Uptown Dreams (5 page)
Authors: Kelli London
5
LA- LA
H
er hands twisted and sweated as she wrung them nervously. She knew she could do it, had done it before, but only alone and in front of strangers. Rikki, Ziggy, and Cyd stood feet in front of her, two steps ahead of the rest of the dance class, with their focus on her. Every time they inhaled, she felt as if they were stealing her breath. The huge room with slick wood floors, mirrors that stretched from her feet to the ceiling, and waist-high ballet bars seemed to close in on her.
er hands twisted and sweated as she wrung them nervously. She knew she could do it, had done it before, but only alone and in front of strangers. Rikki, Ziggy, and Cyd stood feet in front of her, two steps ahead of the rest of the dance class, with their focus on her. Every time they inhaled, she felt as if they were stealing her breath. The huge room with slick wood floors, mirrors that stretched from her feet to the ceiling, and waist-high ballet bars seemed to close in on her.
“You gonna sing or not?” That was Cyd, slapping her hand on her curvaceous hip.
Ziggy's eyes left La-La and moved to Cyd. “Stoppit, gal, you gonna make me”âhe bit his lip and growled playfullyâ“eat you up up in here.”
La-La looked at Rikki, pleading in her eyes, and nodded toward Ziggy.
You like him?
Rikki mouthed.
Rikki mouthed.
La-La shrugged.
Rikki rolled her eyes. “Another one bites the dust,” she whispered, smiling. She stretched her neck toward Ziggy. “Z, you gotta go! Conflict of interest. Aren't you judging the competition?”
Ziggy threw up his hands, then began to dance. He bounced, buckling down to his knees; then he swept them across the floor in a square pattern, finally picking himself up one leg at a time. He began locking, then gyrating. La-La was sure she was going to die from internal combustion. The movements of his body and the expression on his face were scrumptious. There was only one way he'd be able to move like that, she surmised. Ziggy had had a lot of practice dancing with girls, and not on a dance floor.
“Okay. Okay. You're right as usual, Rikki. But you can't blame me for wanting to see a pretty girl sing. I'll be rooting for you La-La,” he said as he moonwalked his way out the double doors.
The classroom full of dancers mumbled their dislike for waiting.
“This is a performing arts school, so perform already,” a boy called out.
“What? You need music or something?” asked a girl who looked like she was running for The Girl Next Door/Plain Jane award.
“Why? You gonna beat box it or something, prep girl?” ever-protective Cyd asked.
The girl stepped forward, walked over to the piano stationed in front of the room, and took her place on the bench.
“Really?” Rikki said. “What're you gonna play, Reese? Beethoven?”
“Hum a little so I can pick up your BPMs,” the girl named Reese instructed.
Cyd, La-La, and Rikki looked at her with raised brows.
“Beats per minute. You know, speed?” Reese asked.
With a body less than ninety-pounds, La-La opened her mouth, and hummed loudly, as if her lungs alone weighed more than she did. The room quieted and Reese, the plain girl, made love to the piano with her fingers, tickling it until it sung. La-La closed her eyes, and let the music lead her; then she snatched the reigns, and led it where she wanted it to go. Tears streaked from her cheekbones to her chin, then dropped to her shirt. The music was lovely, so, so lovely, that she couldn't help cry. Before she could finish the song, the room erupted with clapping, stomping, and a loud rumble she couldn't recognize.
“Encore!” the boy who had dared her to perform yelled before she was done.
Hands wrapped around her, pulling her tight. Then another pair embraced her. La-La opened her eyes, then smiled. Rikki was to her left, Cyd to her right and, somehow, Ziggy had made his way back into the room. He stood in front of her, nibbling his lip, and telling her he wanted her with his eyes.
“You should let me take you out,” he said, and changed her whole world.
Even though it was a rainy day, Times Square subway was filled to capacity, as La-La knew it would be. She'd sung at the school with great reception, but she needed a
Showtime at the Apollo
audience, and knew New Yorkers who rode the train would give her just that. If she was good, they'd let her sing. If she didn't cut it, they'd cut her off, and then tell her to go home without apology or hesitation. She shrugged her shoulders, pulled her wet shirt from her skin, and decided the show must go on. Thunder roared from above over the loud rumble of the trains moving in and out of the station.
