On the Come Up (25 page)

Star had a nice time. After a dozen times down the slide, and a turn on the swing, her feet flying up to kick the sky, AnnMarie let her take her shoes off, go in the sandbox. Dean sat down next to AnnMarie on the ledge and they watched her play. A white mother with a crew cut and baggie jeans sat in the sand. She gave Star a bucket to play with and a shovel to dig. Talking to her softly, holding up her own daughter who was light-skinned, with baby dreads. The two children playing, patting at the sand with the shovels. Dean took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He said, I know I’ve been busy.

She shrugged. I know you got your problems, Dean … She glanced at him then, saw the wrinkle lines by his eyes. He’d trimmed off his goatee, that’s what it was. That’s why he looked different.

I’m still here for you, AnnMarie. ’Cause I’m so
together
. She laughed, bumping him with her shoulder and she took the opening, finally telling him all the things she’d kept bottled up—Miss Beatrice with her teeth holes getting taken by the police, and about the new one, Miss Doris with her mad stupid glares and sharp mouth, how she ain’t seen CeeCee, not once around the way, even though she knew her child almost two years old. And Niki, she finally got to Niki and how much she missed her.

On the long subway ride home, AnnMarie held Star in her lap. Glimpsing her reflection there in the train window. She thought
about Dean. How he’d pushed a fold of bills into her hand when they said good-bye, and made her take it. She smiled for a moment, picturing that tattoo-face muthafucker coming up the block. How all the people had stepped out his way.

The train picked up speed, must be going under the river, the car rumbling mad loud, ’cause she felt the pressure build in her eardrum as Star squirmed out of her lap.

She let her go to climb onto her own seat. Sit right, AnnMarie said. So Star straightened her legs, folded her hands in her lap and started up a staring game with the lady across the way. This person like a older version a Niki. Same type skin, wash a freckles and a curly ’fro. Niki’s prettier though, AnnMarie thought. Ain’t-give-a-shit attitude. Switching up her style, cutting off all those curls. AnnMarie always thought it’d been about trying to find a look—Female Rapper Extraordinaire. But now she knew it was about trying to own something. Define herself in a world a straights.

AnnMarie turned her face to the window, staring past her reflection as the lights in the tunnel blurred and ran. Always going after the wrong girl, AnnMarie thought. She cringed, picturing it—Nadette showing off her ring.
You got something to say?
Slapping Niki with the reality that she ain’t wanted. Trying to find love in Far Rockaway.

Maybe that’s why she started going out to Jamaica where Latania live. To be with a group of lesbian girls, where she had a fighting chance. All those times Niki’d taken her along—hop the dollar van, spend the day outta Far Rock. Hanging out, gossiping. Listening to music. One time they went all the way to Kings Plaza, walking through the mall, sipping ice coffees, cracking jokes and talking.

She missed alla that since they stopped talking. Yeah, she missed it.

One Sunday afternoon, the month before her eighteenth birthday, she went by to Nadette’s, asked if she could get her a fake ID. Turn eighteen, ain’t no way she sitting around, everybody else in the world out there clubbing, having fun. Nadette said, I get you one but what you been up to, AnnMarie? Where you been?

Ever since the fallout with Niki, AnnMarie had stayed away. She knew Nadette was still working nights, engaged to Dennis and settled.

AnnMarie said, You know, same ol’ thing. Working for that cranky lady on Beach 96th.

Oh, you goin’ all the way out there, how you get out there?

Take the 22, then the 17. It be mad slow, take a hour-fifteen each way. She got something wrong upstairs. I gotta tell her everything. Brush your teeth, do this, do that, help her with her potty.

That’s nasty, AnnMarie, why you do it. You know I introduce you to my boss. You still got a figure on you. Get your
chicas
done, you make mad money.

AnnMarie looked down at her chest. What, my breasts too small?

Girl, I hook you up.

AnnMarie thought about it. Do she want to dance like Nadette? She’d seen her one time up on stage. All that attention. Grown men clapping, whistling. Do your thing.

