On the Come Up

by Hannah Weyer

  While this book was inspired by the story of a teenage mother from Far Rockaway who starred in a movie, the book is a work of fiction. With the exception of the main character who is loosely based on a real person, all characters, their actions and dialog, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Hannah Weyer

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Nan A. Talese / Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited, Toronto.

  www.nanatalese.com

  DOUBLEDAY is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc. Nan A. Talese and the colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Map © Aaron Reiss

  Jacket design by Emily Mahon

  Front jacket photographs: girl © Monashee Frantz/OJO Images/Getty Images;

  subway train © Cheryl Zibisky/Getty Images

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Weyer, Hannah.

  On the come up : a novel, based on a true story / Hannah Weyer. — First edition.

  pages cm

  1. African American girls—Fiction. 2. African American actresses—Fiction.

  3. Teenage pregnancy—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.E96O5 2013

  813′.6—dc23

  2012047057

  eISBN: 978-0-385-53733-9

  v3.1

  For Anna

  and for Rio, Rose, and Chasity

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  Map

  Dolla, Dolla Bill, Y’all

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Darius Greene

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Studio Time

  Chapter 9

  Holdin’ it Down

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Baby Love

  Chapter 13

  Ida B.

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Callback

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Star Blazing, Blazing Star

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Behind the Scenes

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  That’s a Wrap

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Family Tree, Remix

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Lift Off

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  The Brass Ring

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Flipped

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  There She Go

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  No Shame in Love

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Exposure

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Acknowledgments

  A Note About the Author

  Family Tree

  My mother’s name is Blessed. That’s not a traditional West Indies name but I guess her mother chose it ’cause she wasn’t supposed to live. My mother had water on the brain, some kind a brain trouble when she was first born and they thought she was gonna die but she didn’t.

  When she was a little girl, seven years old, her mother left off and she got raised by her sisters. Then she met a guy and he left her a baby. His name was Jahar. After that my mother met my father and got pregnant with me when Jahar was like a year old … My father was a alcoholic. He killed that baby banging his head on the crib. This happened before I was born. Jahar’s buried in Trinidad, may he rest in peace.

  Yeah. But my father’s still there. He’s never been to America.

  My mother came here, running away from him ’cause he was threatening to kill her and she believed it after he banged my brother’s head. In Trinidad, it’s what the man says that goes and the doctors believed my father when he said the baby fell. My mother cried and cried but couldn’t do nothing.

  That’s what I know about my mother when she was coming to America and first had me. I was born in Brooklyn, not Trinidad. She worked as a health aide until she got sick and had to stop.

  There’s a bunch a different stories I was told about that little time period, like how I lived with this lady Pinky for a while, then with one a my aunts, then with some other friend a my mother’s up in the Bronx. One a the stories that went around was that this person who supposed to watch me left me on a bench in Central Park and that’s how I ended up in foster care. I don’t remember that but maybe it’s true. Blessed’s story is that when she was sick, she paid some lady to take care of me but she took the money and ran. Left me in an apartment somewhere. I don’t remember that either. All I know is I ended up in foster care with Grandma Mason. She wasn’t my real grandma. She was one a those people took foster kids into they home. Five years stuck in a box, you try to get out, she there with her belt, twack twack twack she get you. Sit still. Don’t move. You say what, you sass me? This a belt she sometimes peed on then let get stiff in the sun.

  I was nine years old when Child Services placed me back with my mother again. I was eleven when she had her stroke. Those first two years together, those were good years. We had fun together, we’d do things. Go to church. Cook food, do laundry … little things people do. She’d be laughing with her chinky eyes … She’s got these veiled, chinky eyes. I remember the day she got me, she was waiting at the agency with Mr. Clark. He was my caseworker. Blessed stood up and hugged me and Grandma Mason just looked like this California raisin next to my mother—small, black and wrinkled.

  I don’t know what happened to Grandma Mason. She was old so maybe she’s dead by now, I don’t know. All I know is Blessed got outta the shelter when I was nine and wasn’t homeless no more. I don’t know how she did it but they gave her an apartment. She got it through Section 8. We said good-bye to Grandma Mason, got on the subway and went all the way down, all the way out to Far Rockaway, Queens. Last stop on the A line. Very last stop. 1430 Gateway Boulevard. Number 4R. That was the apartment.

  When we went inside I thought it looked so nice and clean. It was three rooms with a window in the kitchen. My mother showed me my room and she had her own room and I was like, oh, is this mine? This mine, for real?

  Far Rockaway is a neighborhood located

  in Queens County, New York

  Class Code: U4

  Elevation: 16 feet

  Area: 4.3 square miles

  Coordinates: 40°36′03″ N 73°45′25″ W

  Population: 56,184

  The neighborhood is named after the Rechaweygh Indians,

  who once inhabited Long Island and in whose language the name means

  “place of our people.”

