by Angie Thomas
I squint and look around the crowd. My brother, Jojo, and Kayla are right beside the Ring. Sonny and Malik join them. James and Supreme are next to them. Scrap’s found a spot not too far away. A ways back behind him, something glistens.
A mouth full of silver teeth smiles at me. The Crown in a gray beanie holds my dad’s pendant and makes a kissy-face at me. His friends smirk and snicker.
Scrap follows my gaze. I don’t hear him, but I read his lips. “Aw, hell nah.”
He catches my eyes and silently asks a deadly question: “Want me to handle that?”
“Sooo . . . you not gon’ introduce yourself or nothing?” Hype asks. I forgot he was here. Shit, I forgot where I was. “Don’t tell me you’re about to choke again. Gotta call you Lady Chokes-a-Lot.”
He plays a drum kick. Who the hell told this guy he was funny?
The Crown holds the chain up higher for me to see. His friends crack up.
Scrap once again silently asks, “Want me to handle that?”
“Y’all wanna hear this song, right?” Hype calls to the crowd. The answer is yeah. “Let’s get it, then!”
The beat starts.
I’m supposed to go right into the hook and then do the verses Dee-Nice wrote. Supreme and James watch me with amused expressions, and it’s as if I’m their pet, about to perform a trick.
Pet. Rhymes with met, let, get. Set.
Sets. Gang sets, like the Crowns staring me down and the Maple Grove GDs that Scrap claims. Jojo wants to be just like them. I do this song, I may give him more ammunition. I’ll also be doing exactly what Hype accused me of—saying words that aren’t my own.
Own. Clone.
For the longest, people acted like I was my dad’s clone. Supreme acts like I’m a puppet, too. But my brother called me a gift. My mom calls me her miracle. If I’m nothing else, I’m her daughter, and I’m Trey’s sister.
Sister. A lot of words can rhyme with that if delivered a certain way. Even something like “mirror.”
Mirror. Maybe that’s what I am to Jojo.
He’s got a distorted picture though. He took my words the wrong way, just like Emily, and just like the Crowns. They’re all mistaken.
Mistaken. Awaken.
Maybe it’s time to wake everybody up.
“Stop the music,” I say into the mic.
The beat goes off. There are whispers and murmurs.
Supreme frowns. I hear James ask, “What the hell’s going on?”
I ignore them both. “I was supposed to come up here and do this new song, but I’d rather do something from my heart. Is that okay with y’all?”
The answer is hell yes, that’s how loud they cheer.
“Uh-oh, we ’bout to get a freestyle!” Hype says. “You need a beat?”
“No thanks, ass-wipe Hype.”
Everybody laughs at that.
I close my eyes. There’s plenty of words waiting inside me. Words I hope Jojo hears and understands.
I lift the mic and let them pour out.
I refuse to be their laugh, I refuse to be their pet,
I refuse to be the reason some kid now claims a set.
I refuse to stand up here and say words that aren’t my own.
Refuse to be a puppet, refuse to be a clone.
You see, I’m somebody’s daughter, I’m somebody’s sister,
I’m somebody’s hope. And I’m somebody’s mirror.
I’m a genius, I’m a star, call me all of the above,
But you’ll never call me sellout, and you’ll never call me thug.
In the Garden kids are starving, hearts are hardened, beg my pardon,
But fuck the system. Your assumptions? They just show just where your heart is.
You see, they figure I’m a nigga that’s gon’ rap ’bout pulling triggers,
Just to make their pockets bigger while the world yells I’m a sinner.
Here’s the kicker, they get richer, only if we take that picture
As the truth, and as us. It’s not just rap, this shit is bigger.
But they blame hip-hop. Yet we just speak on what we see.
But I’m gon’ speak on what I see and never claim it to be me.
When I say I’m a queen, it means my crown cannot be taken
That’s nothing against your set, and I’m sorry that you’re mistaken.
Retaliation’s segregation of our hood, so please awaken.
You’ll never silence me and you’ll never kill my dream,
Just recognize when you say brilliant that you’re also saying Bri.
I’m not for sale.
There’s an explosion of cheers.
“Bri! Bri! Bri!” they chant, and my name rocks the room. “Bri! Bri! Bri!”
Who’s not chanting? The Crowns. Supreme and James don’t either. James makes his way to the door, shaking his head. Supreme rushes after him. He looks back at me, and though I can’t see his eyes, I can read his expression easily: We’re done.
I lower the mic to my side. When I was little, I used to stand in front of mirrors with hairbrushes and imagine crowds chanting my name. Yet I don’t think I could’ve ever imagined this. This feeling. See, for the first time in my life, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. Hell, what I was made to do. The crowd could be silent and I’d still know that.
When Aunt Pooh introduced me to hip-hop, Nas told me the world was mine, and I believed it could be. Now, standing here on this stage, I know it is.
Epilogue
All of the words on the page have blurred together, I swear. I glance at my phone. “How long have we been at this?”
Curtis looks at his phone, too. “Only two hours, Princess.”