Showtime at the Apollo
audience, and knew New Yorkers who rode the train would give her just that. If she was good, they'd let her sing. If she didn't cut it, they'd cut her off, and then tell her to go home without apology or hesitation. She shrugged her shoulders, pulled her wet shirt from her skin, and decided the show must go on. Thunder roared from above over the loud rumble of the trains moving in and out of the station.
“You gonna sing looking like that?” Cyd asked, reaching for La-La's roots. “I mean natural hair is cute and all, but it's not so sexy once it's rained on.”
La-La's eyes bulged as she touched her hair. “Oh, no. I don't want to look completely homeless. It's bad enough these people are probably thinking I'm a bum for singing in the train station.”
Cyd took off her fedora and placed it on La-La's head. “And the difference between singing
on
the train and singing
in
the train station is ... what?”
on
the train and singing
in
the train station is ... what?”
La-La smiled. “On the train, I can just jump off at the next stop. But I guess you're right.” She zigzagged through the crowd, finding a spot a few feet from a drunk who'd taken up residence on the dirty ground. “Here goes,” she said, alerting Cyd.
Cyd pressed play on the CD player, and an instrumental began to play. “Old-timer's music? Really? You are so old-school, La-La.”
La-La shot Cyd a work-with-me look. “I'm singing Marsha Ambrosius, Raheem DeVaughn, then Melanie Fiona if they don't boo me out of here.” She adjusted her borrowed hat, then began to belt out lyrics. Totally into the song, La-La managed to smile with her mouth open. The train riders were snapping their fingers, humming along, and some began to gather in an arc in front of her. Throwing up her hands, she somehow grazed her earring, making it fall to the ground. Immediately she bent to pick it up, never stopping her flow. The fedora fell topside down, and she went to reach for that too, but someone dropped coins into it, then someone else dollars.
“Keep singing,” Cyd said, pulling La-La into full stance. “They're paying you, girl. Paying you!” She began to cabbage patch dance while guarding the hat and La-La's money. “This is my girl, right here! My girl. Next stop,
Billboard
magazine and Madison Square Garden!”
Billboard
magazine and Madison Square Garden!”
La-La felt so light and heady that the subway stairs felt cotton-soft under her feet as she and Cyd ran out of the subway station. As many times as she'd sung on the train, she'd never been paid to do it. Finally, she felt free, as if her voice could really take her somewhere. And she also felt something else, too. That the orthodontist was near. She was on top of the world, and if she had anything to do with itâwhich she didâshe was going to have Ziggy with her.
In mid-stride, she grabbed Cyd's arm, stopping her.
“What?”
La-La smiled. “Can I use your cell phone? I want to call Ziggy, see if his offer to take me out is still good? If he was serious,” she threw into the air.
Cyd looked at her, crossing her eyes. “Duh. Of course, he was serious. Did you see what he was wearing?”
La-La crinkled her eyebrows. “Sweats, I think?”
Cyd elbowed her, handing her the phone. “Yeah. Sweats topped off by lust!”
6
REESE
R
eese rubbed her bare arms, warming herself as a cool wind swept in from the nearby lake, chilling her and Blaze's meeting place: a shaded recess in Central Park where they'd cuddle and talk without interruption. But Reese knew when she checked her watch, there would be no hugging or kissing today, just like the last time she'd texted Blaze to meet her. She walked out into the sunshine and the unusually desolated park. The emptiness was vast and eerie, magnified by the clearness of the daylight. There were no snotty-nosed toddlers accompanied by bored-looking nannies in sight. Not a jogger or bicyclist or roller-blader whizzed by. More importantly, Reese huffed, there was no Blaze. Again. Her boyfriend was forty-nine minutes late when she needed him the most, and Reese felt alone. And angry. She'd been disappointed by the two guys in her life in too short of a time span. Her father, she couldn't curse out. But she could let Blaze have it, she decided as she went to go find him to give him a verbal whipping. She'd given him one pass when he flaked out last time and didn't return her text message when she had Wheez covering for her; now he was standing her up again. Never mind the kiss she'd entertained giving him, she needed the 808 drums for the track she was working on. And he was the only person she knew who had that drum machine, the only one that gave the eardrum-rattling hardcore baseline she needed.
