24
Jasmine
My eyes pop open and glance up at his with a gasp. Quickly, I swallow the words boiling up in my throat. I thought I had my urges under control. But I lost myself in the moment. The waves, the wind, and Lauryn Hill pulled me out of my seashell and into the spotlight.
“What?”
“You can sing,” Quadir says, his eyes wide and in awe.
“Nah. I mean . . . not really.”
He grins like I let him in on a secret, and it was too late to turn back.
“You lying. I just heard you. If you’re humming that good, I know you can blow.”
Shit, how did I let the ocean carry me so far away?
“It’s just . . .”
“Come on, show me what you got! Take the stage.”
“Out here? With all these people? You buggin’!”
“People?” He waves his arms around. “What people? Few drunks on a bench and the hot dog guys? Just sing! For real, when’s the last time you really sang?”
“I—I don’t remember.” But I do remember. It was with Steph. Chilling in his room while Mom was at work. I sang this exact song, pretending to be Lauryn while Steph pretended to be Wyclef. The memory haunts me.
Quadir nods toward the boardwalk extension that reaches farther out into the water.
“Sounds like you need to.”
At the end of the extension, with no one around, I walk up to the ocean, grab hold of the wooden railing and close my eyes. You could still hear the faint beat of the song through the crashing waves. The song bridge was coming. I tighten my grip on the rail, stare out into the sea and sing.
“Whoooooooaaaaaaa. Whoaaaaaaaaaaa . . . La La La La La La. . . . Whoaaaa . . .”
I belt it out. All my pain. All my frustration. I let the ocean have it all. The notes held deep in my belly, rip through my lungs, weakening me.
When I turn around, Quadir is standing a few feet away, his face blank, the streetlight shining above making him glow orange.
“Well,” I say, my chest heaving.
Quadir shakes his head slightly. “Wow.”
I snort. “Wow? That’s all you got to say?”
“Nah, I mean. I don’t really want to say no more. Not if it’s gonna stop you from singing.”
My face is on fire. I smooth down my edges and try to hold back a smirk, quickly walking by him.
“Um, you ready for the bumper cars now?”
“That’s it? That’s all you gonna sing?”
“That’s enough.”
Quadir follows me off the extension. “Enough for who? Yo, we need to get you into the studio or something!”
I wave him off. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t want to.”
He jumps in front of me by the ramp leading back to the park. “That don’t even make sense. Like for real, you see us working to make Steph’s dreams come true, what’s stopping you from going for yours?”
“Cause Steph’s dream . . . it’s just a dream! I’m not like Steph. I don’t got it like that.”
Quadir frowns, crossing his arms. “You’re afraid.”
“Afraid?” I scoff, before counting out the facts. “Steph’s dead. Dad’s dead. Mom’s barely holding on, and Carl is just a baby. Only one out of hundreds really make it. I can’t risk spending years and money chasing some dream and not be able to take care of my family. They need me. So no, I need to keep my head down, go to school, get good grades, become a teacher . . .”
“But why can’t you can do both? Chase both dreams.”
I shake my head. “We don’t even know if this plan of yours is going to work.”
“It will,” he says, holding both my arms and pulling me a few inches closer to his chest. “Aight? You just got to trust me.”
I want to trust him. I want to lean in and kiss him too. But my mind is too foggy to do either.
“But what if it doesn’t? What if . . .”
The beat echoes faintly over the crashing waves, and I crane my neck toward the street.
“Hold up. You hear that?”
Quadir frowns. “Hear what?”
The wind and waves threw me off for a moment but I could recognize his voice anywhere.
“Steph! That’s Steph.”
I take off running down the ramp, heading back to Ocean Ave.
“Jazz, wait!” Quadir shouts, following me.
The song is coming from a car parked on the corner, near the train station. Its sound system thumping through my chest could be heard from two states away. I still feel a tingle whenever I hear his music out in public.
Yup, that’s my big brother you’re rocking to.
