Let Me Hear a Rhyme

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  Knowledge begins pulling out bread, cheese, and meats from the deli fridge.

  “Question one: Where was hip-hop first founded?”

  “What the hell is this, hip-hop 101?”

  “Uh, New York,” Quady says, scratching at his durag.

  Knowledge smiles. “That is incorrect.”

  “What? You crazy? Everyone knows hip-hop was BORN in New York.”

  “Hip-hop was founded at a party hosted by DJ Kool Herc at 1520 Sedgwick Avenue. The Bronx.”

  I suck my teeth. “Yeah, but Brooklyn made it hot!”

  Quady pushes me back. “Would. You. Shut. Up! You trying to do this or nah?”

  “Come on, son! He’s playing us on some tech foul bullshit!”

  “Ready for your next question?” Knowledge offers, a laugh in his voice.

  “Man,” I groan. “Why it feel like we in school right now?”

  “Life is a school called the school of life, young God,” he says with a shrug. “And one should never stop learning their lessons.”

  Quady blinks real hard and grins. “You’re a Five Percenter?”

  Knowledge only smirks back.

  “Aw hell, no wonder.”

  Steph’s pops taught us all about Five Percenters. It’s like this religion founded back in the ’60s, an offspring of the Nation of Islam but with a twist. Let me break it down: ten percent of the people in the world, the elites, know the truth of existence, so they keep eighty-five percent of the world ignorant and under their control. That leaves the five percent, the enlightened ones, whose mission is to enlighten the rest through teaching their lessons in supreme mathematics and alphabets. The problem is, their rules aren’t always cut-and-dried. Today the sky can be blue, but tomorrow it’s purple. Still, it’s kind of cool they consider black men Gods. And a bunch of cats in hip-hop practice it heavy. Like Wu-Tang, Busta Rhymes, and the God MC Rakim.

  “It’s a wrap, son. We out,” I say, pulling Quady toward the door. “Let’s go before we start talking in circles.”

  Quady grabs my shoulder. “Chill, I got this.”

  Knowledge is wiping his counter clean, watching us. Duke look like he could sell water to a well.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, trust me.” He nods at the ol’ head. “Aight, next question.”

  “Question two: Name the original members of the Wu-Tang Clan.”

  “Son, that’s crazy,” I say. “Everybody and they momma is in Wu-Tang! How are we supposed to know?”

  Quady pushes me out the way, listing them on his fingers. “RZA, GZA, Method Man, Raekwon, Ghostface Killah, Inspectah Deck, U-God, Masta Killa, and Ol’ Dirty Bastard.”

  “Correct. Question three: Who was the famous mastermind behind the Juice Crew, and name three of its members?”

  “That’s TWO questions. The man’s cheating!”

  Quady talks over me. “Marley Marl. He helped put people like Biz Markie and Roxanne Shanté on.” He looks at me. “He produced Big’s ‘Juicy.’”

  “Correct,” Knowledge says, throwing some red beef on the griddle.

  “Aight, son,” I laugh, dapping Quady up. “I see that Vibe subscription is paying off.”

  “Question four: Who was the other queen featured on Queen Latifah’s black feminist anthem, ‘Ladies First’?”

  Quady struggles. “Um. Uhh . . . ummm . . . damn. Jazz would know this one.”

  “Oh snap, I know! Monie Love.”

  Knowledge turns to me, impressed. “Correct.”

  “What?” I shrug at Quady. “Shorty has a cute-ass smile.”

  “Question number five: What famous shipping line that transported our brothas and sistas back to Africa did Mos Def and Talib Kweli name their newly formed group after?”

  Quadir smiles big. “Marcus Garvey’s the Black Star Line.”

  “Correct. Now if you really want to impress Pierce, pass me some salt-and-vinegar chips.”

  “A ship to take you to Africa? Why would you want to do that?”

  Knowledge gives me a look that could cut through bulletproof glass. “Because Africa is home. Why wouldn’t you want to go home?”

  “Why would I want to go back to some country to live in a hut with no clothes and shit?”

  “That’s what the media wants you to believe Africa is like. There are fifty-four countries on the CONTINENT of Africa, with some of the finest clothes, buildings, and most intelligent people in the world that you never see on American television. It’s all a mind game, to make you believe your home is dangerous to keep you under the government’s thumb and ensure that you will continue to slave for them.”