“Only?” I groan. Our ACT prep books and laptops are spread out around us on my bedroom floor. We’re taking another practice test tomorrow—the real exam is a little over a month away. Curtis comes over a lot so we can study together. I think I’m ready, even though our studying usually turns into something else.
That’s exactly why I say, “We need to take a break.”
“Oh, for real?”
“For real,” I say.
“Let me guess—you wanna do this instead?”
He’s all grins as he steals a quick kiss. One kiss becomes two, two become three, and three become making out on the floor of my Tweety shrine of a bedroom. My mom, Trey, and I have been living with my grandparents for less than a week now, and I haven’t had time to redecorate.
“Hey, hey!” Trey calls from the doorway. Curtis and I separate so fast. “That ain’t no damn studying!”
I roll onto my back and groan. “Right now, I actually look forward to the day you go off to grad school.”
“Unfortunately for you, you stuck with me for a couple more months,” he says, and looks at Curtis. “Bruh, you better watch yourself. I will drive three hours to whoop some ass.”
Curtis innocently puts his hands up. “My bad.”
“Uh-huh,” Trey says. “I’m watching, Curtis.”
I sigh. “Don’t you need to go pick up Jojo?”
Trey’s taking Jojo to a Markham State basketball game. Jojo’s been geeking out about it all week like it’s an NBA game. Poor baby, he doesn’t realize Markham can’t play worth shit.
“I’m going.” He kicks my door. “But keep this damn door open, too. Ain’t nobody got time to be called ‘Uncle Trey.’ I oughta tell Granddaddy y’all up in there, passing cooties.”
He goes off down the hall. Curtis waits a few seconds before he leans over and kisses me. “Cooties, huh?”
But there we go, getting interrupted again. My mom loudly clears her throat. “That ain’t studying.”
“That’s what I said,” Trey calls from wherever he is.
Curtis gets this ridiculously cute sheepish look about him and oh my God, I almost can’t deal. “Sorry, Mrs. Jackson.”
She kisses her teeth. “Mm-hmm. Bri, which one do you prefer?”
; She holds up two outfits. One’s a navy pencil skirt with matching blazer that Aunt Gina bought for her. The other is a gray suit that Aunt ’Chelle bought.
“They look so much alike—does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters,” she says. “I gotta look right for my first day.”
She starts at the school district on Monday as Dr. Cook’s secretary. One of the first things he wants her to do? Schedule monthly meetings with the Midtown Black and Latinx Coalition so he can make sure things are going smoothly. The other order of business? Look into a new security firm for the district.
“What, you’re not gonna go with the one Grandma bought you?” I ask.
Mom’s lips thin. Grandma bought her a floral print suit. It’s loud. It’s bold. It’ll blind you if you stare at it too long.
“I’m saving that for church,” she lies. “C’mon now. Help me choose.”
“The navy,” I say. “It says, ‘I wanna be here, I mean business, but I still got some style, and I may cut you if you cross me.’”
She snaps her fingers and points at me. “That’s what I’m talking about. Thank you, baby. Y’all can get back to studying . . . studying!” she adds with raised eyebrows. “Curtis, you’re welcome to stay for dinner. I’m making gumbo.”
Yes, Grandma is actually letting her cook in her kitchen. No, I don’t know where the aliens put my real grandma or if we’ll ever get her back.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson,” Curtis tells my mom.
My phone buzzes on the floor, and Sonny’s smiling face appears on my screen. I hit the speaker button. “What’s up, Sonny Bunny,” I tease.
“Shut up, Bookie.”
“Hey, Bri,” Miles calls from the background.
“Hey, Miles.”
“Y’all better have some adult supervision over there, I know that!” Mom hollers.
“Chill, Aunty Jay. Nothing’s happening,” Sonny says. “Bri, you need to get on Twitter. Something huge just happened.”
“Huh?” I say.
“I’m serious, Bri. Get on Twitter.”
Curtis grabs his phone. I type in the address on my laptop. “What for?” I ask.
“You won’t believe who posted your freestyle from the other night,” he says.
“What are you—”
My notifications are at 99+, like Twitter can’t keep up anymore. There’s one tweet that people keep liking and retweeting. I click it and stare at it. Then I stare at the profile pic and name, too.
Mom comes over and stares at it with me.
“Oh my God,” she says.
“‘This girl is the future of hip-hop.’” Curtis reads the tweet aloud. “‘@LawlessBri, we gotta do a song together. Let’s make it happen!’”
It was tweeted by . . .
Oh my God.
“Goddamn, Princess,” Curtis says. “That’s some life-changing shit—stuff.”
Mom still side-eyes him. “Bri, you wanna do it, baby?”
I stare at the tweet. This is major. It could be the shot I need.
“Yeah,” I say, and look at my mom. “Long as I can do it my way.”
Acknowledgments
Like last time, this will probably sound like a rapper’s acceptance speech, but hey, for this book, it should, right? I first have to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It has been quite a journey, and I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. Thank you for carrying me and keeping me. Whatever you want to continue to do through me, I’m yours.