eese rubbed her bare arms, warming herself as a cool wind swept in from the nearby lake, chilling her and Blaze's meeting place: a shaded recess in Central Park where they'd cuddle and talk without interruption. But Reese knew when she checked her watch, there would be no hugging or kissing today, just like the last time she'd texted Blaze to meet her. She walked out into the sunshine and the unusually desolated park. The emptiness was vast and eerie, magnified by the clearness of the daylight. There were no snotty-nosed toddlers accompanied by bored-looking nannies in sight. Not a jogger or bicyclist or roller-blader whizzed by. More importantly, Reese huffed, there was no Blaze. Again. Her boyfriend was forty-nine minutes late when she needed him the most, and Reese felt alone. And angry. She'd been disappointed by the two guys in her life in too short of a time span. Her father, she couldn't curse out. But she could let Blaze have it, she decided as she went to go find him to give him a verbal whipping. She'd given him one pass when he flaked out last time and didn't return her text message when she had Wheez covering for her; now he was standing her up again. Never mind the kiss she'd entertained giving him, she needed the 808 drums for the track she was working on. And he was the only person she knew who had that drum machine, the only one that gave the eardrum-rattling hardcore baseline she needed.
Reese stomped to West Fourth Street Courts, then paused in front of the enclosed basketball square known as The Cage. Lacing her fingers through the building-high, chain-linked fence that separated the boys' playground from the sidewalk, she inhaled deeply. Literally sniffed out her man. His view was blocked by hoopers and onlookers, but he was definitely nearby. The unmistakable scent he wore like cheap cologne alerted her. Sweet. Tangy. Funky with a capital F, the pungent aroma snitched his whereabouts, and turned her stomach. And so did the âheads who'd surrounded him to buy his novice-scientist-invented “healthy” green that perfumed the air with its stench.
Excusing her way through the crowd, Reese inched up on him. Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, she fumed anger. Not only had Blaze stood her up for their Central Park hookup again, he'd lied to her. “Uh-uhm,” she cleared her throat to gain his attention.
Blaze didn't look up. Just sat with his head hanging, clearly focused on the knot of money he was sorting by denomination. “What's gonna make you better?” he asked, inquiring about how much she wanted to buy, not her health.
Reese exhaled. Her anger fueled by hurt. “Ripping you a new one, that's what'll make me feel better!” she hissed.
With head still down, Blaze lifted his bloodshot eyes to meet her glare. For seconds they held their stares; then he laughed. Chuckled. Fell back in tears. Giggled like a toddler being tickled. “Yo, Reese. Stop it. I never said I was retiring from the game, I
said
I was taking a vacation,” he explained, raising up two fingers in the air. “My two weeks are up.”
said
I was taking a vacation,” he explained, raising up two fingers in the air. “My two weeks are up.”
Reese shook her head so hard she was sure it was going to fall off. Blaze was as high as his customers. “No, B. You promised you'd stop. What, you wanna get kicked out of UCLA's chem program before you get accepted? Bad enough you smoke like fire, you gotta spread it too?”
Blaze doubled over in laughter, then toked on the toxic stuff wrapped in cigar paper. He blew the smoke in Reese's face, and it sickened her more. “Ha! See Reese, even you know this good-good is
fire
. And you don't smoke. Well, these people do,” he pointed out, slicing his hand through the air at the surrounding crowd. “They need it, remember? Well, I got it. Economics, baby. If I don't supply their demand, they'll be sick.”
fire
. And you don't smoke. Well, these people do,” he pointed out, slicing his hand through the air at the surrounding crowd. “They need it, remember? Well, I got it. Economics, baby. If I don't supply their demand, they'll be sick.”
“
Sick?
You must've hit that one too many times. You're crazy,” she accused, tossing back her hair and accidentally inhaling the scent. Immediately, her head felt lighter, and she worried. Drugs were disgusting and a turn-off. “You don't do this for medicinal purposes, B. These are âheads, not patients.”
Sick?
You must've hit that one too many times. You're crazy,” she accused, tossing back her hair and accidentally inhaling the scent. Immediately, her head felt lighter, and she worried. Drugs were disgusting and a turn-off. “You don't do this for medicinal purposes, B. These are âheads, not patients.”
“True. True,” he agreed, nodding. “But at least I sell 'em the good-good.
Organic
, remember? Not chemically enhanced like the garbage they're used to. So in a way, I'm preventing them from possibly developing a disease, and making 'em feel good at the same time.”
Organic
, remember? Not chemically enhanced like the garbage they're used to. So in a way, I'm preventing them from possibly developing a disease, and making 'em feel good at the same time.”
