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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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FIRST SEMESTER
GET IN WHERE YOU FIT IN TO SHOW 'EM WHAT YOU'RE MADE OF!
1
LA-LA
M
usic pumped in the hallways like a party was taking place. Teens zigzagged through the maze of other students, most grouped together in cliques. Some were posted up against lockers watching rappers battle, and a group of break-dancers were rocking steady on a cardboard makeshift dance floor, all while the teachers and staff walked by, nodding their heads and encouraging what would be considered disorderly conduct at La-La's old school. She'd never seen anything like it in her life, and thought it was higher than tops. If she could've packed up her measly belongings and run away without her mother noticing some of her welfare check was missing—the part named La-La—she would've straight moved into Harlem Academy. It was that tight.
“Hey, pretty girl,” some dude's voice carried over the dah-dump of music and chorus of teenaged voices competing to be heard in the crowded hall.
La-La looked to her left, saw some girl with the longest, curliest hair she'd ever seen framing the girl's pretty face. She was chewing a huge wad of gum, making it look delicious. She had full pouty lips, almond-shaped eyes, and
OFF LIMITS
stretched across her super huge ta-tas. La-La glanced down toward her floor-flat chest and saw straight to her Nikes, and knew why whoever-he-was was talking to the girl. She was beautiful and shapely, and La-La wasn't anything close.
The girl smiled and waved in La-La's direction. La-La didn't want her to think that she was all up in her business so she looked just past her, but could still see her in her peripheral.
“You,” the girl said, pointing at La-La. “I'm talking to you. Yeah, you with the beautiful thick hair.”
La-La snapped her attention the girl's way, then stuck her index finger to her chest. “Me?” She tried to smooth out her face because she knew it was twisted. Her expression was always the first thing to give her away, and she didn't want the girl to think she was nasty or rude, though she'd had a reputation for being that way at her last school. But who wouldn't after they'd been the target for bullies?
The girl waved again, then pushed herself off the locker she'd been leaning on. She was taller standing at her full height, and moved like an angel. The girl floated instead of walked, and made La-La feel even more stupid as she made her way over to her. “I'm Rikki, with two k's, and that boy over there, the one who keeps calling you ‘pretty girl,' is my friend. I think he wants to talk to you. It must be the hair.”
La-La's head spun and she almost died on the spot. The boy had not only called her pretty, but he was the same fine guy she'd seen in the admissions office weeks ago. Oh, she knew who he was all right. “Ziggy?” she asked just to ask.
Rikki looped her arm through La-La's and laughed. “Yeah. That's him. Ziggy. C'mon, I'll walk you over. You seem to be shy. I'm guessing it's 'cause you're new, but I know you're just fronting. You can't be shy, not if you're a student here. We perform and put on shows.”
“Pretty girl, what's up?” Ziggy asked, then hugged La-La like they were old friends, and fingered her hair. “You and all this hair. It's fantastic.”
After she inhaled his scent, she answered, but made sure to keep her lips as close together as possible to mask her teeth. “Thanks. Nothing's up. Just trying to maneuver around this place.” She held out her schedule. “There's a blank here where my fifth class is supposed to be. I don't even know how I found the others. And I'm supposed to be meeting my sis, Cyd, for fifth period.”
Ziggy and Rikki laughed. “That's supplemental time,” he said, putting his arm around La-La. “That's for you to supplement your art.”
She looked at Rikki for help because, clearly, she was the only slow one in the trio. “Girl, it's your free time. You can do whatever, just make sure you fill out a slip at the end of the month stating you've been honing your skills. We're artists around here, so they trust us to create. No babysitting at CAPA.”
Ziggy nodded, then whistled at some thick-hipped girl walking by. “I gotta go, ladies. The thighs—” He paused, and figuratively morphed into a half insect, half animal. Licking his lips, he rubbed his palms together like a fly, then neighed like a horse. “I mean, lunch is calling.” He left, running after the girl.
Rikki shook her head, smiling. “I forgot to add that other than him being my friend, he's also my patient.”
La-La reared back her head, and swallowed the lump of jealousy lodged in her throat. “Patient?”
Rikki nodded. “Yep. He's got male-whore syndrome, and I'm trying to get him through it. But he's so charming and cute, and all the girls love him, so it's hard for him to help it. But it's only the thick girls I have to save him from. Ziggy loves him some big girls.” She looked La-La up and down, then motioned at herself. “Girls like us, slim ones, don't stand a chance.”
