Uptown Dreams (18 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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35
ZIGGY
“H
urry up, everybody!” Ziggy yelled, excited. His enthusiasm contradicted with the nervousness bubbling in his stomach. He took a seat on the sofa, palmed the DVD remote, then turned it over and over again in his hand.
“Stoppit,” Broke-Up urged. “He gonna know something wrong because you keep acting like a nervous little girl.”
Ziggy looked at the remote, then set it next to him.
Their mother made her entrance first, wiping her hands on her apron. She'd been in the kitchen making roti, and wasn't too happy with being interrupted. “What is it, Ziggy? Why the yelling? You're not outdoors, ya know?”
He patted the empty place next to him on the sofa, asking her to sit. And then the living room took on a dreary tone. Pop walked in. He had a Guinness in his hand, and a half-scowl on his face.
“What is it? Somebody got shot or something? Yelling in the house like that. Boy, you know better.”
Broke-Up cleared his throat. “Pop, sit down for a sec. We got something you need to see.”
Ziggy was glad that Broke-Up included himself. That'd make it easier because it showed that he was supported.
Pop leaned against the doorway, crossed one ankle over the other, then swigged his drink. That was his way of saying:
You've got my attention
.
Broke-Up took the cue, got up, then pressed PLAY on the DVD player.
Ziggy held his breath, readying himself for the blow to the chest he was sure their father would deliver right before he kicked him out of the house. The music began, the video popped onto the screen, and a little of Ziggy's confidence died.
“Me no wan to 'ear dis—” Pop ranted in his island tongue.
“Pop! Please,” Ziggy said, stopping him. “Watch please.”
And there he was. Ziggy. On the screen dancing. Alone.
“What the hell? Ziggy, is that you?” Pops asked at full volume.
Their mother gasped, then put her hand to her chest as if she were having a heart attack. Ziggy almost panicked, then noticed a smile part her lips. She was enjoying it. Proud.
“Ziggy! Broke-Up! What is this rasclot ...?”
The girl was dancing with Ziggy now. His hands were on her hips, gripping them as if she belonged to him.
“Hmm,” Pop mumbled.
Ziggy got up and turned off the video. He knew he could've just stopped it from the sofa, but he needed to stand. If he was going to stand against his father, he'd have to do it like a man. When his father was silent, he knew what to do.
“Well, I'll pack my stuff now.”
His mother stood, hands on hips. “What'chu mean ‘
pack,'
Ziggy?” Her eyes went from Ziggy to Pop to Broke-Up, then to Pop again.
“Pop is against dancing—”
Now she was irate. “I don't give a care what he's against, or anybody else for that matter. My son,”—she pointed to Ziggy and Broke-Up—“aren't leaving this house because of no dancing or anything else.”
For the first time in Ziggy's life he saw his father worried. He didn't know whether to celebrate or feel bad for him.
Pop sucked his teeth, then swigged the Guinness. He looked at Ziggy. “You like boys?”
Ziggy's chest inflated. “No. I don't like boys.”
Pops nodded. “You know dancing is gay ...”
“I'm not gay, Pop!”
“... but, that dancing,” he said, nodding. “Isn't too bad. Especially with the girl.”
“Just because I like to dance doesn't mean I don't like girls. I'm a man, Pop.” He banged his fist against his chest. “I've been hiding my dancing for years, and I'm tired of it. I pay for private school, go on auditions—”
“Shuddup, Z,” Broke-Up yelled, cutting his rant short. “Didn't you just hear Pop?”
Ziggy cocked his head to the side. No, he hadn't heard anything.
Pop stood his full six-feet. “I said, ‘That dancing isn't too bad. Especially with the girl.' ”
Ziggy almost hit the roof from excitement. “Really? So you don't mind? I choreographed that. I want to choreograph videos back home in Jamaica.”
Now Pop's excitement matched Ziggy's, but he checked it. “Not bad. Not bad.” He nodded. “Wait till I shut my friends' mouths and that stupid Sandman. My son's not a dancer. He's a choreographer, and will be a Jamaican legend.”
Good,
thought Ziggy. Everything was coming together. Well, almost. Now he just had to find a way to get back into the school and win La-La back.