  “But I ain’t from Africa. I’m from Brooklyn.”

  Knowledge leans over the counter. “Okay, think of it this way—you can move, be moved, go your whole life living other places, but you will always be from Brooklyn. Brooklyn will always be your home. It’s in your blood. So is Africa.”

  I laugh. “Word up!”

  Knowledge gets busy, creating some masterpiece on a toasted hero and wraps it up in tinfoil with ten minutes to spare.

  “One last thing . . .”

  “Damn, son, what now?”

  Knowledge tosses in some napkins in the bag and ties it closed, chuckling to himself.

  “Tell my son, next time he wants a chopped cheese . . . he should just call.”

  Pierce bites into his sloppy sandwich with his eyes closed, ketchup hanging out his mouth.

  “Mmmmmm,” he moans, with a happy grin. “That’s that shit right there. Perfect!” He takes a sip of his Evian water and looks up at us. “So how many questions you get wrong?”

  Quady smiles. “Just one.”

  “Heh! One? That’s it? Damn, old man must be getting soft.”

  I wipe the sweat off the back of my neck. “Aight, we brought you your sandwich, so what’s up?” I try to keep my voice light, but I’m done jumping through all these hoops like we in a circus. My deodorant been burned out, so I know I’m stinking. Plus, my feet are killing me. Timbs weren’t made for track and field.

  Pierce raises an eyebrow. “Brave, ain’t ya? Brave and stupid. Fletch!”

  Fletch comes running in. “Yes, sir!”

  “Pop that new track in. Let’s see what they got.”

  Both Quady and I sigh in relief. Finally, now we getting somewhere.

  Fletch pops the CD in a glass-face stereo, and Steph’s voice comes out the speakers from all four corners of his office. Heads start bobbing. The track is tight! Kaven was worth the money.

  Pierce cuts his throat with his hand and Fletch quickly shuts it off.

  “Better. Much better. Now, let’s see if you can do it again.”

  “What?”

  “You told us to make a new hit and we did that,” Quady says, outraged. “You can’t tell me this ain’t a club banger.”

  “Yeah, but I need another one.” He chuckles, taking bite of his sandwich. “What, you think all you gotta to do is make one hit, then you good? Nah kid, you got to come with hit after hit after hit if you want to win in this game! Come with it like it’s your first day on the job every single time.”

  I’m so blown I don’t even know what to say.

  “We need that real club banger! Something that even the ladies can rock to. You feel me?”

  Quady looks down at his Timbs and sighs. “Yeah, we feel you.”

  “Good. You got forty-eight hours. Bring me something hot!”

  “Forty-eight hours! But . . .”

  “Is there a problem?” he barks, an eyebrow raising.

  Quady looks out the window, as if considering something. Maybe he’s thinking of telling him. Just come out with the truth. I ain’t gonna front; I considered it myself. But the way he has us running around the whole damn city, playing us like some chump, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  Quady sniffs and offers his hand. “Nah. We good. Forty-eight hours.”

  Pierce gives him a once-over, then fist-bumps. “Y’all can show
yourselves out.”

  Outside, we glance up at the building, at all the clouds surrounding the floor we came from. We were really floating in the clouds, face-to-face with real music executives, surrounded by Billboard awards, platinum plaques, and Grammys. Who would’ve thought two kids from Brooklyn would’ve made it so far?

  I know that look on Quady’s face. That closed-mouth dead silence. He seems real calm, but inside, he’s freaking out.

  Not me, though.

  Being that close to the top just put a new battery in my back.

  26

  Quadir

  Cab to the movies at Linden Boulevard Multiplex (because she can’t stand the train) = $13. One way.

  Two adult tickets to the seven-thirty show = $11.

  One large popcorn, a large Coke, nachos with cheese, and Twizzlers for her plus one large Coke for myself = $18.

  In total, $42, just to take Ronnie to the damn movies.

  “Oh my God! That was bananas!” Ronnie says, as we head out the doors of the theater, holding hands. “The way they rolled into that club, them black lights, homegirl singing ‘However do you want it!’ So sick!”

