Uptown Dreams (6 page)
Authors: Kelli London
7
ZIGGY
W
ork it. Work it!
he pushed himself, lifting his body off the floor.
Could'a did that move better,
his inner critic chastised. Sweat dripped now, flew from his glistening brown skin as he rolled his head side to side, then whipped it in a circle. Ziggy flung his arms wildly, yet smoothly, making a difficult African fertility number seem easy. The bottoms of his feet caught fire from stomping and jumping, and he was sure death was creeping up on him in the form of exhaustion. But he wouldn't stop. Couldn't. Unlike most of his competitors, he didn't just dance because he wanted to. He had to. Dancing was everything to him. Had always been. But since he'd discovered that there was money attached to winning the competition, he danced because his education and future depended on it.
ork it. Work it!
he pushed himself, lifting his body off the floor.
Could'a did that move better,
his inner critic chastised. Sweat dripped now, flew from his glistening brown skin as he rolled his head side to side, then whipped it in a circle. Ziggy flung his arms wildly, yet smoothly, making a difficult African fertility number seem easy. The bottoms of his feet caught fire from stomping and jumping, and he was sure death was creeping up on him in the form of exhaustion. But he wouldn't stop. Couldn't. Unlike most of his competitors, he didn't just dance because he wanted to. He had to. Dancing was everything to him. Had always been. But since he'd discovered that there was money attached to winning the competition, he danced because his education and future depended on it.
“Hey! I like the way you worked that routine. You was riding the heck outta that floor! Wonder who you was thinking about, bouncing up and down like that,” a girl's voice sang from behind.
Ziggy shifted his feet in front of him, tied his shoes, then looked up. He already knew who was talking to him before he laid eyes on her. It was her.
Her
.
The
girl for him. The one with the always freshly twisted hair, banging body, and superior air about her. The one chick who'd moved into his brain last year and wouldn't go away.
Her
.
The
girl for him. The one with the always freshly twisted hair, banging body, and superior air about her. The one chick who'd moved into his brain last year and wouldn't go away.
“Thanks, but I could'a done better. I came up a lil' short on the spin,” he said honestly as he stood.
“It looked good to me. Can you teach me?” She stood with her arms behind her back. Obviously clasping her hands, her chest poked a little in her pink leotard. Black formfitting tights rode her hips and cinched her tiny waist.
Ziggy looked at her. She was beautiful, bordering on skinny. But she had curves, serious ones, in all the right places. More importantly, he could pick her up and float her body through the air while they danced. Today, that was all he cared about. The competition and pricing the new dance shoes he needed, had been watching, but couldn't afford. Hopefully, they were on sale because he couldn't spring for them in addition to his monthly tuition if they weren't.
He reached for her, wondering who she was. Not her name. Not her art. He wanted to know
her
. What she liked. How he could keep her smiling like that. They'd never been formally introduced, and he didn't care. In a way, he didn't want to know what was on her birth certificate, her parents could've named her Skit Scat for all he cared. The truth was he liked his fantasy of her, and didn't want truth yet. Reality would make her one of his few, and she wasn't the few type. She was a keeper, he hoped.
her
. What she liked. How he could keep her smiling like that. They'd never been formally introduced, and he didn't care. In a way, he didn't want to know what was on her birth certificate, her parents could've named her Skit Scat for all he cared. The truth was he liked his fantasy of her, and didn't want truth yet. Reality would make her one of his few, and she wasn't the few type. She was a keeper, he hoped.
What am I thinking?
he questioned himself. This girl was making him too soft, way too cottony, and there was nothing pillow-like about him. He was Ziggy Phillip, the man, and he didn't do softâunless it was a girlâbut it'd be her, not him. He just enjoyed it.
he questioned himself. This girl was making him too soft, way too cottony, and there was nothing pillow-like about him. He was Ziggy Phillip, the man, and he didn't do softâunless it was a girlâbut it'd be her, not him. He just enjoyed it.
“You're the choreographer here. So, how do you want me?” she asked, standing in front of him.