Monday morning, AnnMarie knocked, then leaned into the door. She said, It’s me, Miss Doris. It’s AnnMarie. Then she used the key she’d been given by Miss Doris’s daughter. The daughter telling her she don’t trust her mother to open the door.

It was mad stuffy in there, no air moving, first thing AnnMarie did was open the window.

You ready to take a walk?

Where we going.

Outside. Let’s get some air.

I’m hungry.

You ain’t eat breakfast yet?

There’s nothing good in there.

What you want.

Miss Doris said, They got that mushroom pizza down on the corner.

Let’s get pizza then.

She used to hate Miss Doris. She’d have AnnMarie on her hands and knees cleaning behind the toilet, behind the radiator, mopping the kitchen floor even if it still clean from yesterday. But something had happened. Old age. Dementia, the daughter had called it. AnnMarie wasn’t sure what that meant. All she knew was now the lady don’t ask her to do nothing.

She helped Miss Doris out of her pajama top, her breasts sagging like two flaps a brown leather. Put her in her tracksuit, only thing she liked to wear.

What we doing.

We going for a walk, AnnMarie said.

I have to go to the bathroom.

You want me to come with you?

Hell no. I can do it myself.

She checked her phone for messages. Paloma had called. Outta the blue. Black China doll with her mule shoes and sweet perfume, hadn’t seen her in six months. Ever since AnnMarie and Niki stop talking.

Miss Doris was still in the bathroom.

You okay, Miss Doris?

AnnMarie poked her head in.

What? What do you want?

Let’s go. We going for a walk.

It’s too hot outside.

Nah, come on. You see, it feel nice. We go around the block, then get some pizza.

AnnMarie picked up the twenty dollars and shopping list Miss Doris’s daughter had left on the counter.

They sat on the bench in the shade, a breeze blowing warm on Ann Marie’s face.

See, isn’t this nice?

What we doing out here.

Just sitting.

I know we’re sitting. What are we doing, AnnMarie.

Taking the air, Miss Doris. What, you forgot already?

I didn’t forget.

Okay. ’Cause you know I have to write it down on your forehead you start forgetting.

Miss Doris glanced at her.

You think I’m losing my mind too.

No, I know you losing your mind. How old you now, like a hundred fifty?

Miss Doris tipped her head and laughed.

Ann Marie smiled.

Come on now, jus’ feel that breeze.

When she got home that evening, she called Paloma. Paloma said the designer Dre, he looking to do a fashion show and do she want to meet him. AnnMarie said, Hell yeah, I meet him.

She laid in bed long after Star had crawled in next to her, two o’clock in the morning. She’d outgrown the crib, had her own bed that AnnMarie had made for her out of a foam mattress and blankets she got on sale at Marshalls. But do she sleep on it? Hell, no. Star sleepwalking to the place she knew be safe.

AnnMarie shifted, moving Star’s hot little body off to her own side. Pushed the sheet off, the room stiflin’, even with the fan blowing she felt sweat beading on her skin. She knew you could make money modeling. She didn’t know how much but it had to be more than $8.50 a hour, that’s for sure. She closed her eyes. She pictured herself up on the catwalk, strutting in some designer clothes. Then it became a stage with poles and dancers and a light, a single beam of light falling, girls grinding, their skin brown and glistening like oil been rubbed there, then it was her dancing, back arched, leg around the pole, her nipples pierced by tiny points of light. She woke up sweatin’. Sat up, carried Star back to her own bed, covered her with the sheet.

Got into bed but didn’t go back to sleep. Instead she pulled her
notebook off the sill and flipped it open. She pulled the curtain back for some light and wrote:

A
UGUST GOAL
—
make more money

She listened to Star breathing, could tell by the sound her thumb in her mouth, saliva dripping on the sheet. Sheets need changing. Gas bill, electric, phone, MetroCard, she bring lunch to work tomorrow, peanut butter and jelly and a orange—couldn’t think how much she had in her pocketbook, trying to picture what food there was in the fridge, turkey, American, mayo … No, mayo finished off. Buy some tomorrow, clip coupon tomorrow—spread it on thick.

