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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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REESE ALLEN
“I'm a musician second, and a producer first. ”
 
 
 
 
 
5
A.M.
Five ay-em. Five o'clock in the morning! Is she serious?
I peeled open my eyelids and looked at the beaming red numbers, then closed them again. It was way too early for anything, especially getting up.
“C'mon, Reese!”
Clap. Clap.
“It's time to practice!”
Clap. Clap.
Ohmygod. Ohmygod. She was serious and in Mrs. Allen form like
whoa
. What was up with her waking me before sunrise and Sandman the wino's bedtime? I would've done anything to go back in time if high school was going to mean this.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
“Perfect practice makes perfect. Up-up-up!”
Oh, no. Not the triple claps. I knew what that meant. First slapping her hands together as loudly as possible, and now her hand was on my shoulder, shimmying me from side to side as if shaking me was gonna make me want to get up. I crossed my eyes, and cursed in my head. Was she certifiably crazy or just really enthused? I'd
just
gone to bed at midnight. Had just hit the pillow five stinking hours ago because she'd insisted that I practice cello, piano, violin, and the sax until
she
was satisfied. But I wasn't surprised, it was always about her. My life was hers.
I don't know how I got past her and her incessant clapping, but, somehow I managed to whir by her in a flash, but not before noticing she had a nametag pinned to her lapel.
Mrs. Allen, Director
. There was no way I was going to pull up to Harlem Academy with her. It was bad enough I had to attend the school she directed instead of the one I wanted to go to—Bronx Science, which was hard to get into, and where you needed to be borderline genius to be a student. I also didn't need anyone to know I was her daughter.
Before the shower's spray rained on the bathtub floor, I'd worked a shower cap around my bobby-pinned wrapped hair, sloshed a mask on my face, and stuck waterproof headphones in my ears. I'd played classical music last night; my mother's favorite. This morning, my choice: the tracks I'd been sneaking and working on behind her back—hip-hop and hardcore rap. The beats bumped in my ears loud enough to rattle my eardrums and allow the bass to vibrate my skeletal system. If Mommy Dearest could hear it, and knew I'd produced them with Blaze, my boyfriend she also knew nothing about, she'd topple to the floor. The music continued to take me away while I dressed.
“Reese, you've been in there almost an hour!” The boom of her fists shook the bathroom door, and I knew it was time to make an appearance.
With bobby pins removed, my hair flowed down to my elbows, cascading across my shoulders and hiding the small earbuds I'd stuck deep in the canals of my ears. I pulled out the piano bench in the living room, lifted the lid covering the ivory keys, sat down, and turned up my iPod all at once. Then I played. I straight grooved and allowed the piano to drown out the thump-thump-thump of the hip-hop that caressed my soul. Jay-Z, Drake, T.I., and Kanye all accompanied me as I stepped into the music like a pair of comfortable slippers. Beethoven had never flowed from my fingertips like this. I'd remixed his classical concerto with the hip-hop greats, and it was funky. Mozart was next, with a dash of Bach added for flavor and a touch of Pharrell for color.
“What's that, Reese? I've never heard The Greats like that before.” Her hands were on her hips, and her smart shoes were tapping.
Yeah. This is hip-hop, baby.
I cut my eyes at her. To my surprise, she was enjoying the flow. But only because she didn't know I'd mixed classical and hip-hop. If she'd known that, she would've had a straight fall-to-her-knees-and-wiggle-on-the-floor conniption fit. Immediately, I stopped playing, closed the lid on the ivories, and got up. “That's a piece I'm working on for Julliard,” I lied, and then snatched up my knapsack. “I'll meet you at the school.”
After I cop a new mixer to produce these beats
, I added in my head. I had a competition coming up, and I planned to win.
She wanted Julliard.
I wanted hip-hop.
May the best woman win.
ZIGGY PHILLIP
“I dance like no one's watching so everyone will.”
 
 
 
 
 