  We’d been planning for months to see Hype Williams’s first feature film, Belly, starring Nas and DMX. The whole hood been talking about going on opening day, and Ronnie couldn’t miss out on being the first. She had a rep to keep or whatever. So regardless of the deadline Pierce threw at us, I couldn’t cancel my date with Ronnie. I would’ve never heard the end of it.

  “Oh, and my girl Kisha? She was mad fly. Did you see that house Tommy had her up in?”

  The movie had everybody in it. Method Man, T-Boz, that fine chick from A Bronx Tale, Taral Hicks, and a bunch of Jamaicans. Jarrell is gonna be real happy about that. Hopefully he’s not still pissed about me ghosting on him at the studio to, as he puts it, “see some chick.”

  Ronnie’s looking real cute, though. Crop powder-blue sweater, tight Guess jeans, and purple Reeboks. She went to the nail salon after school yesterday and I paid extra for the ladies to spray-paint little dragon designs on her nails.

  “That Tommy, he’s, like, a real man, you know?” Ronnie smirks, snuggling up on my arm. “Taking care of his shorty like that. Buying her anything she wants. That’s the type of man I could love for the rest of my life.”

  I don’t say nothing. The whole time I’m trying to pretend I don’t hear them thoughts creeping in the back of my head, how I had more fun just chilling on the boardwalk with Jasmine. Even thinking about Jasmine right now seems foul.

  “Hey,” she says, all sweet, tilting my chin down toward her. “What’s up with you? You real quiet. You didn’t like the movie or something?”

  “Um, nothing. It’s just . . . cold.” I zip up my jacket, trying to tune back in, but my mind keeps spinning between Jasmine, Pierce, Steph, and the movie. The whole time, all Nas’s character wanted to do was bounce to Africa and start a new life. Maybe it ain’t such a bad move, leaving home, starting over fresh.

  “Well, anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Soooo, I saw this jacket at Kings Plaza. And I’m really feeling it. I mean, no other girl is gonna have it. I swear, I had them put it on layaway for me. All you gotta do . . . is pick it up.”

  “Pick it up?”

  “Yeah. I was hoping . . . you would cop it for me.”

  I groan loud enough for the concession stand to hear as we walk outside.

  “What kind of jacket?”

  She combs back her bangs that flip in the wind. “It’s just this little butter leather—”

  “Leather! You want me to cop you a leather jacket?”

  Ronnie frowns. “What you tripping for? It’s just four stacks—”

  “Four hundred dollars! Are you crazy?”

  She rolls her neck. “Well, it ain’t like you don’t got the money. I heard you been moving weight. Tisha saw you and Rell last Saturday on Fulton.”

  “Weight? You know I’m not into that shit.”

  “So what you saying, Tisha seeing things now?”

  “I don’t know what Tisha seeing, but it ain’t that!”

  “Quadir,” she says, hard. “You really trying to tell me that you and Rell ain’t up to something?”

  “For the last time, I’m—”

  Shit! The demos. I completely forgot about them.

  Ronnie taps her foot, waiting for an answer. And I don’t want to lie to her. But she can’t know. If she knows, the whole hood is gonna find out, and then it’ll be wrap for Steph getting signed. We too close to give up now.

  “I’m not . . . it’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, so now you gonna lie to my face?”

  She tries walking off, but I grab her arm.

  “It’s not! That money . . . it ain’t for buying leathers and shit.” I take a deep breath. “I’mma use it . . . to go to Bishop.”

  She squints. “What?”

  It’s true. After we get Steph signed and set his moms up, I’m going to use my cut of the money to go to Bishop. It’s what Steph would’ve wanted me to do.

  She huffs and crosses her arms. “So you gonna leave me? I thought we talked about this last year. That we gonna go to school together.”

  I take a deep breath. “I talked to the coach. He’s gonna let me walk on the team. Baby, it’s a good school. It’ll help me get into a good college.”

  “College? That’s like . . . two years away. Why you thinking about all that now?”

  “You gotta start applying, like, next fall.”

  “You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I want to go to college too?”

  “Huh? You do?”

  “Yeah, nigga,” she barks. “You ain’t the only one out here with dreams!”

  “But . . . you said you never wanna leave B-Voort.”