36
JAMAICA-KINCAID
J
amaica lay across the navy sheets with her feet dangling off the mattress. Her eyes were closed and her thoughts were vivid. She'd had so much fun in New York “making it” that she doubted she'd ever be happy in Connecticut or anywhere else. A cool rag placed across her forehead snapped her out of her miserable glee. That's what she had, confusion for feelings.
“So, you're
leaving
me, hunh?” Mateo stood over her.
She exhaled. “Yes and no. I'll be here for the summer programs, but I have to go back to that horrid boarding school for regular school.” She grabbed the towel from her forehead, and dabbed at her eyes. She didn't want to cry.
“Don't go soft on me
now
. You did
it
, Jamaica. You
made
your dreams happen. How many people get to say
that
? And at your age?”
She looked at her best friend in New York, batting back tears. She forced herself to smile. “
We
did it, Mateo.
We
. Me and you. You hooked me up, introduced me to the right people.” She sat up, and crossed her legs.
Mateo sat down. “Yeah,
but
look at it this way. It was you, really. I couldn't
make
you do anything.
And
... because of you, Harlem CAPA won't close. I didn't know your dad was paid like that!
And
... because of you, I get to stay in a
swanky
apartment during the summer. Did you say they
bought
the apartment so you could live there while you take acting here?”
She nodded.
“Whew. I met the right friend!” He laughed. “But I'm going to miss you, rich white girl with blond locks,” he said.
Jamaica wrapped her arms around him. “I'm going to miss you too, super-fine Spanish boy from the hood who inflects his words.”
37
LA-LA
L
a-La paced back and forth waiting for Nakeeda to show. It had been an hour. A whole sixty minutes, and neither she nor Hammerhead-Helen had shown her chip-tooth or huge head.
“So, you know what this means, right?” Cyd said.
La-La nodded. “Yep. I win. But this is not how I want it. I want to spank that tail and make her cry. I'm going to show her.”
The small audience of students clapped, and La-La looked up, certain that Nakeeda had shown her face. But there was no Nakeeda; they were clapping for her.
La-La grabbed the mic, turned it on. “Well, since y'all came here for a show, I'm going to give you one.”
 
“Sandman! Sandman! Sandman can!” he yelled from his soapbox, laughing when he looked at La-La and Cyd. “What'chall doing 'round here?”
La-La laughed, she couldn't help herself. The ever-present Sandman always had something to say. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sandman.”
“Yeah. Afternoon,” Cyd added, giving him a pound as if he were their age.
Sandman stepped off his soapbox, tipped a nonexistent hat, and bowed. “You know as long as I been mayor here, I don't think I've ever met more polite young-ins.” He bent over, and dusted his wing tips. “I believe you two will make it. Harlem won't each ya alive. I won't let her, and she'll listen to me because she's my old lady.”
“Thanks—” La-La began, then was silenced by a sharp pain to her ribs. “Ow!”
“There's your girl,” Cyd said, pointing.
“Uh-oh. That's trouble in her mammy's shoes. Stay clear of her. She's one of them trouble-brewing statistics,” Sandman added.
“Nakeeda!” La-La yelled. “Yeah. You. Thought we were having a sing-off? Bring it.” La-La stepped up.
“Contest? Sing off?” Sandman got back on his soapbox, and announced the competition to the residents of Harlem. “Come get yo free show, better than
Showtime at the Apollo.”
Reluctantly, Nakeeda dragged her feet toward them. Her eyes were rolling, and her arms were crossed, but she wasn't scaring anyone.
“You first,” La-La said.
“Go ahead and beat her,” Hammerhead-Helen urged.
Nakeeda opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “You go.”
La-La cleared her throat, then turned to Sandman. “Keep count of the witnesses, and judge us by hand-claps.” She then turned, walked up on Nakeeda, then opened her mouth, and the most beautiful melody floated out. Her voice was so powerful that Nakeeda ran off. La-La nodded when she'd finished. “Now, I've won.”
Sandman tipped his invisible hat again. “Yes, you did. And I declare today your day.”