La-La's expression twisted into sour. “I heard that. Big girls need love too,” she mimicked Big Boi's lyrics from an Outkast song. Then her eyes brightened.
“La-La!” Cyd waved, and then pushed her way through the students. She was rocking a funky fedora tilted just so on her head. La-La smiled. She hated hats, but Cyd made them look good. “What's up with fifth period? I can't find it.” She made it over to them, holding out her schedule. “We do have the same class, right? At least, that's what I thought.”
“No,” Rikki answered for La-La, with her hand on her hip. She'd somehow changed in front of La-La's eyes, and slipped into an attitude.
Cyd looked Rikki up and down, and La-La could see a butt-kicking in Cyd's eyes. “Who are you?”
“I'm Rikki, since you want to know. La-La's new friend. I'm also the one to tell you that you don't have a class fifth period. Because for fifth period we are scheduled to par-tay!” She broke out into laughter, and changed back into her cool self. “Got'cha!” She held out her hand to Cyd. “Couldn't resist. Sorry. But it's true. Funky hat, by the way.”
La-La exhaled when she saw tension melt away from Cyd. “Oh, I was about to say. Whew!” Cyd made a production of wiping her forehead, then gave Rikki a pound. “Glad I didn't have to shake up lockers on my first day here. 'Cause I gets it in, ask La-La. I'm like an old-school scrapper.”
All three girls laughed; then doom walked up.
Nakeeda.
La-La looked at her biggest hater on the planet, and her heart rammed in her chest. She'd known Nakeeda attended the school, but still wasn't prepared to see her. The girl had tormented La-La for the last three years, without reason, and had tried to turn everyone against her with fabricated material—i.e. lies—and had sent her a threat on a social networking site that she was going to beat her up on sight if she showed her face at CAPA.
“Didn't expect to see you here,” Nakeeda hissed like the snake she was.
Cyd stepped forward, and literally walked in front of La-La. “You mean you didn't ‘expect to see' anything, right? You're about as blind as you are dumb, and we all know your IQ falls into the negative. And why don't you get that chipped tooth fixed?”
Nakeeda placed her hand on her nonexistent hip. “This ain't about you, Cyd.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Ladies. Ladies?” Rikki interjected, and shot La-La a questioning look. La-La shrugged.
“No, Nakeeda.” Cyd said. “It ain't about
you
, that's the problem. You're mad—no, scratch that—you're jealous 'cause my girl got talent. Real talent. And you ain't got nothing but hustle. That's how you got in here.”
Nakeeda scowled at La-La. “Oops. I never thought you two would admit it. ‘Your girl,' hunh? I thought you twos were together-together.”
Cyd lunged.
La-La grabbed her before she could reach Nakeeda and get expelled.
Rikki jumped in the middle. “What's going on?”
“Just because you handing out your body like fliers—to anyone who'll take it, and got a baby at fifteen—don't make the rest of us that way,” Cyd spat, then turned to Rikki. “I'll tell you what's going on. Hoodrat here wants to torment La-La because La-La can sing, and No-Keeda here don't have no pitch, no range, and can only sing in one key. And she's still off in that key.”
“Sing? Puh-leese. You call what La-La does singing? More like chirping.” Nakeeda crossed her arms.
“Who's singing?” Ziggy appeared out of nowhere, asking. He pointed at Cyd.
Cyd pointed at La-La. “Word, pretty girl? Beautiful hair and you can sing?”
La-La pepped up. She couldn't help herself. It was something about Ziggy that moved her, and no matter if Nakeeda was there or not, she was going to shine as bright as she could to win Ziggy's attention. “More like
sang
; singing is for wannabes.” She shot a glance Nakeeda's way. “I can blow a little sumthin'-sumthin'.”
A beautiful smile parted Ziggy's lips, and his eyes shined. He lifted his eyebrows. “You know there's always a big competition coming up around here. We can schedule them ourselves. We didn't see the need because Nakeeda was already projected to be a winner, not enough competition—”
“Schedule one and I'm in. Say no more,” La-La interjected, cutting him off, and swallowing her fear of the torment she knew Nakeeda was going to try inflict on her.
2
REESE
“A
n open audition at Bronx Science that can lead to Julliard,” Reese opened her tangerine-glossed lips and the lie jumped out. A realistic tale she hadn't intended. It'd just spontaneously leapt from her mouth. And it was a good one.