Ready. Willing. Able.
He waited for the track to change, then took her arms, pulled her to him. “Flow with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a dance, sweet girl.” He took her hips in his palms, winded his midsection close to hers. They were only feather length apart. Not close enough to be nasty, not too far away to be acquainted. The hardwood was under their feet, feeling good to his soles. The smoothness of the floor and music had always proved to be the best cure for a bad day, was even better on one like today. An easy, fun one spent with someone who piqued his curiosity. Ziggy dragged the back of his hand along her neck, got into their groove. He could tell that, like him, dancing wasn't only her passion; it seemed to be her escape, just as it was his haven. It provided a chance for him to crawl into himself and think things through, plan his future as a choreographer, and figure out how to keep his parents from finding out he danced. His father knowing would equal career suicide.
“Just like that,” he urged as she became his on the floor.
Her hips swayed rhythmically under his hold. Side to side, their midsections rocked while she grinded her rear into him, then let her upper body collapse forward. Catching her by her hair, pulling her close, Ziggy moved her head to one side, exposing her neck. His tongue, nearly touching her skin, traveled up to her jaw, and she seductively submitted. Gave in to the heat of the dance and him. He couldn't deny she was good. But together, they were better, he thought. Climbing his tight muscled body like a pole, she slid down him until their pelvises kissed, and he held her like a child with her legs wrapped around him.
Perfect synchronization?
The way she touched him, the way they grooved, was unbelievable. Their moves were so tight it was hard to tell where Ziggy ended and she began, he noticed as he watched them practice in the mirror. Another twirl. Third hip dip. A crawl, fetch and catch. And a dang-I-hate-to-unwrap-my-body-from-yours ended the routine.
Perfect synchronization?
The way she touched him, the way they grooved, was unbelievable. Their moves were so tight it was hard to tell where Ziggy ended and she began, he noticed as he watched them practice in the mirror. Another twirl. Third hip dip. A crawl, fetch and catch. And a dang-I-hate-to-unwrap-my-body-from-yours ended the routine.
Out of breath, Ziggy sank to the floor, wiped away his sweat, then closed his eyes. A small blast of cool air blew on his skin, and he opened his lids.
The girl sat next to him fanning with him a booklet. “You can work the heck outta that floor. Finally, you do know that, don't you?”
Ziggy smiled. “Yeah. I guess I do. Maybe always have. It's just that I can't afford to be too confident. I don't wanna lose it, ya know? It's all I got.”
She moved her twists out of her face. “Oh, you got it in a serious way, but don't ever believe it's all you got. That's how people failârelying on one thing.” She winked, and got up. “I'll see you next practice.” And with that she walked away, picking up her backpack from the floor and making her way to the door.
“Hold up!” Ziggy yelled, then fell silent when he saw La-La come in the way the girl was going out. He'd changed his mind, wanted to know her name, but it was too late. In his life, La-La was on the rise, and he'd just asked her out the other day. He couldn't disrespect her or play himself. He told the girl never mind, then walked up to La-La. To his surprise, he was really as happy to see her as he had been to see the other the girl. His player card should've been snatched because twice in one week, he'd softened.
“Hey, pretty girl. What's good?” he asked, walking up to her.
La-La smiled. She was pretty, that was for sure. Too bad she didn't dance, he thought, sure she'd be easy to carry across the floor. “I didn't know you'd be in here. Rikki asked me to see if her bag's in here,” she said, half apologetically.
He wrapped his arms around her, and she shrugged away.
“Z, you're sweating up a storm.”
Ziggy smiled, then walked over by the door, and pulled a container of baby wipes from a shelf. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But a little sweat never killed anyone.” He popped open the container, wiping perspiration from his body and face. “Let's go grab a snack and something to drink.”
La-La crinkled her nose, laughing. “
Ill.
You do that, go out without bathing? That's nasty.”
Ill.
You do that, go out without bathing? That's nasty.”