The song suddenly scratches out. I’m confused until I hear Funkmaster Flex drop his famous bomb sound effect and run the song back.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I scream, turning back to Quadir. “Quady! Steph’s on the radio! He’s on the radio! Right now!”
Quadir slows to a stop, blinking at me. “Stop playing. You serious? You sure?”
“Yes! Listen!”
Flex runs it back again. Another bomb, and says, “Yo, this track got the city on lock. Watch out for this kid!”
“Ohhhhhh!” Quadir screams. “Yooooo! Steph’s on the radio! He’s on the radio!”
Quadir picks me up, jumping up and down on the corner, wildin’ out.
“Oh shit,” he says suddenly. “We got to get to a phone and call Rell before he misses it!”
Holding hands, we rush across the street, weaving through traffic, Steph our sound track. We pass a group of brothas hanging out on the corner chilling by the car, and just as we’re about to slip into the train station, one deep, heavy voice stands out in the crowd.
“Aye yo, don’t this duke sound like that kid done a few weeks ago?”
Wait, what did he just say?
I rip my hand out of Quadir’s and double back.
“Jazz, what—”
“Shhh,” I whisper. “Don’t look at them. Just listen.”
Quadir nods, eyes scanning around me. I kneel down, pretending to tie my sneaker so I can sneak a better look.
A tall, light-skin brotha in a red bomber jacket leans up against the car, smiling. His face swollen with acne, light-brown hair braided back.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “That kid from the studio? Yeah, but that ain’t him.”
The brown-skin brotha in a black leather and Timbs laughs. “How’d you know?”
Red Jacket sucks his teeth. “Son, you know why, stop playing yourself.”
There’s a hiss in his voice, something unsaid. They gotta be talking about Steph. They knew his voice. I glance up at Quadir, his eyes flinching as he listens.
“Aight, son, I’mma holla at you later,” Red Coat says before they dap. “Gotta check on my girl.”
“Aight, later kid.”
Red Coat starts walking in the opposite direction, down toward the apartment buildings behind the train station.
I jump up, my feet moving in his direction before Quadir yokes me back.
“What you doing?”
“We gotta talk to him. Find out what he knows about Steph.”
“Girl, you bugging,” Quadir says, yanking my hand.
I dig my heels into the ground. “Why not?”
“Son, do you wanna be fish food? We can’t just roll up on some cats, saying ‘what happened to my brother’ and think we gonna walk away alive. That’s like asking them to turn themselves in to the cops.”
“But they know something! We can’t just let our one lead walk away.”
Quadir grips my wrist, holding me steady. “Jazz, think. If one of them really did murk Steph, what makes you think they won’t do the same to us? You talking about taking care of your moms and Carl—think about what happens if you don’t come home.”
My eyes swell with tears, but I hold them back.
“Okay. But, we gotta tell someone.”
“We will,” he nods.
“We will. I promise.”
He pulls me toward the subway, and we hop on the next train out.
I replay Red Coat’s words over and over on the ride home.
“He mentioned something about a studio. What studio was Steph recording in?”
Quadir dug his fist into his palm. “I thought you knew. He didn’t tell us. But it had to be the Funky Slice down on Fulton. That’s where everybody record they demos.”
“Thought he talked to you guys about everything.”
Quadir shakes his head and mumbles, “Not everything.”
25
Jarrell
Pierce throws a chair across the room, nearly crashing it through the glass door of his massive penthouse office.
“What the fuck you mean, he ain’t here? Who the fuck this mutherfucker think he is?”
“Sir, please!” Fletch is at it again, trying to calm duke down. But that’s like trying to tame a lion in a slaughterhouse. Hope Fletch is getting paid mad bread to deal with this grown-ass baby-man.
“Tell me again, Fletch.” Pierce says, leaning forward, cupping his ear. “Come on. Tell me, what’s they excuse this time? I want to hear it.”
Fletch gulps. “Um . . . that he’s . . . on tour.”
“Tour? On TOUR?” Pierce screams, knocking a pile of CDs off a side table. “You expect me to believe that shit?”