B
eep. Beep.
The cars blew by and their tires spit water from the pavement. On my left, I could see the street-cleaning truck barely moving as it washed the streets.
Beep. Beep.
“Hurry up, yo! Don't make me have to get out this car,” some disgruntled driver was yelling at the car in front of him.
Looking at the fight I was sure was about to jump off, I stepped into the street without looking. Someone laid on their horn, then shouted at me.
Dumb move
.
“Yo. Yo. You better watch where you going!” A cabbie's head was out the window, yelling at me in the middle of traffic on One-two-five, One-hundred-twenty-fifth Street—Harlem, N.Y.
I banged on the hood of the yellow cab, a sight rarely seen up here. “‘Yo,' back at you! Who you talking to like that? Man, this is a hundred-and-twenty-fifth street—Harlem—my playground. You better watch where you're going or take your butt back downtown where it's safe.” I crossed in front of the car and waited in the middle of the street for the other morning traffic to pass. Who crossed at the corner anyway? Not me or the dozens of other people straddling the dotted white lines dividing one flow of vehicles from the other.
“Youngin'!” Sandman, the official unofficial mayor of Harlem, called from a milk crate he'd climbed on to preach to the passersby like he'd did every morning.
I waved. I didn't have time for Sandman this morning, but I needed to see what he wore. It had to be something from the sixties or seventies. He didn't rock today's gear, or any teeth.
“Youngin', I say. Come here.” He was waving his hand, getting louder with each word. He stomped his dusty wing-tipped foot, and almost fell off of the crate.
I shook my head, laughing. I decided I'd go and give him some respect. He was the one who made stuff happen for me—for a price—like the vending license I'm too young to have.
“What's up, Sandman?” I asked, checking out his peach suit with purple pinstripes, and a blue flower in his lapel. Sure enough, his collar was long enough to reach his chest. No lie.
“Teaching. Preaching. And I tell you, youngin', don't let these streets eat you alive. In Harlem, only the strong survive. You better listen to what I say, I'm Sandman, the official unofficial mayor of Harlem. I don't play. These young girls walking these streets with strollers, snitching on themselves about the beat they danced to nine months ago with boys who aren't going
no
where. Watch 'em, youngin'. They'll steal your dreams ... and I'm not talking about the fast girls or the young daddies. I'm talking about the babies. There's poison in their formula.”
“Got'cha, Sandman. Thanks for the wisdom of the day.” I gripped my bag and walked away before he could give me any more of his version of knowledge. I made it to the other side of the street without a scratch or hiccup. I had to go to school, but I also had to check on my vending table to make sure merchandise was stocked, and my brother, Broke-Up, who had had more broken bones than anyone I'd ever known, had singles for change.
“What 'appened, Z? Don't tell me you ah skip sk-ewl dis marn-nin?” Broke-Up asked with a West Indian accent way thicker than mine. It was something he brought back with him from Jamaica every year after spending the summer there with our grandmother while I worked slanging knockoff designer bags and bootleg CDs. “Dis Sodom and Gomorrah!” he said, cutting his eyes at a guy wearing skinny jeans, a fitted Alvin Ailey T-shirt, and a pair of ballet slippers wrapped around his neck like jewelry. The dude was a dancer, a very good one I'd seen perform on many occasions. “You see that, Z?” Broke-Up asked, sucked his teeth, and then spat. “Dis world sick. Just sick. What kind of man walk around like dat? Him no girl. What he wear tights pants for, not for de women. Dat's why men should not dance.”
I almost agreed with his nonsense like usual so I wouldn't give myself away, but this girl caught my eye with her thickness. I could only see her from the back, but that was good enough. “English, Broke-Up. English. You're not on the island anymore.”
“Yeah. Yeah. A'ight. But just so you know, I'm going to be selling my music. Cool?” he asked, switching back to his New York accent without a problem.
“Yeah. Cool,” I answered him, my eyes still on the girl. “Psst, psst. Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked her from behind. “Maybe buy you breakfast, beautiful?”
The girl looked over her shoulder and my stomach dropped.
Dang
.
“Z, you're full of it. You already ‘talked' to me,” she bunny-eared her fingers and made air quotes. “Talked and talked and talked. Then you wouldn't call back.”
I turned my head like I didn't see her. I didn't have time for shorty. But her sister ... now
she
was a whole different story. She was Caribbean thick with Cooley hair, and the girl was smart. Now her—the sister—
she
could get it. Something serious. Any time of the day or night. I waved my hand in the air, telling the girl to push on. “So, Broke-Up, you got this, right? I'm not going to be able to pay attention in class if I have to worry about you and this table.”
Broke-Up yawned, then laughed. “G'won, Z! I got this. You think I don't know how to hold down the vending table, eh? Let me break it down for you, Star... .”
I raised my eyebrows. No, I didn't think he could manage, but I didn't have a choice. I had to go to school. Had to get my Savion Glover and Alvin Ailey and Fred Astaire on so I could eventually choreograph videos and concerts for top-billing stars. Broke-Up, on the other hand, didn't have nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no dream to achieve. He also had no idea I was a dancer. No one in my family or on my block knew, and I was going to keep it like that. I was all male, I wouldn't give them the chance to question my sexuality or massacre my bravado. That's what they'd do if they had any idea, because where I came from, unless you were winding with some girl, you didn't dance. Dancing was for batty boys, homosexual men. And I sure wasn't one. I loved females. All of them, girls and women. But thick ones ... yeah ... they were my weakness.
“... and Coach bags are over here. One for fifty, two for eighty. And on this other side, we have the music. Remixes. Rap. R and B. Reggae. Calypso. Dancehall,” he was still talking.
I pulled twenty-three singles out of my pocket, the only money to my name, and gave him eighteen. “You need singles to make change, Broke-Up. I'll catch you later.” I was across the street, and headed to the train before he could stop talking. I had to get to school early so I could get a position up front. Mrs. Allen was the director and she didn't take no mess. She was also the one with the connects. And I needed to be connected ASAP, so I had to show her I was serious. Plus, I needed to see the selection of females that Harlem Academy had to offer. I crossed my fingers and asked Jah to bless me with some thick ones. Wasn't nothing like thick girls, good food, and dancing. And I was hungry for all three.
JAMAICA-KINCAID ELLISON
“I can act my way into and out of anything. ”
 