To my incredible, amazing, phenomenal editor Donna Bray. There aren’t enough adjectives in the English language to describe someone as awesome as you. This wasn’t an easy journey, and I wouldn’t have survived it without you. Thank you for being there every step of the way and for believing in me as much as you do. Also, thank you for being so patient haha. We got it done!
Brooks Sherman, aka the best literary agent an author could hope for. Thank you for keeping me going and for always having my back. Even more so, thank you for knowing I would get here with this book, even when I didn’t know that I would. I’m eternally grateful to call you my agent and my friend.
Mary Pender-Coplan, you are an angel, a lifesaver, and I still don’t know what I did to deserve to have such an incredible film agent. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you, Akhil Hegde, for being an amazing assistant angel, and Nancy Taylor, the former assistant angel. Thank you to everyone at UTA.
To every single person at Balzer + Bray/HarperCollins. I feel like the luckiest author in the world with you all on my side. Your love, your support, and your hard work do not go unnoticed. I can never thank you enough. Special thanks to Suzanne Murphy, Alessandra Balzer, Olivia Russo, Tiara Kittrell, Alison Donalty, Jenna Stempel-Lobell, Anjola Coker, Nellie Kurtzman, Bess Braswell, Ebony LaDelle, Patty Rosati, Rebecca McGuire, Josh Weiss, Mark Rifkin, Dana Hayward, Emily Rader, Ronnie Ambrose, Erica Ferguson, Megan Gendell, Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, Kathy Faber, and Jen Wygand.
My incredible UK publishing family at Walker Books, aka my cheerleaders across the pond, especially Annalie Grainger and Rosi Crawley. Thank you for always giving me a home away from home.
My international publishers, thank you for taking a chance on me and my stories.
To my Janklow & Nesbit family, thank you for all of the love and support. Special thanks to Wendi Gu. Thank you also to Stephanie Koven and everyone at Cullen Stanley International.
Molly Ker Hawn, the fact that you introduced me to roasted beets was enough to get you my eternal gratitude, but thank you for your love, support, and for being just an all-around badass.
Marina Addison, I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you as my assistant. Thanks for putting up with all of the chaos.
David Lavin, Charles Yao, and everyone at the Lavin Agency, thank you for believing in me, supporting me, and investing in me.
To the homies: Becky Albertalli, Adam Silvera, Nic Stone, Justin Reynolds, Dhonielle Clayton, Sabaa Tahir, Julie Murphy, Rose Brock, Tiffany Jackson, Ashley Woodfolk, Jason Reynolds, Sarah Cannon, Dede Nesbitt, Leatrice McKinney, Camryn Garrett, Adrianne Russell, Cara Davis, Justina Ireland, Heidi Heilig, Kosoko Jackson, Zoraida Córdova, Nicola Yoon, Ellen Oh. Every single one of you played a role in this book’s birth, simply by being there. Thank you.
To my THUG movie family—George, Marcia, and Chase Tillman, Shamell Bell, Bob Teitel, Marty Bowen, Wyck Godfrey, Tim Bourne, John Fischer, Jay Marcus, Isaac Klausner, Elizabeth Gabler, Erin Siminoff, Molly Saffron, everyone at Temple Hill, State Street, and Fox 2000, and the entire cast and crew, thank you all for making one of my dreams come true. Amandla, thank you for being the best Starr I could’ve asked for and most of all for being you. I’m honored to call you my little sis. Common, thank you for the inspiration and the encouragement.
To all of my family and friends, thank you for knowing that I’m still Angie. Please don’t be upset that your name isn’t here. There are way too many of you to list but know that I appreciate and love you.
To my mom, Julia. Thank you for being who you are and for always making sure I know who I am. I love you.
To hip-hop. Thank you for being my voice, for giving me a voice, and for showing me myself. The world criticizes you often, and sometimes rightfully so. Hell, sometimes, I’m one of your biggest critics. But I do it from a place of love. I’ve seen what you’re capable of—you can, you will, and you have changed the world. I’ll never give up on you. I’ll always have your back. Keep sparking brains and making noise.
And finally, to those roses in concrete in the real Gardens of the world—even when they doubt you, even when they try to silence you, never be quiet. They can’t stop you, so get your come up.
About the Author
Photo by Anissa Hidouk
ANGIE THOMAS made her debut with the #1 New York Times bestselling, award-winning The Hate U Give. A former teen rapper who holds a BFA in creative writing, Angie was born, raised, and still resides in Jackson, Mississippi.
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sp; You can find her online at www.angiethomas.com.
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Copyright
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Emojis by Premium Vector / Shutterstock, Denis Gorelkin / Shutterstock, and Anas Mannaa / Shutterstock
ON THE COME UP. Copyright © 2019 by Angela Thomas. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2019 by Anjola Coker
Cover lettering by Jenna Stempel-Lobell
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933132
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-249857-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-249856-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-06-284437-8 (international edition)
1819202122PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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