She met Paloma outside the Jay Street station and walked two blocks to the building where Dre had his studio. Took the stairs to the third floor and walked into a big room with racks of clothes lining the wall, rolls of cloth stacked on shelves, big black worktables and a sewing machine. Dre took both of AnnMarie’s hands in his and said, Hello, beautiful. Why don’t you walk for me.

He put music on and she worked it right there in the room, the whole while Dre hollering Yeah! Yeah, girl! Go on. That’s it. And out the corner of her eye she caught Paloma laughing into her hand.

They went to Dunkin’ Donuts after.

Paloma got a Vanilla Bean Coolatta.

She said, He a fem but he got mad talent. He likes you, he gonna put you top a the show, I can tell.

Cool. Cool. Cool. I forgot to ask him. How much he pay.

Oh, he don’t pay nothing. It’s for the exposure.

Oh.

Oh
, AnnMarie thought.

Paloma sipped her drink and they sat in silence, Niki being what they got in common.

AnnMarie said, So how’s Niki, what she up to.

She good. She fine. You know, me and hers together now.

Word?

Paloma shook out her wrist and showed AnnMarie a gold bracelet with gold charms dangling off the side.

She got me that for my birthday.

You had a birthday? When’s your birthday.

July 30th.

Okay. Happy birthday—mines is coming up.

How old you gonna be, Paloma asked.

Eighteen. Tha’s nice though. Tha’s real nice a Niki to get you that.

Yeah, Niki’s very sweet to me.

Paloma smiled, still looking like a black China doll.

That night, AnnMarie practiced walking in the hallway outside the apartment. Put on the pair of four-inch heels she borrowed from Nadette and started in front of 4F. Hands on her hips, shoulders back, chin up, her ankles wobbling a couple times but she kept going.

Star sat on the stairs watching.

Whatchu doing, Mama?

AnnMarie got to the end of the hall, struck a pose, giving her daughter a little cat-eye look, like the magazine girls do.

Ma, whatchu doing!

How I look, Boo? Do I look good?

Yeah, you look good. But why you walking like that?

I’m practicing. I’ma get up on stage and model some fashion. Like those girls you see in the magazine.

Hands on hips, shoulders back, chin up, AnnMarie strutted. And out the corner of her eye she saw Star watching. Hands folded in her lap, eyes bright, breathing her mother in.

The fashion show was Saturday night at Splash Bar, in a neighborhood Paloma said was called the Chelsea.

She liked the feeling of all those eyes on her, Dre’s clothes hanging like silk, working it at the end of the ramp—the model Misu there next to her, they’d only practiced a couple times, leaning back into each other, letting the people see the dresses drape down their backs.

In the backroom, there was powder in the air, a rush of movement, clothes flying, the scent of girl all around her. Girls getting naked, stripped to G-strings no bra, AnnMarie didn’t have no G-string, wearing regular old cotton but that was okay ’cause no one was looking, everybody busy getting in and out of outfits without smearing makeup on Dre’s clothes.

Line up!

Line up!

She got in line next to Misu again, Misu who was a true professional, the way she moved her hips, gliding down the runway. Two and two they moved together, AnnMarie keeping stride with the fashionista pretty girl.

After the show there was laughter, girls laughing and talking, Dre walking through the racks saying, You all beautiful. Thank you thank you thank you. And they could hear the dirty house
music start up, some of the girls dancing right there while they dressing—putting on they thigh-high boots, little miniskirts.

Niki came into the room, walked right past the curtain, laughing ’cause a couple girls shrieked, throwing clothes at her telling her get the fuck out, no free peeps.

AnnMarie was done dressing and had turned when she heard Niki say, What up girl, long time no see. Frontin’ like there ain’t been nothing wrong between them. Nothing at all.