>   dolla, dolla bill, y’all

  1

  She took the peanut butter punch out of the freezer. The sticks poked up firm, dead center. They came out good. Sell those for a dollar. Sell ’em all, make twenty-four. Kool-Aid, that’s another twelve at fifty cent. Sweet milk, make it seventy-five.

  She did the math in her head while she wrapped the pops in foil and buried them, sticks up, in ice. Peanut butter punch on the left. Kool-Aid on the right. She left the freezer door open, feeling the cool air settle on her skin. It was hot. Not even nine o’clock in the morning and the sweat was beading there between her buds. She hoped Crystal remembered to make extra ice; they gonna need it today.

  She closed up the cooler, put it in the cart, picture frames on top, checked the Polaroid. Eight pictures left. That’s forty dollars more right there, they come out nice, people happy. If she hustled, she could get out before her mother woke and Miss Jessica came poking through the door. She slipped on her sandals, remembered the square of black cloth she used for a table, set that on top the camera, then stepped lightly, wheeling the cart to the door. But Blessed must’ve had her good eye open ’cause AnnMarie heard her call out, You ain’t wearing the Cinderella?

  It’s too hot.

  You make more you wear it.

  AnnMarie shifted, her hand on the doorknob. Ma, it’s hot.

  What’s that you got on. Come over here.

  AnnMarie groaned but backed up and stood in the doorway of the bedroom. She knew the halter fit big but there was no way she was changing out of it. Crystal’s cousin, Teisha, had let her borrow it. Teisha, who was eighteen and beautiful.

  Where you think you’re going in that?

  Why?

  You think you grown, AnnMarie, why d’you think.

  The intercom buzzed—Miss Jessica, already.

  Blessed swung her leg over the side of the bed and sat breathing for a moment in the darkness, her hair pressed flat inside the nylon cap.

  Let her in, AnnMarie, and change out of that halter.

  You want your wig?

  You na hear what me say? Change outta that damn halter.

  AnnMarie crossed to her bedroom and yanked open the drawer, sifting through her summertime tees. All of ’em ugly, plain and simple. Fuck that. Teisha’s halter had mad dazzle. She knew how long it took her mother to get off the bed, inch across the floor with the walker, so she made a dash for it, grabbing the cart and slipping out the door.

  In the hallway, Miss Jessica was stepping out the elevator, dabbing her neck with a napkin. She in there, AnnMarie said, moving past the home health aide, who stunk of clove and cinnamon. She said to go in.

  Miss Jessica’s forehead wrinkled. How about a smile, AnnMarie, a nice hello, then you know you’ll be starting the day off right.

  Hello Miss Jessica, how are you Miss Jessica, have a nice day, AnnMarie said, jabbing at the L button until the elevator door closed. She couldn’t stand home health aides. Coming into the apartment, acting like they family. Feeding her mother pills, fluff a pillow or two, then sit down in front of the TV. Making calls on the telephone. One time she’d come home, found one a them asleep on her bed like Goldilocks, her mother don’t say nothing.

  She pictured herself in the Cinderella dress, the Polaroid camera strapped around her neck, walking right up to couples, You wantcha picture, I take your picture. Last summer the people giving her a extra dollar or two, saying how cute she was. But last summer was before the stroke and she’d been out there with Blessed who sat on the bench stringing beads into necklaces and it was okay then to play, the two of them together, mother and child.

  She stepped off the elevator and into the lobby. You wanna buy a icy? I got peanut butter punch. I got grape Kool-Aid. Which one you want.

  The security guard swiveled around in his chair, giving her the up and down.

  Well, you a no-nonsense type, ain’t you.

  From behind, she’d thought it was Devon sitting there. Devon who was her fake uncle but this was some other fella, younger with a chip in his tooth. He looked like the boy Antwan’s cousin. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. He was smiling at her now, so she dropped her hand from her hip and shifted, wishing for just a second she wasn’t still wearing the halter with the words Sexy Sweet spelled out in glitter gold.

  Come on then, mister, you want one?

  What you charge?

  A dolla.

  Whoa, you a scrambler now, little shortie like you?

  That how much they cost.

  He tipped his head back and laughed. He said, Gimme one a them peanut butter punch.

  She plucked the bill from his hand, then went out the door, stepping into a wave of heat that rolled up the sidewalk and smacked against her skin. Gawd dang. It caught her off guard and she stood for a moment in front of 1430, letting her eyes adjust to the white-hot glare, wishing she could dig into one of the icies herself. Wishing, for just a second, she could go back inside, curl up with a plate of scrambled eggs on toast, chill for a while longer in front of the window fan. But she had back-to-school to think about so she told her feet to move, dragging the cart behind, and went on up through Cripdaville. Around the corner on Mott Avenue, a few of them already standing in the shade the tree made, leaning against the rail, smoking. Sleepy eyes looking her way. She could feel her underwear bunching up in her crack and wanted to reach around and pull the elastic down but she didn’t dare. She cut across the street quick and got inside Crystal’s building where she could adjust herself.