A really good one that'll let me hook up with Blaze and work on the track,
Reese praised herself, putting on a serious expression, and continuing to braid her blue-black locks with Native American hair-braiders. In the mirror, she watched her mother's reflection. Consideration painted Mrs. Allen's pretty face, and Reese knew she was finally free to fly the maximum-security co-op she'd been grounded to for the last two weeks. When she was busted for sneaking in at 1
A.M.
, her mother had caught her in a flat lie, called her father, then locked Reese down. Reese had fuzzed the truth, said she was going to the library to study for the pre SATs, and Mrs. Allen had shoved the dead alibi in Reese's face when she'd walked in. Reese hadn't been anywhere near where books were shelved, and her parents had seen to it that she wouldn't for a long time.
Her father, Mr. Missing in Action, finally joined her mother in the doorway. Stirring his cup of coffee, he stood silent. Turned into a human sponge. Sucked in the conversation as if he still really cared. But the truth was he didn't. He'd lost touch and was now trying to play catch-up while her mother took the charge he used to have. Just the sight of her dad made Reese's pulse percolate. She loved, hated, and missed him all at the same time. They'd been each other's favorites once, before he'd snatched away his attention from her, and BF'd her older sister, Montana. And became the enemy who handed down punishments via telephone, Skype, and emails. He'd made her mother the messenger, and Reese even more resentful. He hadn't the nerve or audacity to deliver news to Reese's face or ears. Could barely look her in the eyes. Most important, Reese believed, he hadn't the time for his youngest daughter. Not anymore.
Maybe never again
. Reese rolled her eyes, then watched her parents from the mirror, pissed to the highest level. Their mandatory sentence was killing her groove, and they weren't being fair. Not in Reese's eyes. It wasn't as if she was a habitual liar. She only did what she had to do to get what she wanted, and didn't deserve to be cooped up. Especially because she hadn't told a complete lie—she just hadn't been completely honest. She had studied. Hard. Had taken and received an almost perfect score on the pre SAT, and dominated the AP prep. As far as she was concerned, she should've been able to come and go as she pleased. At fourteen years old she could test out of just about any high school, and had had the chance to graduate from one of the hardest high schools to be accepted into. But, no, that wasn't good enough for her mom. Her mother wanted Reese to be a musician. And not just any music-playing genius; she had to be a classically trained one on a Julliard track.
“If I get picked, rehearsals'll start immediately,” another lie ran out of her mouth, taking her conscience with it. Reese was on a mission and determined to do whatever to get out of the house—even betraying her parents. Lying to get what she wanted didn't bother her. Not anymore. And she wanted to work on a track and be with her boyfriend Blaze. Badly. Had to hook up with him during the day. Needed to make sure she didn't lose him or their sound. That's what she was most afraid of. Not being able to make the type of music she loved—hip-hop—and losing her boyfriend because her father had decided to step back in, fit
playing daddy
into his schedule, and ruin her relationship with the only other guy who cared about her. And Reese wasn't having it. She wasn't losing two guys she loved, and was convinced she could live with just having one, as long as it was him and the music.
“A
music
audition? At Bronx Science?” Mrs. Allen stood behind Reese, fixing the fringes on the bottom of Reese's braids while her father continued to listen. “... that requires you to dress like that? Come on, the crack of your butt is almost showing. And Bronx Science doesn't do music, Reese,” she argued.
Reese turned, exasperated. Her stare landed on her seven-year-old nephew, Dakota, who had appeared out of nowhere, and he just smiled. Then she looked at her father, but he was unsurprisingly useless, and just shrugged. She turned her attention to her mother. The lady who would never get it. Anything outside of Harlem CAPA and Julliard were beyond her comprehension. And so was fashion. But not the arts. Her mom was right-brained, a creative soul who loved anything involving imagination. And Reese used it to her advantage. “
Mom
. It's not Science's production, it's just being held
at
Science. And Science does too do music. We're—well, I mean, since you separated me from my friends—
they're
more than mental calculators and scientific formulas, ya know? They have a theatre club. Call and ask. The play is like
Flashdance.
You gotta remember
Flashdance.