I glance at Quady, sitting next to me in front of Pierce’s giant glass desk. He gives me a look and shakes his head, checking over his shoulder at the goons chilling on the plush white sofa. Okay, so I guess I didn’t expect homie would get this mad. I thought if we gave him the new single and tell him Steph was on tour, he’d be impressed! Booking shows already, it would’ve proved Steph could make mad bread. I mean, what’s wrong with that?
“There ain’t no goddamn tour, Fletch! They playing us!”
“Sir, I think you should calm down,” Fletch begs. “You remember what happened the last time you wrecked your office. They almost escorted you out the building! They won’t replace these windows again for free!”
I look out the window, down at Times Square, sixty-seven floors below, and wonder how many cats he’s sent flying.
“No Fletch, I ain’t gonna calm down. You know why? Because I’m dealing with fucking children. A bunch of knuckleheads who think they hot shit! You know how much audacity you have to have to say ‘I’m on tour’ and can’t make it to a Red Starr meeting? I got folks with Grammys and hit records on the charts cancel appearances just to make it to a meeting with me! Red Starr don’t wait for you. You wait for Red Starr!”
Pras’s “Ghetto Supastar” video (with Mya’s gorgeous self) is playing on a huge TV behind Pierce. His whole office is mad official. Music plaques, crystal lamps, statues, awards, and framed photos of Pierce with celebrities hung everywhere. Everyone from Snoop Dogg to Jesse Jackson to Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Pierce grabs a CD off the floor, shaking it in my face.
“You see all this? I got hundreds of artists begging for me to sign them, and ain’t one of them ever send me their bullshit-ass ‘managers’ to a meeting. Ain’t one of them talking big shit about being on tour. So tell me, Fletch, why the fuck shouldn’t I drop this clown right now?”
Fletch takes a deep breath, flipping through notes on his clipboard. “Because, so far, he’s sold approximately six thousand albums across the city. Sir.”
Pierce’s neck snaps in his direction. “Hold up, did you say six thousand?”
“You asked me to take an unofficial tally. I called his management, who was able to count the amount of cases and copies made and checked with a few references. His single has also been receiving heavy airtime on the underground radio scene and premiered on HOT 97 last weekend.”
“Whoa . . . ,” Quadir mumbles, sitting up straight.
Damn, I didn’t even know we were hustling like that. And big ups to Jasmine for coming through with the statistics.
Pierce tosses the CD back on the floor, rubbing his chin.
“Hmm. Let’s . . . uh . . . think on this some more,” he says, plopping in the grand gold throne behind his desk.
Quadir clears his throat, clasping his hands over his knees.
“Yo, we ain’t trying to waste your time. Arch had another emergency.”
“Yeah. One of grave importance,” I add.
Quady kicks me under the chair, and I hold in a moan.
“I swear I’mma fuck you up when we get out of here,” he grumbles through his teeth.
Aight, I know, I know. That was foul, but I couldn’t help it. It’s like they just throwing these setups at me.
Pierce’s eyes ping-pong between us, then he smiles. And it ain’t one of those nice smiles, it’s one of them sly joints, like he’s up to something. Never trust a dude who smiles like that.
“You know what the problem is with y’all,” he says, folding his hands over his stomach. “Y’all just don’t seem hungry enough. There’s cats out here that are HUNGRY for this shit, and y’all out here looking full.”
He smirks at the goons behind us.
“And you know what, I’m actually kinda hungry myself. Think I’m in the mood for a chopped cheese and a slice of red velvet cake.” He leans back, with his hands behind his head. “Go visit my man Knowledge on 135th and Frederick Douglass.”
Quadir and I look at the goons, who don’t move, and turn back slow to Pierce staring at us.
“Wait, are you talking to . . . us?” Quady asks.
He chuckles. “There ain’t no one in here but you.”
“Hold up, you want us . . . to go get you . . . a sandwich?”
“Not just any sandwich. I want a chopped cheese with lettuce, tomatoes, mayo, extra onions, and peppers. Tell Knowledge I sent you.”
