On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

“A’ight,” the taller one, Frank, says, waving the wand around us. “Carrying the torch for Law, huh?” Not really. More like making my own torch and carrying it.

Even when M-Dot goes at her, she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, just stares at him like she knows she’s gonna destroy him. It’s a thing of beauty.

I, Brianna Marie Jackson, got the siren.

“We have a winner!” Hype says to thunderous cheers. He raises my arm into the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of tonight’s Rookie Royale, Bri!”

That’s when I learned that when people die, they sometimes take the living with them.

Shout-out to Michelle Obama. That health kick of hers made the school take the good stuff from the vending machines and made my business very lucrative.

I mean, it’s one thing to wanna do something. It’s another to think it’s possible.

Rapping has been my dream forever, but dreams aren’t real.

Jay says this was like having a stranger come in your house, steal one of your kids, and blame you for it because your family was dysfunctional, while the whole world judges you for being upset.

Totally normal. In fact, a Sonny and Malik fight is one of the few things guaranteed in life, right up there with death, taxes, and Kanye West rants.

If you’re not exceptional, you’re a nobody.

I can’t say a word. He’s not a cop. He doesn’t have a gun. But I don’t wanna end up like that boy. I want my mom. I want my dad. I wanna go home.

One is a complete lie: “You can’t control what other people do. You can only control the way that you react.” No, you can’t. Not when your arm is jerked behind you, or you’re lying on the floor with a knee in your back. You can’t control shit then.

She didn’t say there would be a security guard ranting in her office about “those kids” bringing “that stuff” into “this school.” The door was closed, but I heard him. Those kids. This school. Like one doesn’t belong with the other.

“I will be the first to admit that the guards used excessive force. They put Brianna on the floor.” “Threw,” I mumble. “They threw me on the floor.” Jay’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?” “We’ve had issues with students bringing illegal drugs—” “That doesn’t explain why they manhandled my child!” says Jay. “Brianna was not cooperative at first.” “It still doesn’t explain it!” Jay says.

“There will be an investigation,” Dr. Rhodes says so calmly, it pisses me off. “But I stand by what I said, Mrs. Jackson. The guards treat all of the students the same.” “Oh,” says Jay. “They throw them all on the floor, huh?” Silence.

Suddenly, I can breathe underwater. I can swim. The ocean isn’t so scary anymore. It’s actually kinda cool. I even learn how to control it. But I’m awake, I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to control any of this.

But it’s kinda like saying one side of the Death Star is safer than the other. It’s still the goddamn Death Star.

Sometimes she’s my personal Yoda. If Yoda was a woman and had a gold grill. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know who Yoda is.

As much of a hard-ass as my aunt is, her hugs are the best. They somehow say “I love you” and “I’ll do whatever for you” all at once.

This a temporary setback for a major comeback. We ain’t letting it stop the come up.”

But in the Garden, we make our own heroes.

I feel that in my soul. There are more people with an idea of who they think I am than there are people who really know who I am.

There’s always that one white boy who says stupid shit in the name of making his friends laugh. You can usually find them trolling on Twitter. We just spotted one in the wild.

People all over the world will watch me get thrown onto the ground. Eventually, it’ll be forgotten, because guess what? Something similar will happen to another black person at a Waffle House or Starbucks or some shit, and everybody will move on to that.

I’m more of a “yes, people exist, but that doesn’t mean I need to talk to them” person.

“I saw something in you that I ain’t seen in a long time,” he says. “We folks in the industry call it ‘It.’ Nobody can explain what ‘It’ is, but we know It when we see It. You got It.” He laughs. “Damn, you got It.”

This . . . This hurts. This physically fucking hurts. I feel it in my chest, I swear. It burns and aches all at once. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

Protect our children. I’m definitely not included in that.

He says my name like it’s a foreign word.

Now all I can think about is how a gunshot’s gonna take him like one took Dad. If he has a wife, his death will mess her up like it messed Jay up. If he has a momma, she’ll cry like Grandma cried. If he has a dad, his voice will dip when he talks about him like Granddaddy. If he has a son, he’ll be angry at him for dying, like Trey is. If he has a little girl, she’ll never get a response when she says, “Daddy.” Like me.