...” Reese breezed out of the bathroom with pep in her step because she was getting better at lying, and some organization really was holding auditions at the school. She'd checked the day before. Rushing ninety miles an hour to her room to get her things before her mother changed her mind, Reese turned up her lie. “It's like that. I
have
to stand out from my competition. That's why I have on my Native regalia,” Reese yelled, slipping on knee-high moccasin boots.
Mrs. Allen followed. “Okay, but only because I support your dreams and creativity, and it'll look good on your music resume for college. But you know I don't like you running around with your butt showing. I deal with enough sex-crazed teenagers as it is. I won't have you being one of them,” Mrs. Allen began.
“Ooh. Bad words!” Dakota reminded.
“Sorry, Dakota,” Mrs. Allen apologized.
Reese tuned out the pair, then grabbed her backpack off the bedpost. She circled the too-pink bedroom, stuffing her must-haves into the purse. She sprayed on two mists of perfume, and tried to remember what she was forgetting. “Oh, lip gloss.” She snapped her fingers, then found the flavored one Blaze liked.
Reese felt Mrs. Allen's stare on her back, and wished she'd ease up. Her mom was a former literary agent who'd represented erotica writers, and had made Reese's life torture because of it. She was scared Reese would indulge in the same thing that'd both made Mrs. Allen and her clients' beaucoup dollars once, and made her sister Montana a teen mother: sex. Reese didn't think it fair that she had to pay the price because of Mrs. Allen's past-career paranoia or be hung for her older sister Montana's mistake for getting knocked up young. No, Reese didn't think her mother was reasonable, even if she had entertained the thought once or twice. She was a teenager; she had all kinds of thoughts that would make her parents fall out and die if they could read her mind.
If only she knew
. Reese gripped her bag, then headed toward the door.
“Meet me in the study before you go,” He finally spoke. That's what Reese had started to think of her dad as: He. A pronoun, not a father.
Reese stood in front of the desk her father never used, shouldered her bag, and placed her hand on her hip as she watched him sit. “Yeah?” was all she said. Four tiny contemptuous letters that echoed her anger.
“If it were up to me, you wouldn't go,” He said. “I know you're lying.”
But why isn't it up to you?
she almost asked, then stopped herself. She knew if anyone could stop her, He could. Reese decided to plead the fifth, and not say a word. Not until she knew what her father was up to.
“The only reason I'm not interfering ...”
Interfering? You're supposed to be my father, you idiot.
“... is because I want your mom to be able to run things when I'm away—”
“Away?” Reese couldn't take it anymore. He'd only been home two days, and now He was off again?
He must have another woman. Another family, even. You stupid, dirty dog!
“What? You don't like us anymore? You just got here!”
For a second He hung his head.
Guilty, no doubt
.
“I know, sweetie. But the record company has an issue that I need to take care of in the Cali division ... and Montana has a medical conference there too... .”
“Sweetie?”
Now you're trying to patronize me.
“Montana? Oh. Yeah. I see.”
Guess she's not mature enough to go to a conference by herself. She's only in med school to learn how to save lives. How dare she travel by plane? Alone.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but has it ever occurred to you to pick up the phone and call the school? Maybe, just maybe, this time I'm not lying. Maybe I'm just a teenage girl who's going to audition for a play you won't be able to see because you'll be in Cali. With Montana.”
“And I'm going to need you to look after Dakota while I'm away. Your mother needs help.”
I'm the one who needs help
. Reese gripped her bag tighter and bounced out of the co-op just as her father began to dig deeper with his questioning. Before tears tracked down her face.
As soon as her feet connected with the pavement and moved toward the first thing rolling toward Central Park, Reese dialed Bronx Science to confirm her story would be backed up, then text-messaged Blaze, hoping he'd lift her spirits. She needed him more now than ever.
U MISS ME, MISS ME & STILL WANNA KISS ME? MEET ME @ R SPOT AS PLANNED. DON'T FORGET THE BEATS. GOTTA FINISH THE TRACK.
“Who knows, B? You're the only dude who seems to care about me now, so maybe I'll finally audition for you,” she said to the picture of him she'd saved on her cell. Feeling better already, she puckered her lips and kissed the wind. Practiced for what she hoped would be a long evening, then quickly remembered that she couldn't pull it off alone. She might need backup to avoid her mom repossessing her Get Out of Jail Free card. And there was one person she knew would help. Had to. Her home girl and best friend, Wheez.
goin 2 meet b. may need u 2 cover 4 me. Reese blasted one last text message before going to hook up with her man to get her beats and kiss.

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