Uptown Dreams (7 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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9
LA-LA
L
a-La hoisted her book bag over her shoulder as she crossed the street as quickly and safely as she could. She was running behind. She looked at her watch. Remi's chemo treatment was almost over, and she'd promised her that morning she'd make it in time to keep her company while she was connected to the infuser. Zigzagging through the pedestrians, she exhaled the breath she'd been holding. She was only two buildings away from the hospital. “Better late than never,” she said to make herself feel better about her tardiness, but it didn't work. She should've been there, she chastised, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't cut class, especially not Mrs. Allen's. Mrs. Allen didn't play—ever—and La-La'd bet the grouchy lady hadn't even done so as a child. In fact, she couldn't imagine her ever being young. “A dollar to a dime, she was born old and grumpy,” La-La began, but was cut off by something heavy whizzing over her shoulder that made her stop dead in her tracks. “What the—?” Something else whooshed by her, harder this time.
A rock?
“So you think you can
sang
, hunh?” Nakeeda's voice came from behind, joined by giggles.
La-La cringed. Today was not the day and now was not the time. She turned and her eyes widened. Nakeeda stood less than a half block away with at least six other girls flanking her sides, and Hammerhead-Helen, with her huge forehead and nappy edges, stood out from the rest. Even from where La-La stood, she could feel the weight of Hammerhead's dome. All the girls were holding what appeared to be rocks and bricks. Her heart moved into her throat and beat until she could feel it in her temples. Then it raced, making her blood pulse. Her hands sweated as she gripped the strap of the book bag. She shook her head. She hated being scared, and wished she could find the courage—the strength—to knock some sense into Nakeeda and Hammerhead-Helen. But even if she could, she wouldn't. She was no fool, and knew she couldn't handle seven girls.
“Oh, I don't see you talking junk now! No Cyd to back you up this time.” Nakeeda aimed another rock, then threw it like a missile.
La-La jumped to the side, dodging it. “Stop, Nakeeda! I gotta go pick up my sister.”
The girls fell out in laughter, Nakeeda the lead and the loudest. “Oh, your poor little sister. What's wrong with baldilocks now? I heard your momma over-processed her hair trying to make her look like your step-daddy's child!”
The gang of girls roared in laughter now.
La-La roared too, but it wasn't laughter coursing through her. It was anger. Nobody bothered Remi.
Nobody
. They'd somehow managed to keep Remi's illness a secret or, at least, she thought they did. La-La took Nakeeda's tease to heart.
“Shut up, Nakeeda!” she spewed her anger for the first time, then caught herself. She didn't have time to play into Nakeeda's stupidity; she had to get to Remi. Hoisting her bag over her shoulder again, she turned her back to Nakeeda and her crew, and walked toward the hospital. A couple more large rocks flew past her, but she kept going. She had to. Remi's problem was bigger than Nakeeda.
 
The cab pulled up to their project building, and Remi sprung from it as if she hadn't just had one poison funneled into her veins to kill another. La-La watched her in awe, and was mad at their mother for not making the appointment. Again. But, as usual, Boom-Kesha was pregnant, and now couldn't be around “sick” people as she'd so unkindly put it.
“You sure you don't want me to walk you in, Remi? I have time, you know. Cyd's house isn't going anywhere,” La-La offered, still sitting in the cab.
Remi tightened the knot on her headscarf, the edges of her hair gone as if they'd never been there. “I'm good. I won't feel bad or weak for a while.
But
, if you must do something for me,” she said, patting the scarf, “you can trade me your hair,” she teased. “That'd be hot, La-La. We could be twins! Tell Cyd I said what-it-is, and go let her hook you up with a look for your upcoming date,” she said, laughing.
La-La asked the cabbie to wait, then stepped out. Quickly, she gave Remi a hug, then hustled back before the driver lost his patience. “Deal! Deal! And Deal!” she yelled out, then smiled as the taxi pulled off. She could still hear her sister's laughter.
 
She was ready for her date. Well, mentally ready, but not physically. “Okay,” she said, holding up her hands. “I'm your guinea pig. Work your magic.” She looked around. Clothes were strewn all over the place. CDs were in semi-neat stacks on the dresser. Shoes were lined up against the wall according to color and style. La-La took in the posters on the wall, topped by various hats hung over them, and admired every sexy singer and rapper imaginable. Every time she entered Cyd's room, she saw something new. “Cyd, you have your own mini mall in here,” she said, plopping down in a fuzzy orange chair, then realizing Cyd was still digging around in the closet.
