Uptown Dreams (16 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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29
LA-LA
T
he ritzy hotel's pool area was lively and welcoming, quite the opposite of how she'd imagined the backyard cookout pool party that she'd missed due to her haircut. La-La smiled. The slight breeze from the ventilation system blew on the back of her neck, giving her goose bumps. She looked to her right, then thought better. Ziggy was the one who gave her the chills. It was nice to walk in with him by her side, and even better to be his official date. It seemed all eyes were on them, and it didn't bother her one iota. She was impressed that he'd even taken her at all. After all, he was the guy to be with, the one plenty of girls wanted. But he was with her, she kept reminding herself. They'd kissed, gotten their hair shaved together, and he'd shown up at all of her performances. He was, without a doubt, her boyfriend.
His hand was on her back, ushering her toward a lounger. “You want something to drink?”
La-La nodded, then began disrobing. Her shoes were first, then her jeans. She noticed he'd offered to go get drinks, but was still standing next to her. His eyes watched her carefully, and weren't apologetic. Suddenly, she was nervous. Yes, she had her “bathing suit” on, but, still, she felt awkward. It didn't matter how much padding or lift the bra serving as a bikini top added, she was light in the chest, and she didn't want him to see. “You're just going to stand there?”
Ziggy smiled and nodded. “I'm going to see anyway. You act like you're naked underneath.” He laughed. “Okay. Okay. I'll go get you a soda.”
When his back was turned, she freed herself of the shirt, then heard laughter. She looked in the direction he was supposed to be walking in, and tsked. He'd stopped feet from her, but his eyes were on her.
“Nice,” he complimented.
La-La waved him away, then sat on the lounger. Before she could stretch her feet in front of her, the devil and her crony made an appearance. Nakeeda and Hammerhead-Helen. Nakeeda swung a black plastic bag back and forth, eyeing La-La.
“So ... you're here with Z.” It wasn't a question.
La-La just looked at her. No, there was no such thing as a stupid question, but there was certainly such thing as an unnecessary statement. But she shouldn't have been surprised. Almost everything about Nakeeda was uncalled for. Like that chipped tooth she refused to get fixed, and her inflamed gums that snitched on her bad hygiene. Her poor choice of going braless in the yellow sundress was also bad. As was her choice of a hangout partner.
“Yeah,” Hammerhead-Helen added with authority, like she was saying something no one had before heard.
La-La just looked at both of them. She hadn't the time or the energy, and she didn't have the nerve to stand up for herself like she wished she did. She didn't know what it was about Nakeeda that made her bones freeze, but she didn't have the boldness Cyd would've had. “Please, just go away.”
Nakeeda did the unthinkable. She laced her arm through Hammerhead-Helen's, and did just that. Walked away, swinging the black plastic bag.
La-La closed her eyes, and relaxed a little. Remi had her last dose of chemo coming up, and she felt better. Radiation was supposed to be worse, according to the few people in the hospital who would talk around a teenager, but she had all the confidence in the world that her sister would get better. They were halfway home.
“Ooh, shuckey duckey now!” Rikki's voice made her open her eyes.
“Alrighty, Ms. Mighty,” Cyd added.
La-La sat up, glad to see her two friends. She'd called them earlier to make sure they were coming, and they hadn't let her down.
Cyd pointed behind. “Did you see the devil and the big-headed girl? Yeesh, that girl's head is huge. I'm talking should-be-studied-by-science large.”
La-La nodded. “Unfortunately.”
Rikki sat next to La-La, making room for herself on the one-person lounger. “So you gonna sing today, hunh?”
“Yes, of course I am. Ziggy's come up with a plan so we can raise money for the school. And a little more exposure never hurt.” She reached into her tote, then handed them each a flyer Ziggy had had printed. Her picture was on the front of it, along with
SAVE HARLEM ACADEMY OF THE CREATIVE AND PERFORMING ARTS
.
“This is dope,” Rikki said. “Right, Cyd?”
Cyd didn't answer. Her head was turned, and her jaw was to the floor.
“Cyd?” said Rikki.
No answer. Cyd just pointed her finger.
Rikki craned her neck in the direction Cyd's index was pointed, then closed her eyes, and covered her face with her hands.
La-La stood. She knew her best friend, and it took a whole heck of a lot to make Cyd quiet. She got up and walked over next to Cyd, then moved her eyes in the direction Cyd pointed. “Un-unh.”
Her feet carried her in a hurry toward the juice bar, but she couldn't get her there fast enough. The wet tile stuck to her feet, then released making a sucking noise. She told herself that she was seeing things, that her vision was blurry and deceiving, but she knew it was a lie. Ziggy stood there, clear as day, holding the black plastic bag Nakeeda had been swinging. Nakeeda was pressed against him, her mouth on his. They were kissing.