“No. What's nasty is walking around with a dry mouth and stank breath. Plus, it's a heat wave outside; everybody in New York is sweating. Probably funky too. Nobody will be able to tell.”
They held hands and walked out the door, then collided with nosiness in its purest form, Nakeeda's super-huge-headed best friend. La-La looked at Ziggy, and he shook his head. “Hammerhead-Helen, what are you doing?”
Hammerhead-Helen sucked her teeth, and somehow managed to make her extremely large forehead stretch about two more inches. “Telling Nakeeda, that's what! I'm watching you, Ziggy,” she said, walking away with a trail of toilet paper dangling out of her waistline.
8
JAMAICA-KINCAID
J
amaica pushed open the heavy steel door, and entered the school alone. Without Mateo by her side, she felt as if everyone was looking at her. She knew she was a spectacle, a stander-outer. There were only a few blondes with blue eyes there, but none resembled her. Well, rather, she didn't look like any of them. Her long honey locks flowed down her back, swiping against her James Perse T-shirt and worn Stella McCartney jeans. Her shoes weren't just any gym shoes, they were Lanvin sneakers. Everything about her screamed money, no matter how much she tried to downplay it. But the truth was, it didn't matter that her tee that looked like a regular Hanes cost fifty dollars, or that she rocked almost six-hundred-dollar jeans and seven-hundred-dollar sneakers, because she was still broke. Almost penniless, a month away from being homeless, and starving for something more than Ramen noodles, cheap cookies, and faucet water.
amaica pushed open the heavy steel door, and entered the school alone. Without Mateo by her side, she felt as if everyone was looking at her. She knew she was a spectacle, a stander-outer. There were only a few blondes with blue eyes there, but none resembled her. Well, rather, she didn't look like any of them. Her long honey locks flowed down her back, swiping against her James Perse T-shirt and worn Stella McCartney jeans. Her shoes weren't just any gym shoes, they were Lanvin sneakers. Everything about her screamed money, no matter how much she tried to downplay it. But the truth was, it didn't matter that her tee that looked like a regular Hanes cost fifty dollars, or that she rocked almost six-hundred-dollar jeans and seven-hundred-dollar sneakers, because she was still broke. Almost penniless, a month away from being homeless, and starving for something more than Ramen noodles, cheap cookies, and faucet water.
“Hey, Jamaica,” someone greeted, walking past her in a flash.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since yesterday and that, more than anything, she needed a job. Quick. She looked at her watch, then at the students who bustled through the hall. Class would begin in a few minutes, a room full of people that she wouldn't blend in with.
“S'up, Jamaica-Kincaid Ellison. Never would'a imagined a white girl pulling off locks, but you're rockin' yours. Rockin 'em,” a black girl said, smiling. “Nice job on that scene the other day too. I might need to run lines with you.”
Jamaica smiled, and said, “Thanks. Anytime. Anytime, just let me know when.” Then she wished that other people saw her the way the girl had: as an artist, a girl with a nice do who was just a girl, not a white girl trying to blend into Harlem.
Continuing down the hall, Jamaica slipped into the cafeteria, and found her a seat in the corner of the room. She dropped her book bag on the table, whipped out her phone, and dialed her lifesaver. The line rang and rang, but no one answered. Where was her sister? She looked at her watch again. She definitely wasn't in class because, if Jamaica remembered her sister's schedule completely, her sister was in study hall. She shook her head. Her sister was in charge of the moneyâher moneyâand she needed some. Her stomach growled again, reminding her that she only had one dollar and forty-eight cents, a MetroCard credited with seven subway fares, a dream, and a
Backstage
magazine. Defeat etched her face. A lump grew in her throat. And a rising heat threatened to make her explode, fall all over her emotions, and cave in to self-pity. But she didn't have time to feel sorry for herself. She only had time to pull it together so she could get it together. She'd been scouring the actor's dream paper all morning, looking for every open audition only to be disappointed. There seemed to be no demand for new talent.
