On the Come Up

by Angie Thomas

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

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

All these folks I’ve never met became gods over my life. Now I gotta take the power back.

There’s absolutely nothing like this. Yeah, they’re gangbangers, and they’ve done all kinds of foul shit that I don’t even wanna know about. But I’m enough to them, so frankly, they’re enough to me.

Not poor, but po’, as in skinny, which I’m not. That’s the country way of saying it. As bougie as Grandma wants to act, according to Granddaddy she’s just “one foot out the backwoods and one toe from ignorant.”

You gotta be careful with church compliments though. The person’s probably thinking the exact opposite of what they’re saying but says something nice in case Jesus is listening in.

“Damn, Bri. He talked to you like a human being, now all of a sudden you’re thirsty for him? What kind of heterosexual bullshit is that?”

According to Granddaddy, I “jump to conclusions faster than lice jump between white kids’ heads.”

‘There’s a beast that roams my streets—’” “‘—and he goes by the name of crack cocaine—’” I say my own lyrics. “‘It’s kinda strange how he gets in the veins and turns mothers into strangers who only share the same name.’” Malik finishes. “Can’t forget my ultimate favorite, ‘Unarmed and dangerous, but America, you made us, only time we famous—’” “‘Is when we die and you blame us,’” I finish for him.

“It’s not logical for a bird to be that big,” I bite out. Really, it’s not. Tweety Bird? The love of my life. Big Bird? I don’t trust that ho. Plus, have they seen his nest? He probably hides bodies in it.

“Why?” “Because I said so.” Dear black parents everywhere, That’s not a good enough answer. Signed, Brianna Jackson on behalf of the black kids of the world. P.S. We aren’t brave enough to say that to your face, so we head to our rooms to get dressed while mumbling everything we want to say.

I swear, we can’t go anywhere without her striking up a conversation with a complete stranger. Jay’s a people person. I’m more of a “yes, people exist, but that doesn’t mean I need to talk to them” person.

Forrest Gump is my favorite movie. (Wait, no, second favorite. Wakanda forever.) I don’t know, there’s something about the idea that this simple-ass dude witnessed so much history. Makes me think that anything is possible. I mean, if Forrest Gump can meet three presidents, I can make it out of the Garden one day.

Sometimes she stares at me like she’s looking for herself, and sometimes I stare at her when she’s not looking. Not in a creepy way, but enough to get an idea of who she used to be and get a glimpse of what I could be. She gives me hope and scares me at the same time.

I’ve never understood those movies that show families up at the crack of dawn, all cheerful because, “Yay, Christmas!” For us it’s, “Yay, sleep!” Seriously though, sleeping in is the best part about Christmas. Wearing pajamas most of the day is the ultimate bonus. My Pikachu onesie feels like perfection.

“Despite the fact this girl lost her father to gun violence, had a drug addict for a mom, and is technically a ghetto statistic, she’s Brianna Goddamn Jackson, and she’s done some amazing shit.” I push Trey’s chest and moonwalk away from him, hit a spin, and land on my tiptoes while flipping him off with both middle fingers. Like a legend.

“It’s probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Trey calls groggily from his room. “On a Monday?” Jay says. “Hell no. If it is them, they’re about to witness something, how ’bout that?” Welp. This should be fun.

“I get it.” Three words, yet they somehow feel as good as a hug.

“You did not throw a shell at me!” I screech. Malik laughs as his Mario speeds by my Toad. Sonny’s Yoshi is ahead of both of us. This is our third race. I won the first one, and Sonny won the second, hence why Malik’s salty butt is resorting to dirty tactics. Okay, yes, he’s using the shells like they’re supposed to be used, but this is me, dammit. Hit that ol’ trick known as CPU Bowser if you wanna throw a shell. “Hey, you were in my way,” Malik says. “Mario’s gotta do what Mario’s gotta do.” “All right, bet.” I’m gonna get him back, watch. Not just on the game either. He’s gonna need something from me. Could be tomorrow, could be ten years from now, and I’m gonna be like, “Remember that time you threw a shell at me in Mario Kart?”

Will it change the minds of the Emilys though? Probably not. Honestly, nothing will. They’ll never truly understand because they don’t wanna understand someone like me.

I draw my two, and there is a God. I got another wild card plus a skip. In the words of the late, great philosopher Tupac Shakur: “I ain’t a killer, but don’t push me.”

“Li’l Bit, I do that because I want to,” Trey says. “A burden? Never. You’re too much of a gift to me.”

Maybe it’s not on me to save Aunt Pooh. Maybe it’s on Aunt Pooh to save herself for me.

When I was around eight, Grandma and Granddaddy took me and Trey to the zoo. There was this one family who ended up at every exhibit at the same time we did. The two kids would try to get the animals to do whatever they wanted. They’d tell them to make sounds or come closer to the glass, anything in hopes of getting a laugh. The animals wouldn’t obey, of course, but I remember feeling so bad for them. It must’ve been awful to have people gawk at you and demand you entertain them how they see fit. 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.

I stare straight ahead. If you look an angry black momma in her eyes, there’s a chance you will turn into a pillar of salt on the spot, like ol’ girl in the Bible.

We can love her with everything in us, but it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t love herself.

“Brianna,” she says, “do you know what your aunt’s biggest problem is?” I look at the jailhouse. That’s kinda obvious at the moment. “She’s locked up.” “No. That’s not even her biggest problem,” says Jay. “Pooh doesn’t know who she is, and by not knowing who she is, she doesn’t know her worth. So, who are you?” “What?” “Who are you?” she repeats. “Of the millions and billions of people in the world, you’re the only person who can answer that. Not people online or at your school. I can’t even answer that. I can say who I think you are.” She cups my cheek. “And I think you’re brilliant, talented, courageous, beautiful. You’re my miracle. But you’re the only one who can say who you are with authority. So, who are you?” “I’m . . .” I can’t find the words.

“Fine. Bri, if you wanna perform at the Ring, you can. But if you go out there, acting a damn fool, best believe I will snatch your soul from your body.” Oh, I definitely believe it. “Yes, ma’am.”

See, the one thing good memories and bad memories have in common is that they both stay with you.

I put the heart-eyes emoji next to his name in my contacts. I mean, the boy brought me flowers and a Storm comic, and since we didn’t have time to stay for dessert at the restaurant, he brought me a small pack of Chips Ahoy! to eat on the way back to school. He earned those heart eyes. He just sent a couple of texts to guarantee that he keeps them.

You’ll never silence me and you’ll never kill my dream, Just recognize when you say brilliant that you’re also saying Bri. I’m not for sale.

When Aunt Pooh introduced me to hip-hop, Nas told me the world was mine, and I believed it could be. Now, standing here on this stage, I know it is.