Uptown Dreams (15 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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26
REESE
ME: MEETING MESSIAH @ STUDIO. TOLD ME TO BRING STRINGS.
 
BROKE-UP: CAN'T MAKE IT.TAKE BEATS & KILL 'EM. U GOT THIS.
With a violin tucked under her arm, Reese stood with a crowd in front of the subway doors waiting for the train to stop. She looked at her watch. 6:45. Messiah had told her he was leaving around six o'clock, give or take a few. Closing her eyes, she prayed he was still there, that he wasn't angry or thinking she wasn't serious. She would've called the studio, but didn't know the name of it. All she had were the cross streets.
The doors opened with a ding, interrupting her worry. She pushed past the couple of riders who were exiting too slowly. She rounded the doorway, then hauled her behind down the platform and up the stairs. Out of breath, she bent forward a little, collected herself while rereading the cross streets.
“Right,” she directed her feet to pound the pavement. The studio was to the right, up four blocks, then over two more to the left. “Excuse me. Excuse me.” Reese zipped through the crowded Manhattan sidewalk, accidentally bumping a pedestrian or two. “Sorry,” she yelled behind her, sure she'd made someone connect with the ground. Her violin case bumped her leg as she made haste, turning the corner, closer than ever to her destination.
There it was. Reese stopped, looked up, saw it was on the second floor. She was tired from the long seven-block run, but not too worn out to go after her dream. Collecting her cool, she straightened up, entered the building. Her eyes searched for the stair doors after she'd pressed the elevator button, and waited two seconds too long. The climb, tackled by exhausted legs, was tedious.
“Can I help you?” a receptionist asked.
“I'm supposed to be meeting Messiah here,” Reese said, smiling.
The receptionist returned the smile. “One sec.” She picked up the phone, dialed, and spoke to someone. “I'm sorry, but he's gone. I thought he'd just walked out, but I wanted to be sure.”
“Just as in
just
, just? Like seconds or minutes ago?”
“Seconds.”
Reese slapped the counter. “Thanks!”
“Try the bodega on the corner. He goes there a lot for the heros,” the lady shouted from behind.
Reese grimaced as her feet pounded against the cement staircase as she descended the stairs. She shot through the door, paused outside in front of the building, looked to her right, then her left in search of the bodega. There it was, sitting on the corner.
“Excuse me!” Reese repeated her same apologies as she made her way through the crowd until she reached the bodega. She snatched open the door, scanning the store with her eyes. There was no Messiah in sight. She felt like melting into one big tear and puddling the floor. But then someone caught her attention. A man walking out the bodega's other door she hadn't known existed, but she couldn't see his face. It had to be him though. “You, there! Messiah? Wait up. Is that you Messiah?” she ran toward the other door.
He turned with a smile and, as the receptionist told her, a hero. He held up the bag the sandwich was housed in. “Fuel. Did you eat yet?”
Reese shook her head.
Eat?
She'd been too excited to do anything after he'd called and told her he needed live strings for a huge R & B star. That's what he'd said, but he never mentioned a name. “I'm okay. It's not good to play on a full stomach. It gets me tired.”
“Cool,” he said. “Follow me. And whatever you do, Reese, act professional. I'm not implying you won't, I'm just asking you not to become a groupie. These artists are no different than us. And this one's huge. Her name alone will garner you more work.”
Reese nodded, taking mental notes. She wondered who was waiting in the studio, who would be grooving to her strings. It didn't take long for her to be able to answer the questions plaguing her mind. As soon as they entered the sound room, Reese almost passed out from excitement. Before her stood the woman she'd listened to for years, the woman who sat next to the man the rap industry hailed as king.
“Hello,” the beautiful lady with the blond lace-front weave said. “I hear you're going to play the strings?”
And Reese did play her strings. She worked her violin until the strings popped, but she didn't care. She'd come with plenty, and had used just as many by the time the session ended.
The pretty lady who'd sung for the president, had her own clothing line, was on commercials, and was recognized by her first initial walked over to Reese, nodding and smiling. “I like your drive. Do you have anything else? My album's not finished.”
Reese, not wanting to step on Messiah's toes, looked over to him for approval.
He gave her a hard head nod and thumbs-up.
Smiling, Reese reached into her book bag, took out a CD of the music she and Broke-Up made, and handed it over. “Here's just a sample, and, of course, I can do live accompaniment.”