38
REESE
“Y
es, yes, y'all! To the beat, y'all. Party and move your feet, y'all.” Reese stood on the stage with a mic in her hand, waving her other one back and forth in the air. Broke-Up served as the hype man, running from one side of the small stage to the next, getting the audience excited. They'd decided to have a party to sell their autographed mixtapes that were freshly pressed on CDs, and try to raise money to help save Harlem Academy.
Her father stood up front in the audience with his hands raised and swaying. Old as he was, the music industry had kept him in and cool. She didn't have to worry about him embarrassing her. Beside him, to everyone's surprise, stood her mother. She was angry and stuffy, but she was there. She didn't appreciate being strong-armed, but right was right, and she was wrong. She had no reason to deprive the students of an art because she didn't like it. Arts were important and needed in the world and schools.
“Hold your dollars in the air now,” Broke-Up yelled. “If you want the school to stay open, we have to give, give, give. The government's not going to pay for it. New York City can't afford it—or so they say. So it's up to us! And we can do anything. Right?”
The audience roared.
Reese smiled, strutted back and forth across the stage, then pivoted. She took her place behind the piano, adjusting the mic so her keys could be heard. Then the hip-hop music stopped flowing through the speakers, and Reese began. Her fingers were on fire, caressing the ivories and tickling the blacks. Closing her eyes, all her energy flowed from her fingertips and made the grand sing and hum as if it were a person and not a Samick. Suddenly, she stopped and stood. All eyes were on her, and that's just the way she wanted it. She began nodding her head to music that wasn't playing, and the audience had a look of surprise and
what's going on?
on their faces. Then Reese's big surprise of the night walked on stage, and the people lost it. They yelled, screamed, and some cried.
Ms. Powerhouse walked over to the piano with a mic up to her mouth. “Good evening! Everyone give your girl Reese here a big round of applause, and Broke-Up too. They've done this for you,” she said, then began singing.
Reese sat down and started playing again. Broke-Up hyped the crowd. Mrs. Allen's eyes started to tear, and Mr. Allen couldn't have been more proud, his smile told on him. Reese looked at her parents. She was sorry for all of her lying, but she wouldn't change it. Wouldn't change it for anything. She was Reese Allen, producer on a Julliard track.
It would be a stretch, but Reese was sure they could raise enough for CAPA to stay open. So far, they were short, but it was okay. Ms. Superpower promised that she and her rap mogul husband would donate the rest of the money. Still though, Reese and Broke-Up had wanted to do it on their own. It was a way to keep the school open, start a music production program, and try to get Broke-Up in.
He shrugged. “No problem, Reese. We tried.”
“Try isn't enough. We need to get you in. You can't sell on One-two-five forever, plus the school has a good academic program. You're smart, Broke-Up. You need to be in school.”
He nodded, then adjusted his fitted NYC hat. “I know. I go to school here and there. It's no big deal. Anyway, we have some money coming in from those tracks.”
“Okay, whatever you say. But it still won't be enough for you and Ziggy's tuition and the equipment we need. And we need equipment. Badly. We can't use the production room for profit. They said if we do that again, it's bye-bye.”
They put the money in their pockets, then walked arm in arm. It had been a long night, an even longer week, but it'd been eventful and worth it. She was glad she'd gone to the vending table that day, happier that she'd taken a chance on him despite Wheez and her mother being against her working with him.
“Yo, Reese?” Broke-Up said, coming to an abrupt stop. “Can I ask you something?”
Reese stopped next to him, almost tripping because her feet halted so quickly. She turned, looked into his eyes. The tone of his voice said his question was important. “What's that?”
He stepped forward, looking down at her. “So we have this whole production thing worked out, right? And we're working on getting the production program in Harlem CAPA. We've even established that we're going to find a way to get me in, and be able to pay for me and Z.”
She nodded to each thing he said, still waiting for the important question.
He kicked his good foot, then shifted. His knee popped, but he didn't seem to notice or care. “So I was thinking ...” he drifted off, letting his words hang in the air.
“Thinking what, Broke-Up?”
“... that maybe ...” He reached forward, and pulled her into him. “This.” He kissed her.
Now there was a different kind of music playing in her head. A melody with an infinite loop, and she hoped it would go on forever.

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