Backstage
magazine. Defeat etched her face. A lump grew in her throat. And a rising heat threatened to make her explode, fall all over her emotions, and cave in to self-pity. But she didn't have time to feel sorry for herself. She only had time to pull it together so she could get it together. She'd been scouring the actor's dream paper all morning, looking for every open audition only to be disappointed. There seemed to be no demand for new talent.
Disappointed, Jamaica picked up the paper and tossed it in the corner trash can. “Everybody wants agented actors.” She stretched, her arms held high and her hopes low. She needed money to live and get her plan under way. There were only so many auditions she could make with seven train rides. With her sister ignoring her calls and not depositing money in her account, Jamaica didn't know how she would do it. Yes, she would get a job, she'd decided on that. But at her age she'd only qualify for a small-time gig that would equal an equivalently minute paycheck. That probably wouldn't be enough. She had to wrap her dainty fingers around hundreds to cover the rent, buy groceries, and make her rounds to get acting work. Definitely more mint-green paper than she had in her pocket.
“Don't tell me you're one of
them
.” Mateo appeared next to her with crossed arms, waiting for an answer.
them
.” Mateo appeared next to her with crossed arms, waiting for an answer.
Jamaica looked at him, then began smiling but didn't know why. She could never figure out why he made her happy for no reason. “One of
who
?”
who
?”
“Ya know, the
perfect
ones. Like the dancersâespecially the ballerinas, the ones who sit in the cafeteria so they can
say
they went to lunch, but are so concerned about their weight that they don't eat. You missed the memo too? Perfection
doesn't
exist,” he answered with a hint of a sparkle in his eye.
perfect
ones. Like the dancersâespecially the ballerinas, the ones who sit in the cafeteria so they can
say
they went to lunch, but are so concerned about their weight that they don't eat. You missed the memo too? Perfection
doesn't
exist,” he answered with a hint of a sparkle in his eye.
“You can't be serious, Mateo.
I
wrote the memo. I'm not acting like I'm going to lunchâI can't afford lunch! And I'm desperate.”
I
wrote the memo. I'm not acting like I'm going to lunchâI can't afford lunch! And I'm desperate.”
Mateo ignored her words, picked up her bag from the seat, and walked away. “And I'm hungry and thirsty. Let's go get our eat on.”
Jamaica was on his heels. “Wait! Where do you think your goin' with my bag?”
Mateo stopped. “Perfect
and
deaf too?” He laughed. “I told you already. We're goin' to get our munch on.”
and
deaf too?” He laughed. “I told you already. We're goin' to get our munch on.”
Out of breath, Jamaica was too tired to make excuses. “Listen, I can't go anywhere until I track down my sister,” she explained. “Besides, you've done too much already. I need to pay my way.”
Mateo turned back and winked. “So
pay
you shall. I'll make sure of it.”
pay
you shall. I'll make sure of it.”
As they turned the corner, passersby still whizzed by them in blurs, their words just a jumble of nothing to her ears, just like Mateo's rants about some teacher. Jamaica slowed, tried to calm herself after she'd sent her sister a fifth text. She didn't want to appear frazzled when she got to wherever Mateo was taking her.
“
Here
,” he said, stopping at a corner vending cart. Hotdogs, gyros, chicken on sticks topped off by bread. The food she'd once consider unsanitary now seemed delicious, and her stomach agreed, growling. “This is the
best
one in the city,
trust
me.” He ordered for them both, then handed her the chicken on a stick that the vendor had sloshed with some sort of spicy barbecue sauce.
Here
,” he said, stopping at a corner vending cart. Hotdogs, gyros, chicken on sticks topped off by bread. The food she'd once consider unsanitary now seemed delicious, and her stomach agreed, growling. “This is the
best
one in the city,
trust
me.” He ordered for them both, then handed her the chicken on a stick that the vendor had sloshed with some sort of spicy barbecue sauce.
Jamaica almost swallowed the stick; she'd scarfed it down so fast, then licked her fingers. She couldn't help herself. In gulps, she dusted off the can of soda she and Mateo shared, then let out a loud belch. If her parents could only see her now, they'd lose everything holy about them.