“135th Street?” I ask. “Son, that’s Harlem!”
“Yeah. And? Oh, and I want that shit in . . .” He glances at his Rolex. “Thirty minutes. Want to enjoy it before my meeting with the executives. In there is where the big decisions are made. And depending how hungry I still am will decide if I bring up your boy’s name or not.”
Quadir looks at me, his eyes wide.
Pierce shrugs. “So . . . if you want to put your boy on, you better hop to it and get my mutherfucking sandwich! You now have . . . twenty-nine minutes.”
Quadir jumps up and races out the office. I follow, wondering why he’s walking so fast, pushing the elevator button like the killer was on our heels.
“Well, guess that’s it then, huh?” I sigh, rubbing out a scuff on my sneaker.
Quady’s face screws up like he smells a fart. “What’d you mean?”
It hits me, he ain’t rushing to dip out the office. He’s rushing on a clock.
“Nah, Quady, bump that! I ain’t taking my ass all the way to Harlem to get duke a sandwich. Who he think he is? Trying to play us like some chumps!”
Quady steps to my face. “Son, did you hear them numbers Fletch was talking about? We so close! Let’s just give him what he wants.”
“You tripping. I ain’t gonna be no gofer for that power-tripping pretty boy. Let them overgrown Mutant Ninja Turtles surf uptown and cop him that bubble-gut sandwich.”
“We got to do this . . . for Steph.”
I groan so hard it scares the receptionist as the doors of the elevator open.
“Let’s take the A train. It’ll be faster.”
We come up from underground at 125th Street, Harlem’s mecca. Reminds me of Fulton Street, with all the street vendors and people shopping. The Apollo Theater sign is a few blocks away, looking just like it does on Showtime at the Apollo my auntie likes to watch. I ain’t gonna lie: I’ve never been up here. Everything I know about Harlem I learned from my peoples and TV. What I look like, coming up here? For what? Brooklyn got what you need. No sense going exploring.
We jog up Frederick Douglass, Quady checking his watch every five seconds. I’m panting and out of breath. Feels like we’ve been playing ball for ten hours.
A bell rings as we bust through the door. The place looks mad empty. I mean, not empty of people, but the shelves look like they haven’t been stocked in a minute. Plus the joint is smoky. I spot some old grandpa in the corner with a Newport between his lips, reading the paper.
“Yes,” he says, not looking up at us.
“Um, we trying to get a chopped cheese.”
He turns the page. “Then why you asking me? Does it look like I work here?”
Quady rolls his eyes. “Aye yo, back here.”
We rush through the short aisle to the deli. Behind the counter, a tall black man with long graying dreads wrapped up in a crown, slowly slices some onions with a butcher knife the size of a machete.
“Peace, Gods,” he says.
“Are you . . . Knowledge?” Quady asks, staring at his knife.
He stops to glare at us. “Who wants to know?”
I’ve had enough of all the back and forth. “Aye yo, my man. Can we get a chopped cheese? Asapually.”
“It’s for Pierce,” Quady adds.
“Pierce sent you? Really?” He smirks, wiping his knife clean and firing up the griddle. “He must be realllly hungry to send y’all up here to talk to me.”
Quady bounces on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, and we only have . . . fifteen minutes. So could you . . . hurry up?”
He sighs. “Everyone is such a rush to do this and that. If you slow down, perhaps you may learn something.”
This duke is talking slower than a slug.
“Mister, I don’t mean no disrespect, but we on a time crunch here.”
“Okay. I’ll make your sandwich. But first, you got to pass the test.”
“Test?” I bark. “He ain’t say anything about no damn test!”
“Got five simple questions. Get them right, I’ll make y’all sandwich the way he likes. And if you know anything about Pierce, you know he’s very particular.”
“Yo, my man, we just came to get a sandwich,” I snap, hand clapping as I talk. “I already failed my midterms. What’s the deal?”
Quady waves me off. “What kind of questions you talking?”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 13