 
 
 
 
I
sat in front of the tiny television with my eyes glued to the screen and my fingers crossed. Every day, the torment grew worse and upped my anxiety. How was I going to keep pulling this off? “By acting my way through it, of course,” I said to myself, then finally exhaled when the morning news went off. I was so wrapped up in thinking that today was the day my picture was going to float across the screen with
missing
or
runaway
under it, that I hadn't even realize I'd been holding my breath. “Okay. This is it. The day of all days. The day my life changes,” I pep-talked myself, and unfolded my body from its Indian-style cross-legged position on the floor.
My computer rang from the attached speakers, and my heart stopped. My hands started sweating and I could feel the flush rising to my hairline. I could do this. I knew this moment was coming, just as it had every first day of school for the last four years. Stepping over my pallet on the floor, I crossed the room to the makeshift table I'd assembled out of discarded milk crates that I'd borrowed from the store, then accepted the incoming call and sat in front of the screen. My mother's face blurred as it popped up on the screen. As usual, she was too close to the camera, and I knew without her speaking she'd be talking too loud. My parents were stuck in time, technophobes who could never get technology right. I smirked. If they weren't vegans, I'm sure they'd yell into drive-through speakers at fast-food restaurants.
“Good morning, Mother!” I greeted her, overly chipper. Being positive was a must-do in my family. There was no room for mediocrity of any kind, even if you felt that way.
“Good morning, Jamaica. Can you see me? Do you hear me?”
I could see the blur of her milky skin, and catch a glimpse of her always-perfect makeup and diamond earrings that were large enough to fund a small third-world country's hungry children for months, maybe years.
“Brad, honey. I don't think Jamaica can see me. I do believe it's time we have someone go to the school and set up audiovisual like on the set... .”
Hunh?!
Panic started to roll in immediately. I didn't need audiovisual or them sending their people to make my space look like the Oprah Winfrey set; the same set my television-star dad had replicated because anything Oprah did had to be the best. My Mac was just fine, and Skype was great. I didn't need anything for my dorm room because, though they had no idea, I wasn't tucked in it at the ritzy boarding school I'd been shuttled off to at eleven years old. I'd forged their signatures, all but emptied my bank accounts, paid my sister to keep quiet and rent me this nightmare of a studio apartment that I absolutely loved, then enrolled at Harlem Academy as soon as I'd been accepted.
“I can see you just fine, Mother. How's the beauty line coming?” I asked to throw her off topic and onto the one that was her favorite: her.
“The line is amazing. Did I tell you that we have stars wearing us now? We were mentioned at the Oscars. Great press ...” She finally quieted, and I knew there was a problem. “Jamaica, is that a ...
what
is that behind you? Your dorm room is hideous this year.” She put her hand on the camera, trying to cover it, but I could still see her turn to my dad. “Brad, I think we need to go there and speak to someone. Jamaica's roughing it.”
“Mother! Mother!” I shouted. “This is a temporary room that I'm studying in. The private study rooms are full,” I lied.
“How about a study trailer, Jamaica? You know with the right attitude, environment, and belief, there's nothing you can't accomplish with a bit of hard work.” My dad took his turn in front of the camera now. He wore his perpetual smile, and was in full motivational-guru mode.
“I'm fine, Dad. Really. I don't need a camera set, a study trailer, or anything. All I want is to go to school and be
normal
... and see you guys at Christmas, like always.” I swept my blond dreadlocks from my face, and accidentally brushed the piercing under my lip, then rethought my normal statement. “I just want to be me. Okay?”
He clapped his hands together. “Christmas it is! But to make your mother feel better, we're going to wire money into your sister's account so she can help you purchase a car. She's eighteen now, so she can do it without us being there. We're going to computer-call her now. Love you, Jamaica. Over and out.” The connection went dead.
I finally relaxed, knowing somehow and someway, I'd be able to pull off my charade for a few months without them knowing I'd moved to N.Y. and ditched their idea of prep school to prepare my way into the field of acting.
My stomach growled angrily. Without thought, I made my way to the barely a sneeze of a kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. Bare, except for the bottled water. I shrugged and opened a cabinet, and took out my last pack of sixty-cent cookies. They'd have to do because it was all I had, and I'd told myself to get used to it. I was “roughing it” as my mother had said, and I knew it wasn't going to change. They could deposit all the money into my sister's account that they wanted, but I knew I wouldn't see a dime of it. She'd keep it for payment to keep her mouth sealed. And I'd have to go out and try to find a job to support myself. But what could I do? I was the daughter of a supermodel mother and disgustingly rich motivational guru dad. I didn't know what it meant to be born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Our spoons were platinum. But to go to the Harlem Academy and breathe life into my dreams, I'd settle for plastic spoons with teeth at the ends.
Dreams were classless; it didn't matter what your socioeconomic background. And they were also colorless—I hoped. Because I knew for sure that in Harlem, I'd be the minority. The white girl with blond dreadlocks who would stop at nothing not only to thrive, but to belong.

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