In less than three steps, La-La knew she'd reach them. She didn't know what she'd do when they were face-to-face, but they'd all find out. Suddenly, Ziggy was pulling away from Nakeeda, then almost pushing her down.
“What the—? Nakeeda, what you do that for?
Ill!
I didn't ask you to buy me dance shoes.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, turned his head, and locked eyes with La-La.
Then her name came over the speakers. Despite a broken heart, disappointment, embarrassment, and wanting to take a stand, the show had to go on. She had to sing. And she vowed to blow the heck out of the song as a way to tell both Ziggy and Nakeeda they could kiss her flat behind since her mouth couldn't form the words.
30
REESE
S
he was convinced her mother was selfish and insane, and she was adopted. There was no way that her mom had ever truly been in love with music, or she would've appreciated different kinds of it. If she had, she must've lost her passion, and was now scorned because she hadn't made it. Jilted.
Those who don't do, teach.
Someone must've crushed her mother's dreams badly, and she must've vowed to take her grief out on her daughter. Yes, Mrs. Allen would make sure that she had company in the land of the miserable. Because of her mother's heartlessness, Reese would die of shame and want. Her mom had already embarrassed her in front of Broke-Up, and showed no signs of budging or compromising.
That lady
, Mrs. Allen, director of Harlem Academy, the one who kept insisting that she birthed Reese and pretended to be her mother, wouldn't leave her alone. She was banging on her door, trying to kill her dream, and her knocking was as persistent as a gravedigger digging a plot. As much as she'd tried to convince her, Reese knew she wasn't her mother. She couldn't possibly have been. If she were, she'd have understood her, or at least tried to. She would've accepted that Reese could prepare for Julliard and produce at the same time.
“Here,” her mother yelled, jiggling her doorknob, unable to turn it. “Ree-eese Al-len! Un ... lock ... this ... door ... now!” She was demanding, spitting out each syllable of Reese's name as if it were a complex word. They'd gone through it the whole afternoon—the past week or more, really—and not once had she been able to get Reese to open her door after she'd locked it. One would think that her mother would have caught on, but she didn't. And adults had the nerve to think teens were stupid?
ME: NOT GOING 2OPEN DOOR & SHE KNOWS IT
 
BROKE-UP: TALK 2 HER. CONVINCE HER
 
ME: CAN'T. THAT'S WHY I'M IN HERE. TAKING A STAND. NEVER CHALLENGED HER B4
Mrs. Allen yelled through the door: “Fine. Have it your way, and I'll have mine.” She slid a yellowed piece of paper under Reese's door.
Her birth certificate.
Reese got up, and picked it up. She looked at it, and felt sick.
Yuck
. Mrs. Allen was, without a doubt, her mother. Reese groaned loud enough for her mother to hear, knowing that it'd ruffle her feathers more. As a director and teacher, Mrs. Allen always hated verbal sounds that weren't words.
“I told you I'm your mother and, right now, I almost regret it as much as you do. Now unlock this door.”
“Can't. It's stuck,” Reese lied.
“And you'll be stuck when your father comes home, and I tell him you've been producing!”
“I'm home now,” her father's voice sounded off from the other side. “I told you I was getting in three hours ago, and I was waiting for you to pick me up. And she'll be stuck why?”
Reese jumped up and unlocked the door. She had to. Her father's voice was different. Angry. And as much as she didn't want to depend on him, she knew he was an option. He was in the music business so he had to understand.
“What's going on, Reese?” he asked, leaning against the wall. He looked tired.
Mrs. Allen cut in. “She's been sneaking and producing that ... that ... garbage.”
She couldn't believe her eyes, but her father actually looked impressed. He raised his brows. “Really? You know, I started out producing. I was never any good, but I tried while I was interning.”
“‘Really?' That's
all
you have to say?” Her mother was fuming. “Do you know how much I've invested in her, and now she wants to throw it away. I've made contacts at Julliard, schmoozed with people on the board. I've done everything.”
“But listen to my music. All I asked is for you to listen, to give me a chance to produce and study so I can try to get in Julliard one day—for you. I don't want Julliard, Mom. You do.”
Reese didn't know if He was trying to wage war or not, but He looked at them both, then set down his bag, and walked toward Reese. “Mind letting me take a listen? I'd like to hear.”
She smiled, glad that He wanted to listen to her music. She wondered how far she could take it. “If you like, there's a contest going on tonight. Me and my partner are supposed to compete. It's sorta like a DJ contest, but it's for young producers.”
He nodded, then transformed back into her dad. “Yes, that'll be great.” He nodded. “Just great. If I don't know anything else, I know music. Remember, the job you always get upset with me for?”
She'd never really considered that. He was also in love with music. Maybe they had more in common than she'd believed.
31
ZIGGY
S
andman sang “Gonna Have a Funky Good Time,” at the top of his lungs. Snapping his fingers, he danced on the corner. He shuffled his feet back and forth, did the older version of the two-step. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “And get high ... er!”