“Got it!” Cyd said, emerging from the closet with blue, red, yellow, and green fabrics draped over her arm.
La-La's eyes bulged. She was here to get help, not do worse than she could on her own. “Cyd, you don't mean that, right? I'm not going out with Ziggy looking like birthday-party balloons. What's up with all the colors?”
Cyd cradled the clothes in one arm, and put her free hand on her hip. She cocked her head to the side, then sucked her teeth. “Talk about ungrateful? Dag! The red is for you. It'll make you pop.” She held a finger to her lip in thought, walking over to La-La. She fingered her hair. “Especially if we tease this into a real retro, funky style.”
La-La's eyebrows shot up. Cyd was going to kill her.
Cyd gave her the side-eye. “
What?
”
“Can't I just wear one of your hats, or can you wrap it, you know ... in one of those African-like head wraps?”
Cyd walked over and dumped the armload of clothes onto the bed. She pivoted as if she were modeling, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She held it, obviously trying to hold in her frustration. “What. Is. The. Problem. La-La?” she sputtered, exhaling.
“Well, I was thinking ... I think I want to cut my hair.”
Cyd pushed La-La's head back. “Shuddup! You're not cutting your hair. Besides, your boy Ziggy seems to love it.”
La-La pressed her lips together as she weighed the decision. Yes, Ziggy did love her hair, was always complimenting her on it, and it was all she physically had to get his attention. “Maybe later?”
“Maybe you can just let me work my magic, and get you right. After I'm done with you, Ziggy'll forget he ever wanted anyone else.”
10
REESE
U
nnoticed, Reese slipped out of the apartment as easily as she'd walked in minutes before. She knew she was pushing it, but was at ease knowing her mother was dead to the world, almost comatose thanks to a long day at work and a training session at the gym, and seven-year-old Dakota was snoring and babbling his dreams aloud, so Reese didn't have to babysit him, she reasoned. But even if her mom and nephew were up, Reese wouldn't have cared. Not after Blaze had called, romanced her with an apology, promised to stop his stupid activity and work on hot tracks with her. He'd begged her to come out to play, and lured her with a hypnotic beat over the line. The thick bass and his smooth tone had erased every second of anger she'd ever felt, every single instance of her questioning staying with him. His admission of guilt for standing her up was so sweet it'd made her shrug out of her comfy pj's and into a summer getup, grab her purse, and make a quiet exit. She wanted to look good for him, especially after he'd upped the lure with a dangle of a hot surprise. The bad-boy swagger that she was so attracted to pulled her into the Harlem night, where she waited for him by the train station around the corner from her co-op.
Leaned against a building, Reese wrapped her arms around her body to kill the late-night chill. A skinny, micro-mini low-rider skirt and slices of fabric crisscrossing her breasts were no match for the cool wind. But she smiled anyway.
A glance at her watch told her he was five minutes late, and she began to worry. He'd stood her up twice, and hadn't really apologized until tonight.
A black Mercedes with midnight-tinted windows screeched to a stop and idled in front of where she stood. Then the engine roared. Purred. Growled. Then finally hummed again. No one exited the car. Reese studied her surroundings, and fear crept in. She was in the city that was never supposed to sleep, yet there wasn't a soul around. It was just her and that car. And the eerie click-click sound it was now making. Someone on the inside of it was playing with the locks.
Reese about-faced, fighting against the wind as her footfalls quickly carried her toward the corner. She may have been born into an overprotective household, but she was no fool. She knew if caught alone at night by the wrong person, the city streets would eat her alive.
In seconds, the Mercedes drove up beside her. And Reese panicked. Started kicking up dust as she ran as fast as she could.
“Hey!” a male voice yelled out to her from the open car window as it kept pace with her.
But the wind whirred in her ears, and Reese couldn't tell to whom the voice belonged.
“Yo! Where ya running to? Told you I had a surprise!” The car pulled over and parked.
Reese stopped and stared at a smiling Blaze. “Who let you drive their car, B?” she asked, shedding her fear, and sauntering toward the driver's side.
“
I
let me. This is my whip. Like it?”
Reese smiled, forgetting he'd just scared the wits out of her, and ignoring how she knew he'd paid for the car. “Yeah. It's hot. Can I drive it?” She bit her bottom lip.