“Handle your business then, Dr. Feel Good,” Reese huffed, turned her back to Blaze, and patted her butt.
And you can kiss this while you're at it
. “I'm going to the school to see if I can sneak into the music studio. I'll find a way to make a hard bass line myself.”
And you can kiss this while you're at it
. “I'm going to the school to see if I can sneak into the music studio. I'll find a way to make a hard bass line myself.”
Tears threatened to roll as Reese pushed her way back through the crowd headed toward the 2 train. She'd had enough of Blaze's nonsense. His ridiculous idea that organic green does a body good, and that he'd clearly chosen the âheads over her. She was tired of coming in second, and had to find a way to move to the top of his and her dad's VIP lists. True, what she'd had planned for Blaze wouldn't have fattened his pockets as much as his activities, but, in time, she was sure they could have made a lot of money together with hit records. But the lure of a hot music-industry future together didn't seem to be enough to stop Blaze from dealing.
Reese wiped away her tears before they fell. “Your loss, B,” she whispered, boarding the train. “Today was going to be our day,” she said, sinking down onto the first available seat she'd spotted, feeling as empty as it'd been before she filled it. She fingered the iPod in her pocket, hating that she'd fallen for a wasted talent. She and Blaze were a dynamic duo in the studio, capable of making monster hits, and he was tossing everything important to the wind for nonsense. The music and her. She knew then what she had to do: She'd give him one more chance, and if he didn't step up and stop his dealing, she'd just have to find someone else who could bang a track like he did. She wasn't ready yet to be alone.
The One hundred twenty-fifth Street train station was more crowded than usual, Reese thought as she pushed through the people and up the stairs to the street. Before she planted both feet on the sidewalk, a sound louder than the music blasting in her ears through her headphones made her pull them out. She stopped. Paused. Looked both ways on the always busy street, and almost choked. The heaviest bass she'd ever heard had stolen her breath and was now taking over her body. “Dang,” she finally said, able to speak but not move, at least not toward Harlem CAPA. She had to follow the music.
“Don't!” An older man with a shock of gray hair held out his hand, stopping her. He loomed tall over her, and wore a three-piece wool suit that was obviously too hot for the weather. Upon closer inspection, Reese saw the suit was a dirty olive green with tiny pink polka dots, and had an orange and gold pinstriped lining.
“Don't what?” Reese asked, easing around the man and the crate he stood on.
“Don't push me ...” he began, singing the Grandmaster Flash song; then he stopped abruptly. “Reese, aren't you supposed to be in school?”
Hunh?
“How do you know my name?” she asked, really ready to kick up dust and get away from him.
“How do you know my name?” she asked, really ready to kick up dust and get away from him.
“I'm Sandman. I know everything. Ask around, little lady. And if you ever need something, the sun, moon, or stars ... come to me. I can get it for youâfor a price. And be careful. These streets will eat you up.”
Reese walked away shaking her head. There were all types in New York, but Harlem had some real specialties, she thought, moving toward the vendor with the hypnotic beats.
“What 'appened, pretty gal. You want a Coach bag, Gucci ... ? 'Ow 'bout music? Sandman sent you here?” a young familiar-looking Jamaican guy asked her before she made it to the front of the vending table.
“No. That man's crazy. What's that song? Whose is it?” Reese asked, moving her head back and forth like a turkey like she was in the studio. She was vibing. Hard.
“He don't mean no harm. He just looks out for everyone on the street. He's like a historical landmark around here. He used to be famous or something. But anyway, you a producer, gal? Moving your 'ead like that?”
Reese smiled. She'd never heard herself called a producer before, and loved the ring of it. “Yes. Name's Reese. And I need some drums like that. And that bass is killing it. Whew!” she banged on the table, her fists keeping tune to the bass line. “Killing it!”
The guy smiled. “Broke-Up's my name, and that track be my game. I made that, pretty gal. I makes tracks like that in my sleep. Easy.”
Reese cocked her head to the side. “Really?”
Broke-Up laughed, and a customer approached the table and took his attention. Reese didn't know whether to believe him or not. His actions told her he wasn't serious, so she walked off to see if she could sneak into Harlem CAPA. She had beats to make, not time to waste on cute Jamaican boys who pretended to make hot tracks. She already had two great pretenders in her life; she didn't need one more.
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