27
ZIGGY
B
roke-Up told their father. Ziggy's life was over, he was homeless, and without family. He was sure. As much as he'd loved his brother, today was different. He felt like he'd been employing the enemy and helping his dreams, while he was a killer of Ziggy's. He walked down the street, blending into the Harlem night. He'd been holing himself up at Rikki's, but he couldn't stay there anymore. They could only hide him for so long before her mother caught on. Sticking his hands in his pockets, Ziggy kicked an empty beer bottle, and watched as it skipped across the concrete and, finally, landed in the gutter. He knew exactly what that bottle felt like. Used. Unappreciated. Discarded.
Whatever
.
The wind blew a slight breeze past his shoulders, and made him shiver. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets as if searching for the answer in his jeans. What he needed to do was easy to figure out. It was the how that was killing him. How was he supposed to pay for school, an apartment or room, and a vending license? He was only a freshman, too young to get a full-time on-the-books job. He looked at his watch. The only chance he had to secure himself and money situation was the upcoming video audition. He had managed to practice with whatever-her-name-is a couple of times, and he was sure one of them would be picked, if not both.
The concrete sounded hollow under his feet as he climbed the stoop. He was prepared for the worst, had even played the possible argument between him and his father in his head. Still though, he wasn't looking forward to it. Reaching for the door, he jumped back. Broke-Up had beat him to it, pushing open the screen door.
“Walk with me, Star,” Broke-Up said, walking out of the brownstone.
Ziggy scowled at his brother. “Say word. Now you want to talk. You was all fists and gay this, gay that before. Why you want to talk to me now? I'm twinkle toes, remember?”
Broke-Up patted Ziggy on the back, sucking his teeth.
Ziggy flinched, ready to fight.
“Stoppit, Z. I don't want to fight you.”
Ziggy pushed up on his brother, bucking his chest against Broke-Up's. “Yeah? So what if I do? You do know you disrespected me, shamed the family ...” Ziggy spit. “I'm sorry, I'm the one who shamed the family. Right? That's the sentence?”
Broke-Up grabbed Ziggy by his shoulders, and pushed him back arm's length. Both of them almost fell on the steps. “Yo, Star. Shuddup. You want Pops to hear you? He already beefing about you not coming home for days, you want him to know you dance too?”
A new energy floated through Ziggy. “
Word?
” Broke-Up hadn't told. He couldn't believe it. He was sure that would've been the first thing he'd do. Snitch.
They posted up by the telephone pole on the corner. Ziggy leaned against it, digging his hands in his pockets. Broke-Up stood banging his fist in his palm with each point he made. From a distance one wouldn't be able to tell one brother from the other, they resembled each other that much. But their outer appearance wasn't the only common trait they shared.
“So, what'chu think?” Broke-Up said, hanging his head.
Ziggy just looked at his brother. He couldn't be sure he'd heard what his ears were trying to convince him he had.
“Did you hear me, Z? So can you hook me up? I want to produce more than anything, and I believe I can make it happen on my own. But if you get me in your school, I
know
I can make it happen,” he said, crossing his arms. “And it'll help me start these classes I've been thinking about. I want to help these little knuckleheads around here. Maybe if they learn something they won't be headed to jail before they hit high school.”
Ziggy dug his index fingers in both his ears and shook them. Either something was lodged in his canals or he was hallucinating. Broke-Up wanted to go to his school and help children? “Wow.”
“Z!”
Snapping back to reality, he nodded. “So if I get you in, you won't tell and you're going to help kids?”
Broke-Up nodded. “And if you don't pawn your ring.”
 
His hands were on her waist, lifting her and flinging her like he was throwing her across the room. With a long reach, Ziggy snatched her back, folded her in a backwards U, then stepped over her, picking her up until her feet came just over his shoulders. Her hands were wrapped on his ankles while he C walked across the dance floor. He looked in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, almost shook his head at them. They were freaking it. They looked like they were. He felt like they were. With one look over at the judges with raised eyebrows, and awe on their faces, he knew, without a doubt, they definitely were.
The track ended just as Ziggy flipped her around like a watch's second hand, and brought her face to his. Their synchronization was incredible, and timing perfect.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him as the judges signaled their turn was up.
“Don't thank me until we win.”
She looked over at the judges, pointed her finger. “I don't know how good your vision is, but I can spot that big red
yes
they wrote by our names. So, as I said, thank you. Make sure you spend your loot wisely.”