Ziggy watched him as he approached, nodding his head to the old James Brown tune Sandman was singing. He'd come carrying the five hundred dollars for the vending license, and he couldn't be happier. He felt like embarrassing himself, and getting down on the corner with the older dude. “Sandman! What it do?”
Sandman turned, still singing. He waved his hand, then started doing the wop, electric slide, and whatever else he could fit in during the short tune that he'd extended and remixed with his words. “Z! What you got, baby boy? What'chu know about this here? Hunh, youngin'?”
Ziggy dug in his pocket, and pulled out five hundred-dollar bills. “I got this, Sandman. Your money.”
Sandman switched tunes, singing something that sounded like a cross between Al Green and Teddy Pendergrass. He popped his fly-guy seventies collar, then straightened the sleeves on his suit. “That's what I'm talkin' 'bout, youngin'. It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that money ring. Brrrinnng,” he made the sound of a telephone ring, laughing and showing his gums. He took the money, held it in his palm, and closed his eyes. Chanting, then mumbling, he opened his lids. “Had to pray over it, make sure it ain't bad.” He slapped his thigh, then broke out in laughter. Finally, he reached inside his suit coat, pulled out a huge eight by eleven envelope, and dug through it until he came across Ziggy's stuff.
Ziggy looked at him cross-eyed, wondering where he'd kept that large mustard envelope. They didn't make jacket pockets that big. He shrugged. Knowing Sandman, he'd made it happen. You couldn't put anything past him.
“Thanks. So we good?” he asked, taking his documents.
Sandman nodded, turned his back as if he hadn't just had an exchange with Ziggy, then began singing and dancing again. “Good with what, youngin'? I don't know what'chu talking about.”
 
His palms were sweating, and anxiousness flowed through his veins. Ziggy shifted back and forth, from side to side. It was good energy, that's what he told himself. He always had this pep talk with himself before a competition. On the surface, he was all calm and smooth. Inside, he had butterflies like a teenage girl in love. But it was cool. “Whatever works.”
“You ready, Z?” asked Rikki, standing beside him in a
ZIGGY FOR PRESIDENT
shirt that she'd obviously made herself. The crooked letters, slanted upward, were a dead giveaway. But it was the thought that counted.
He just looked at her.
“Right. Right. No talking until after the comp. I remember.” She pointed. “Here comes La-La ... and Nakeeda's right behind her. I guess we only need your dance buddy, and all your girls will be here.”
He walked to the side so he could warm up. Stretching, locking, he got lost in the world in his head. This just wasn't any competition, it was
the
competition. He may've had his vending license and table, but that didn't guarantee the money he needed for school. Second semester was near, and he was short on the cash for it. In fact, he was behind for this month's tuition.
“You got this, Star.”
Ziggy turned and smiled. He couldn't believe Broke-Up had shown. It was surprising enough that during the conversation on the corner, he'd asked if he could mix Ziggy's music, but Ziggy would've never dreamed his brother would come out to support him. He didn't think he was comfortable enough with the boy-from-the-family-dancing thing. “Thanks, Broke-Up,” he began. Then his named was announced. “Showtime.”
Ziggy flowed like water moving downhill. His moves were fluid; then he switched up, surprised everyone, including himself. He'd infused crunk dancing with be-bop swing, then transitioned to hip-hop ballet as if it were really a form.
No stopping me now. I got this.
“Harder,” he whispered, pushing himself through a difficult move. “He can't beat you. No one can.”
The sound of applause roaring in his ears when he'd finished his number told him he was right. Mrs. Allen walking up to him with the slightest smile on her face said everything he needed to hear. He'd won.
“Because I love this school so much, I'm going to donate some of my vending profits in the future,” he said to her.
She smiled. “You don't have to do that, Ziggy. We appreciate it though.”
The judges stood, and Ziggy straightened his shoulders waiting for his name to be announced in the top spot. He nodded as someone took third place. Smiled when a girl got second. Held his breath and waited for his name to be called for first. Then froze.
“We have a tie for first place between Kismet and Z. We'll need to—”
“Dance off!” Ziggy yelled, demanding. He wasn't just going to stand there and let his fate rest in the hands of the judges. He refused to win like that. If he was going to take first, he wanted to really take it.
The judges hovered and deliberated again, clearly concentrating as they ignored the chants of “Dance off! Dance off!” from the crowd. Seconds seemed like hours; then the head judge stood and turned to face the teenagers.
“There's been a mistake. A miscount. Z is the runner-up, Kismet is the winner,” he said, but Ziggy heard something different.
“A miscount. Z won't be a student at Harlem CAPA because he now can't afford tuition. He not only lost out on the prize money, he blew any chance for a dance scholarship. Losers don't get scholarships,
echoed in his head.

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