here to carry all of this with me.
I don’t even answer Supreme. I just stare out of the window.
Hot 105 is in one of the skyscrapers downtown. The station is just as legendary as the artists they have photographed on the walls. All around the reception area, there are framed pictures of the various DJs with hip-hop royalty they’ve interviewed over the years.
Hype’s voice pours out of speakers around the reception area. He’s live on the air in one of the studios. Jay used to have his show playing on her car stereo every Saturday morning when she’d pick me and Trey up. Whenever Hype played one of Dad’s songs, she’d let the windows down and turn it all the way up. He’d sound so alive that I’d forget he was dead.
Hype’s assistant leads me and Supreme to the studio. The red “live” light above the door means we have to wait outside at first. On the other side of a large window, Hype sits at a table that’s crowded with computer monitors, microphones, and headphones. There’s a guy in the studio with him pointing a camera in Hype’s direction. A sign on the wall says, “The Hot Hour.”
“As always, we gotta pay some bills,” Hype says over the speakers in the hallway. “But y’all stick around, because after the commercial break, I’m gonna be talking to one of the hottest young rappers in the country right now: Bri! We’re gonna get the scoop on the controversy, her next moves, all of that. It’s the Hot Hour, baby, on Hot 105!”
Hype takes off his headphones, and his assistant ushers us into the studio.
“The princess of the Garden!” Hype says. He gives me a half hug. “I still get chills thinking about your battle. No offense, ’Preme, but she killed your son. Straight up.”
“I can’t deny it,” Supreme says. “Why you think I had to sign her myself?”
“Can’t blame you,” Hype says. “The song is dope, too. Of course, all the controversy ain’t, but hey, at least they talking, right? I know my listeners wanna hear from you, Bri. We just ask that you keep the cussing to a minimum. Ain’t nobody got time for FCC fees.”
“We’re live in one minute, Hype,” the cameraman says.
Hype points me to a chair across from his where a mic and headphones await. “Have a seat, Bri,” he says, and I do. “’Preme, you staying?”
“Nah, I’ll be out there,” Supreme says. He kneels beside my chair. “Look, he may try to push your buttons,” he says, keeping his voice low. “That’s Hype though. Don’t let him rile you up too much. Just be yourself and say what you feel. All right?”
Say what I feel? He must not know how I’m feeling.
“We go live in five, Bri,” Hype says. “Four . . .”
Supreme pats my shoulder and goes into the hall. I slip the headphones on.
Hype puts up three fingers.
Two.
One.
“Welcome back to the Hot Hour,” he says into the mic. “Y’all, I got a very special guest in the house. If you know anything ’bout me, you know one of my favorite rappers of all time is Lawless, rest in peace to my brother. Today, I have the pleasure of having his baby girl in the studio. She’s got one of the hottest songs out at the moment, “On the Come Up,” and it’s got a lot of folks talking. Of course, we had to bring her to the Hot Hour. So, Bri, welcome to the studio.”
He plays an applause track.
“Thanks,” I say into the mic.
“Y’all, I had a chance to hear Bri a while back at the Ring. That was your debut, right?”
“Yep.”
“Y’all, she killed it,” he says. “After the show is over, go on YouTube and pull up that battle. It’ll blow you away. Bri was supposed to return to the Ring, but there was a little mishap a few weeks ago. We’ll get into that later. Right now, let’s talk about this song!” He smacks the table to prove his point. “‘On the Come Up.’ Y’all request it on the show all the time. The kids love it. A lot of us old heads enjoy it. But there’s a petition to get it taken off Dat Cloud because some people say it led to a riot at a local school. Other people say it’s antipolice, blah, blah, blah. As the artist behind the song, what do you have to say?”
Supreme said to say what I feel. Thing is, all I feel is pissed. “Screw them.”
Hype chuckles. “No hesitation at all, huh?”
“Why should I hesitate? They didn’t hesitate to come at me.”
“Okay, okay,” Hype says. “A lot of folks have been focusing on the violent nature of the lyrics. Do you think they encouraged those students at that school to act out violently?”
Is he
serious? “Do you think half the songs you play encourage people to act out violently?”
“We’re talking about your song and this situation though.”
“Does it matter?” I say. “They were clearly upset about other stuff. A song didn’t make them do anything. All these people are using me as a cop-out instead of asking what the real problems are.”
“All these people who?” he actually asks.
“Bruh, the news!” I say. “The lady with the petition. She wrote an entire article about me, made me out to be the bad guy, and never wondered why the students were protesting in the first place. Lyrics didn’t force anyone to do anything. The whole protest was about—”
“But c’mon,” Hype cuts me off, “even you gotta admit that some of the lyrics are a bit much, baby girl. You talk about being strapped, you insinuate that you’ll kill cops—”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. “I never insinuated anything about killing no damn cops.”
“‘If a cop come at me, I’ll be lawless’?” he asks instead of says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
How the hell did he take that as me saying I’ll kill anyone? “Bruh, it means that I’ll be considered unruly, no matter what I do!” Goddamn, I really gotta break this down for him? “‘Like my poppa, fear nada,’ aka his last album, Fear None. ‘Take solace in my hood going hard in my honor’ means if something happens to me, the Garden will have my back. That’s it. I never said anything about killing a cop.”
“Okay, but you can see how some people took that the wrong way, right?”
“Hell no, I don’t.”
“Look, I’m not trying to come at you,” Hype claims. “I love the song. I can’t lie though, knowing that a sixteen-year-old girl is talking about being strapped and stuff like that, it caught me off guard.”
Not that a sixteen-year-old rapped about it. But that a sixteen-year-old girl rapped about it. “Did it catch you off guard when my dad rapped about it at sixteen?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Aw, c’mon, you know why,” Hype says. “It’s different.”
“Different how? I know girls who were strapped at sixteen, seventeen, who had to do foul stuff just to survive.”