  “So! That don’t mean I can’t go to college.” She counts off her fingers. “NYU, Columbia, Hunter, Brooklyn College, St. John’s, City College, Fordham, not to mention all the CUNY schools. Son, I don’t need to leave the city if I don’t feel like it. But you would’ve known if you would’ve asked me.”

  I don’t even know what to do except stand there with my mouth open.

  “Look at you, just assuming I was like every other chick out here instead of trusting me. You could’ve talked to me first before you go jumping to conclusions and keeping all these secrets.” She points in my face, hissing. “You know what? You just like my daddy said. You a scrub who think he better than everybody else, trying to be something he not, perpetrating a fraud. Can’t keep it real with nobody. Not even with yourself! I can do better. And believe me, I will!”

  She storms down the stairs, waiting at the curb as the dollar cabs pull up one by one. I slowly drag myself after her, stuffing my hands in my pockets

  “So that’s it?” I mumble to the ground. “It’s over?”

  She waves a hand over her shoulder, ignoring me.

  “I’m sorry, Ronnie. I . . . can’t tell you. I wanna tell you, I just . . . can’t right now. Not yet. But soon.”

  “After everything I’ve done for you?” She shoots glare over her shoulder. “Man, whatever.”

  “You want me to take you home?”

  “Nah. I’m good. I don’t need nothing from you.”

  Solo dolo cab ride home = $13.

  “Well, look who decided to show up!”

  When Jasmine left a message with my mom to come over, I was low-key hyped. Gave me something to look forward to after crashing and burning with Ronnie. The last person I expected to see sitting on Steph’s floor was Jarrell.

  “Aye yo, what you doing here?”

  “Pssh! What you think,” he says, tossing another box aside. “Looking for Steph’s new track. One of us gotta keep the lights on around here.”

  Jasmine shakes her head, smiling. “Rell filled me in on y’all’s meeting. My mom’s working a double shift and Carl’s sleeping over a friend’s house, so we got until
around four a.m.”

  She’s dressed in some baggy sweats like she’s ready for bed and smells like Jergens cherry-almond lotion that has my head foggy.

  “If Pierce signs Steph, I bet he gonna want to find his killer too,” she says. “Maybe even front award money for any info.”

  Jarrell nods. “Um, maybe. So, Quady. How was the movie?”

  I clear my throat, plopping on Steph’s bed. “It was . . . aight. Sound track is sick.”

  “Yeah, DJ Clue been spinning it all night,” Jasmine says, crawling on the floor near my feet, pulling some boxes from under the bed.

  “What y’all looking for? We already went through all his music.”

  Jarrell flips through some CD’s on the desk. “Yeah, well, we checking again. Kaven ain’t hearing nothing that pops. He says if we find some more, to bring him what we got.”

  “But we’ve listened to everything.” I glance down at Jasmine. “Right?”

  “Yeah. But . . . Rell’s right. We already used most of Steph’s best club bangers. The rest is all partial or unfinished tracks. None of them are, what you call it . . . for the ladies.”

  “We can make something work,” Jarrell says, digging through some CDs on his desk. “But ya man Pierce . . . I don’t know if he’s gonna feel it. And Kaven charging us double for putting the studio on hold. So we gotta get this done. Tonight!”

  Damn, can this night can’t get any worse? Ronnie and I break up, now we about to get our necks broke for wasting Pierce’s time and lose Steph’s deal. I won’t even have money for one semester at Bishop.

  “Aight,” I say, jumping to my feet, shaking the sleep out my head. “Let’s just . . . start from the top and look again.”

  Jasmine and Jarrell groan, flopping dead on the floor.

  “Come on, y’all, there’s gotta be something. Maybe one of these tapes or CDs we overlooked.”

  I snatch a few CDs off the table and bang at the stereo. “Damn, how you work this thing?” The disc changer opens, then swivels to the right. A blank CD stares back up at me.

  “Hey, did one of y’all leave this in here?”

  Jarrell tilts his head up to look. “Nah.”

  Jasmine frowns. “What’s that?”

  Felt like the doors of heaven just opened. Steph always said the three-CD changer on his stereo was broke, so he could only listen to one CD at a time. No one would have ever thought to check the other slots.