“You can ride—I mean, ride in it.”
She was under a bridge by the Harlem River before she knew it. Her back was pressed against the car door as Blaze stood in front of her. “So you're serious about the music and everything?” asked Reese.
“Yep.” Without pause, Blaze reached into his pocket, retrieved a cigar. With the precision of a razor blade, his thumbnail sank into the brown paper, slicing it open. Dumping the tobacco on the ground, he removed the lining, filled it with his junk. Rolled it, licked it, twisted the ends. Blazed up. Winked. Blew smoke in Reese's face.
“Are you freakin' crazy or something, B? You just told me you'd stop.” She pushed him away, then got back into the car.
He mumbled under his breath, then followed suit. He walked around the car, and got in on the driver's side. In seconds, the engine purred, and the car pulled off. Blaze continued to smoke like he was alone; then he did it again. While turning the corner, he blew smoke in Reese's face.
Reese did something she knew was stupid. She grabbed the gear shift, threw the car in park even though it was still moving.
There was a screech and grind. Blaze jerked forward, his chest connecting with the steering wheel. The green he held hit the windshield and bits of fire rained down, turning to ash before they hit the dash. “What the f—?” He threw the car back into driving gear, saving his precious transmission on his dirty-money-purchased Mercedes. “You lost your f'n mind or something?” he yelled.
Reese shook her head. She'd never heard of a drug dealer who refused to curse. Blaze was fake. Window dressing that looked good from the outside, perpetrating to be the real thing. “Have
I
lost my mind? Right. You're the one who says one thing then does another ... and believes both—which is crazy, remember? That ain't cool, B. And neither is this dirty-money car. It's a ride that's gonna depreciate and hit bottom. If you want to invest, invest in you—our music, and education. Or are you too high to remember how?”
Blaze whipped the car to the curb and threw it in park. “Get out!”
“
What?
” Reese knew she'd heard wrong. No way was he going to put her out on the street like a stray dog. He must've forgotten who she was and the small fact that she was supposed to be important to him.
He picked up his clip and blazed up again. Choking, he caught his breath and said: “Look Reese. You're too good for me—you want things I just don't find too important. Yes, I'm smart, but I'm not interested in college ... or music like that, nothing's ever coming from it. Your passion is a hobby, Reese.”
Reese went slightly deaf after the not-interested statement. She didn't need to hear more. She sat erect, and held up her hand in a stop sign. “You know what, you're right. Let me out. Here.”
He cursed. It was a small one, but still one. “No. I'm going to take you back where I—”
“Here! Let me out here,” she demanded, throwing the moving car in park again.
“Okay, just let me get you to a well-lit area. That's all I ask. I may not always think right, but give me some credit,” he said, and she listened because the street was too dark.
The few blocks seemed like a small eternity, though they were only a mile or two from a suitable place. Distance crawled by, people seemed to be tipping on their toes, and the few trees planted in the middle of the walk didn't bend in the wind. Everything moved slowly because she wanted to be out of the car and away from Blaze. He'd sounded one-track-minded just like her father, only thinking about work and money. He didn't take her talent seriously, yet she'd done everything to prove that she was serious. Well, almost everything. She snuck out every chance she could to practice because other than playing around on GarageBand on her laptop, that was the only way she could get some serious work in. She'd studied the greatest producers such as TR from Ultramagnetic MCs, Primo, and The Roots, some who sampled and the others who didn't. She'd done everything she could except brand the words
I Produce
on her forehead, and she was seriously considering doing just that just to put her dad's shorts in a twist and show her mom that she wasn't the reincarnation of her mom's childhood. And Blaze had the nerve to call her music a hobby? Heck,
he
was the hobby—a phase, fad, so last year.
“Credit given,” she said, stepping from the car and onto the curb. Her phone vibrated before she could slam the passenger door. A text was coming through. She pressed the button under the READ highlighted on the cell screen; then her mouth went dry.
Where r u? Dakota woke up your mom!!! A text from Wheezy.
“Hey ... Reese, right?” the Jamaican boy from the vending table on One-two-five asked. The same guy with the hard bass beats that she needed and could no longer get from Blaze.
Reese looked at the text, then back to the guy.
What to do? What to do?
she mentally asked herself. She was already going to be on punishment; should she make it worth it? A couple of hours more wouldn't hurt.

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