“C'mon,” Mateo urged, pulling her along. “We're almost there.”
Almost where?
she wanted to ask, but didn't. So far Mateo had made good on everything he'd ever said to her. She saw no need to question anything he said. She trusted him like a siblingâmore than her sibling now that her sister was MIA with the money.
she wanted to ask, but didn't. So far Mateo had made good on everything he'd ever said to her. She saw no need to question anything he said. She trusted him like a siblingâmore than her sibling now that her sister was MIA with the money.
“
Here!
” he said, inflecting his word again. It was still a funny habit that she had to stop herself from laughing at. It was his quirk. Everyone was allowed at least one. “
This
is it.”
Here!
” he said, inflecting his word again. It was still a funny habit that she had to stop herself from laughing at. It was his quirk. Everyone was allowed at least one. “
This
is it.”
Jamaica stood face-to-face with Starbucks, an old favorite from her Connecticut boarding school days. It now loomed in front of her like an enemy, taunting her about being broke and unable to afford the specialty coffees she'd once downed like free water. “Here? Not here ...”
Mateo pulled her inside, then through the crowd of âBuckies. It was as packed as all the others she'd been to, and the smell of coffee reminded her of how good she'd had it at her old boarding school.
“
Hey.
” Mateo waved to someone behind the counter, then walked to the side of it and stood next to the employee door.
Hey.
” Mateo waved to someone behind the counter, then walked to the side of it and stood next to the employee door.
Jamaica noticed that some guy was waving back before Mateo snatched her by the arm, and pulled her with him. Now they both stood in front of the door.
“Terrence!
My
man,” Mateo said, giving him a pound as soon as the door opened.
My
man,” Mateo said, giving him a pound as soon as the door opened.
“What it do, bro?” Terrence asked, walking through the door and leaning against the side counter.
Mateo nodded toward Jamaica. “This is
my
homegirl, little sister, best
friend
. And she has something to ask
you
.” He turned to Jamaica. “Terrence is my boy, and the
manager
here. Now
what
did you have to ask him again ... since you need to pay your way?”
my
homegirl, little sister, best
friend
. And she has something to ask
you
.” He turned to Jamaica. “Terrence is my boy, and the
manager
here. Now
what
did you have to ask him again ... since you need to pay your way?”
Jamaica raised her brows, cringed a little, and swallowed her surprise. “Are you hiring?”
Terrence gave a sympathetic smile. “If you were over sixteen, I could.”
Her face fell, and she felt stupid. Hurt, even. “Okay.”
“Stay right here while I'll bring you two some iced coffees. I was just getting ready to leave the plantation and go meet my mom at the theater. There's some chick there who's digging me hard,” Terrence said.
Jamaica perked up. “Theater?”
Mateo smiled. “Forgot to tell you.
His
mom is
my
mom's boss. She's in charge.”
His
mom is
my
mom's boss. She's in charge.”
Jamaica nearly jumped across the counter when she grabbed Terrence's hand. “I
am
old enough to be a stagehand. I'm sure of that. I can even work off the books. Please!” she begged.
am
old enough to be a stagehand. I'm sure of that. I can even work off the books. Please!” she begged.
Terrence looked at Mateo. “You said she was determined.” He turned to Jamaica. “Our boy here told me about you. We just had to see how much you wanted a job. If you were only willing to work in theater, I knew you weren't the type of employee my mom would tolerate. You have to be thirsty to work for herâand not a groupie. It's not going to be easy. Sometimes there's toilets, vomiting, fightsâthings a janitor or police aren't around for.” He grinned, and nodded. Did everything but give her a verbal yes. But his walking out the door and motioning for them to follow him was all the affirmation she needed. She was going to get her a job even if she had to get on bended knee and beg. Acting like a beggar would be easy.
Jamaica wrapped her arms around Mateo, then got on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks. I owe you big time.”
“And you'll pay ... big time,” he said, laughing.
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