  Inside the vestibule AnnMarie buzzed, then waited, her eyes drifting to the street just as that hater Brittany came skating into view. Fat thighs jiggling, wearing some ugly neon-blue skates. Maybe she fall. I hope she fall.

  Who’s there? The voice came crackling through the intercom.

  It’s me, Grandma Kay. AnnMarie. Crystal come down?

  Grandma Kay didn’t answer.

  Grandma Kay. It’s Ann-Marie.

  AnnMarie waited, then buzzed again, keeping an eye out, trying to glimpse where that girl gone to. But instead of Brittany she saw a group of older boys coming up the block. She pressed her face up to the glass, watching. What they doing over here. She knew them only by sight and from the fact they Bloods who hung out by Nameoke. She knew one of them was named Darius and boy was he fine. One time he looked at her passing on the street. At least she thought he did. Darius Greene. His hair in dreads, looking like a lion the way he moved—not caring two cents he passing through Cripdaville.

  AnnMarie turned, put her finger to the buzzer and pressed hard, leaning on it this time, the electric hum filling the vestibule. Come on now, Grandma Kay, AnnMarie thought, when the sudden Pop Pop of gunfire cut through the air, making her flinch and duck both at the same time. Shoot. What is going on. She edged to the door, trying to look out—it’d come from a distance, at least a block away but still … Pop. Pop Pop. She wondered what beef getting settled first thing in the morning.

  Who’s making that noise?! Take your finger off my bell.

  AnnMarie pushed her mouth up to the intercom.

  Grandma Kay, it’s me, AnnMarie.

  AnnMarie, what do you want.

  Crystal come down?

  Crystal’s GONE child. Crystal’s wit’ her mother!

  Oh.

  She felt the air go out of her chest. Oh. That’s the way with Crystal. Sometimes here, sometimes gone when her mother lift up to some other place. Last time was to a hotel by the airport.

  Past few weeks they’d been in and out of Grandma Kay’s apartment, riding bikes on the boardwalk, selling icies and splitting the profit. Best friends for life, they’d pinkie-swore it. Crystal was whip thin and small but it don’t matter, someone say something, she be up in they face. What you say? You say something, shut yo’ mouth. AnnMarie’d laugh and laugh. Up and down the stairs of 1440, running errands for Crystal’s cousin Teisha and the older girls—female rappers they called themselves. Those girls slipping them sips of the St. Ides and laughing when it go
down burning.

  She thought to buzz again, ask when Crystal be back, but she didn’t. She reached for the door handle, pressing her face up to the glass, and listened. A trickle of sweat slid down her back. Nothing. Nobody. She licked her tongue across her lip, then counted back from ten the way Blessed had taught her. She felt the latch click and she was out again, stepping into stillness. Bloods had disappeared, Crips gone from the rail. No one out now except the blue and white crawling ’round the corner so she decided to cut back down Gateway, take Beach 19 all the way to the boardwalk.

  She dragged the cart along, eyes squinting against the brightness, a little tune rolling around in her head. She didn’t get far before a sound made her swing around just as Brittany slammed into her from behind, knocking her to the pavement.

  Oh, ’xcuse me, Brittany said, laughing as she spun past on her skates, disappearing along the path next to the vacant lot.

  She felt the heat rush to her cheeks. She wanted to shout, Bitch, get back here. I fight you now. Baboon-ass muthafucker.

  But she didn’t. Not without Crystal. She brushed the dirt and pebbles from her palms, the pink gash on her knee pooling into a strip of blood. She looked around, glanced up at the buildings, all the black bars cutting lines across the open windows. Curtains hanging limp. Not even a breeze to make them move. She picked herself up, glad no one had seen, and kept going.

  Fat bitch. Tail end of 7th grade, they’d followed her. Brittany and a couple other haters. All the way home, talking shit, running they mouths and AnnMarie’d been afraid but hid it behind a wall of fuck-y’all silence, until one of them had shoved her, just like that, pushed her from behind and she knew it’s what they wanted but she did it anyway—spun around and cracked the girl with the flat of her hand. She saw the look of shock turn mean and ugly, but it’s what they’d wanted, all of them darting in then, fists and blows, smacking and kicking. AnnMarie put up a fight but that helpless feeling start to seep in and there was the one blow that brought tears to her eyes and she heard them laughing. Laughing. Jabbing and slapping. Then like a miracle she saw Brittany’s head snap back and there was Crystal gripping a fistful a Brittany’s hair, shouting Get offa her, bitch, I fuck you up, and Teisha, striding forward with a razor in hand, sent all the girls scattering.