28
JAMAICA-KINCAID
J
amaica leaned against the dirty bathroom wall, looking at her watch. Time was running out, and she couldn't have been more pleased. She'd been cooped up in the ladies' restroom for more than an hour, waiting to make her exit. Her wheeled suitcase was next to her with a laptop bag on top, and she had a book bag on her back with her old school name embroidered on it. She looked at herself in the dirty mirror, walked over to the sink, and turned on the faucet. Sticking her hands under the cold stream, she wet her hands, then patted her face. Today was going to be the best acting role in her life. It had to be for her to stay in New York. Her parents would be there to pick her up any minute, and she had to look like she'd just gotten off the train. One more look at her wrist, and she exhaled. It was showtime.
Pushing through the throng of people, she pulled her luggage behind her, then painted on an I'm-tired-from-the-train-but-I'm-happy-to-see-you look. She moved through the crowd and lines of people waiting for the doors to open so they could board their respective trains, then turned right. Headed toward the thirty-fourth Street exit, but she didn't make it.
“Jamaica-Kincaid, dah-ling,” her mother's voice was clean and crisp, cutting through the muttering of the crowd.
Jamaica turned, waving. Picking up speed, she fell into a slight run, wheeling her bag behind her. “Mother! Father!”
It was a Hallmark moment. Her mother ran, meeting her halfway, and wrapped her in her arms. She planted thousands of little kisses all over Jamaica's face, then handed her off to her dad. He picked her up, and spun her around. They were a sight seldom before seen, and the train station patrons watched them as if they were aliens at a skate rink.
“Is this all you have?” Mother asked, looking at Jamaica's suitcase as if it had the flu and was contagious. “I'll replace that ASAP.”
Her father waved away her mother's excuse for shopping. “Come, sweetheart, let's go eat and get reacquainted.
Jamaica laughed. How she was supposed to get reacquainted with the two who knew her better than any other people in the world, she could never figure out, but he always said it. To make him happy, she never questioned him. He was, after all, her father: her protector and bank account.
The limo was as severe as she'd imagined. It was a stretch on steroids, and Jamaica wondered if her parents had ever been in a regular car. Did they even drive? She'd never seen either of them behind the wheel, and she found it a bit disturbing. The whole I'm-super-rich thing made her uncomfortable, and she didn't know why. They'd never really acted better than anyone. Okay, just once or twice. But they were nice people, a little extra, but happy and welcoming.
“I thought we'd do lunch, then head over to somewhere special. We have a surprise for you I'm sure you'll enjoy.”
She perked up now. “Really? What kind?”
Her mother reached over and patted her leg. The perfect smile spread across her perfectly made-up face, revealing her perfect veneers. “Dah-ling it wouldn't be a surprise if we told you.”
Jamaica nodded, and felt “acting” taking its toll on her. Her lids were heavy, and she needed a power nap. If only for ten minutes. “Can you wake me when we get there? I'm a bit tired from the train. You know I can never rest around that many people,” she fattened her lie.
Father smiled, then nodded. “Sure. Get your rest. With this traffic, we've plenty of time.”
The ride, though taken in a plush limo, was a bumpy one, and each rock of the car lulled Jamaica into a deeper sleep. Faintly, she could overhear her parents whisper loudly. Horns blew, the limo jerked to a stop, then took off again after a couple of minutes.
Traffic light,
thought Jamaica. Smells of different types of foods made their way into the car, turning her stomach. She was hungrier than she'd thought, and was just about to open her eyes and ask when they'd arrive at the restaurant, but her mother stopped her.
“Brad, honey? Are you sure she told you Jamaica's acting and living here?”
Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no.
So her sister was right—her parents were on to her, and pretending they didn't know a thing. Obviously, she wasn't the only actor in the limo. Smarter than they'd probably given her credit for, Jamaica kept her eyes closed until she felt the limo come to another complete stop. Her adrenaline raced, and her eyes shot open. Quickly, she grabbed her book bag from next to her, then jumped out of the car.
“Jamaica-Kincaid, where are you going?” her mother's voice called to her back.
“Jamaica!” her father's voice said, then faded as she snaked her way through the crowded sidewalk, headed toward whatever train or taxi she could get to first. There was no way she was going to let them take her back to Connecticut. She hadn't come this far, worked this hard, grown up so much that she was going to hand it all over without a fight. But they'd have to find and catch her first.

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