Jacksons can cry. Even when we have blood on our hands.

It’s easy to ignore now, but I’m wondering if Emily may have been right. Maybe my words are dangerous.

I’m out of options and full of fears.

Malik’s with Shana and some of the other kids from the coalition. They’re standing on the side aisles, holding posters for the superintendent to see with stuff like, “Black or brown shouldn’t mean suspicious,” and, “Are grants more important than students?”

Another parent asks about the metal detectors, random pat-downs, and the armed cops. “This is not a prison,” he says. He’s got an accent, like Spanish is his first language. “I do not understand why our children must be subjected to these sort of security measures.”

She looks straight at the superintendent. “My name is Shana Kincaid. I’m a junior here at Midtown. Unfortunately, it’s different for me and students who look like me at this school, Dr. Cook. Both Officer Long and Officer Tate were known to target black and Latinx students far more than anyone. We were more likely to be subjected to pat-downs, to random locker checks, and to secondary screenings. Several of us have been in physical altercations with them. Now that armed police officers have been brought on, honestly, many of us fear for our lives. We shouldn’t have that fear when we come to school.” There’s an uproar of applause and cheers, especially from the kids from the coalition. I clap along with them. “It’s no secret that Midtown needs students like me in order to get grants,” Shana says. “Yet students like me do not feel welcomed here, Dr. Cook. Are we just dollar signs to you all, or are we actual human beings?”

“My daughter was the one physically assaulted by Officers Long and Tate last month,” Jay says, cutting him off. “Wanna know why? She sold candy, Dr. Cook. Not drugs. Candy.” Jay turns with the mic, looking at Karen. “While some of us are afraid of the impact songs will have on our children, there are parents who are absolutely terrified for the safety of our children at the hands of people who are supposed to protect them.” There’s so much applause. Aunt ’Chelle shouts, “Preach!” “A lot of these kids are afraid to roam this neighborhood because well-meaning people may get the wrong idea,” she says. “At home, they’re afraid because not-so-well-meaning people may put them in danger. You’re telling me they have to come to school and deal with the same mess?” We can barely hear her for the applause. “The fact is, Superintendent,” Jay says, “the uprising on Friday was in response to what happened to my daughter. Those two were back on the job after assaulting her, as if what they did was okay. Is this the kind of message you want to send to your students? That the safety of some of them is more important than the safety of others? If that’s the case, there is no concern for the safety of all of them.”

Aunt Pooh leads me toward the courtyard. I glance back at Jojo and his friends. I’ve got them rapping about guns and shit. Is that even okay?

Suddenly, the sky is no longer our limit. That bag of cocaine is.

“Everybody . . .” I gulp for air. “Everybody leaves me.” I sound as small as I feel. This is my mom telling me Daddy left us to go to heaven. This is her backing out of the driveway, even as I scream for her not to leave me. Nobody ever realized they took part of me with them.

“Yeah, people leave us,” he says softly. “But it doesn’t mean we alone.”

I’m powerless.

Ain’t shit funny. I’ve got no choice but to stand on my own two. Excuse me if I don’t wanna wear the name of the person who’s not here to carry all of this with me.

Supreme laughs to himself. “You played the role,” he says. “Goddamn, you played the role.” Problem is, I wasn’t playing. That’s what I’ve become.

He gives up so much for me. The least I can do is make it, so he doesn’t have to give up anything else. “You’ve always taken care of me,” I say. “Li’l Bit, I do that because I want to,” Trey says. “A burden? Never. You’re too much of a gift to me.” Gift. One word, one syllable. I don’t know if it rhymes with anything because it’s a word I never thought could be used when it comes to me.

Admitting that you’re weak is one of the strongest things you can do.”

“What do we do?” “Live,” he says.

I mean, I don’t know. I’m always weird about new people, I guess. The more people in your life, the more people who can leave your life, you know? I’ve lost enough as it is.

I’m suddenly in an exhibit, and there’s a room full of people waiting for me to entertain them. I have to say what they want me to say. Be what they want me to be. The worst part? I do it.