Let Me Hear a Rhyme Read online

  Dedication

  For my cousin Sherrill Lavonne Bryant,

  who introduced me to hip-hop, bamboo earrings,

  Martin, Yo-Yo, En Vogue, and Jodeci.

  For the hustler in front of my auntie’s building,

  who taught me how to move in a room full of vultures.

  For Brooklyn, home no matter where I go.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Quadir

  2. Jasmine

  3. Jarrell

  4. March 18, 1997

  5. Quadir

  6. Jasmine

  7. Jarrell

  8. Quadir

  9. Jasmine

  10. October 3, 1997

  11. Jarrell

  12. Quadir

  13. Jarrell

  14. Jasmine

  15. Quadir

  16. Jasmine

  17. Quadir

  18. November 3, 1997

  19. Jarrell

  20. Jasmine

  21. Quadir

  22. November 6, 1997

  23. Quadir

  24. Jasmine

  25. Jarrell

  26. Quadir

  27. Jasmine

  28. Jarrell

  29. July 10, 1998

  30. Quadir

  31. Jarrell

  32. Jasmine

  33. Jarrell

  34. Quadir

  35. Jasmine

  36. July 20, 1998

  37. Quadir

  38. August 22, 1998

  39. Jasmine

  40. Jarrell

  41. Quadir

  42. Jasmine

  43. Jarrell

  44. Jasmine

  45. Jarrell

  46. Jasmine

  47. August 23, 1998

  48. Quadir

  49. Jarrell

  50. Jasmine

  51. Quadir

  52. Jarrell

  53. Jasmine

  54. Quadir

  55. June 22, 1998

  Glossary of ’90s New York Terms

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Tiffany D. Jackson

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Quadir

  You’ve probably seen this scene before:

  Ladies in black church dresses, old men in gray suits, and hood kids in white tees with some blurry picture printed on the front under the spray-painted letters RIP. Pastor in the corner eating lemon cake, grandmas in their regal crowns waving church fans, while aunties swim around, refilling plates, sneaking sips of Henny stashed in their purse.

  My best friend, Steph, smiles at me from his cousin Roger’s T-shirt. Roger lives in Queens, so Steph never saw him much. We Brooklyn kids don’t travel to other boroughs like that. I mean, why would we?

  Deadass, it’s gotta be close to a hundred people stuffed in this tiny-ass apartment, and them Sternos heating up lunch is making this place feel like we sitting inside a radiator. I don’t recognize half the grown-ups walking around with long faces. They must be friends of Steph’s mom. Or his pops.

  I thought I’d see some reporters and cameramen at the church. For the past few days, I flipped through channels waiting to see Steph’s photo cross the screen, but everyone was still busy talking about President Clinton hooking up with that intern. Like, damn, don’t murders make the news no more? Don’t they know who Steph was? I mean, yeah, folks die every day. But it’s not every day you lose your main man.

  Guess I’mma have to be the reporter and tell his story. What Ms. Greene in history class call it? Oral history, black storytelling, or something like that. Bet a real reporter would set up the scene better than I did. Probably something like:

  Headline: Funeral Held for Slain Teen

  On Saturday, roughly a hundred friends and family filled the victim’s home in Brevoort, the notorious housing projects in the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant, to celebrate the life of Stephon Davis, Jr.

  Suspect still at large.

  “Heard she almost requested a closed casket,” someone whispers, but doing a shit job of it. “Poor thing, just been through so much.”

  “She” being Ms. Davis, Steph’s mom, sitting across the room in the beat-up tan recliner Steph used to play in until he broke the handle and now nobody can recline like they supposed to. Her eyes stay locked on the green carpet, not caring if everyone tracks dirt across it. My mom made us take our shoes off at the door.

  Jarrell is sitting next to me with a hole in his sock. He got that same look in his eye, like he’s real far away, leaning on the love-seat arm, his thick fist smashing into his baby-fat cheek. This is the same rusty-color love seat all three of us used to chill on when we watched Knicks games, ’cause Rell thought it’d bring us good luck. Ain’t never seen him look so sad. Not even when the Knicks lost in the playoffs and he owed Big Rob two hundred dollars. I know that’s a wack comparison. But if you saw the way Jarrell carried on for a week, you’d understand.

  Ms. Viv from apartment 6C stops in front of us, smiling. “You two okay? Can I get you anything?”

  I shake my head real slow. “No thank you.”

  When Jarrell doesn’t answer, I jab him with my elbow and he wakes up.

  “Oh. Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

  Ms. Viv sighs, heading for the kitchen, and I check on Ms. Davis again. Carl is curled up in her lap, eyes ping-ponging at everyone walking by. Poor homie, he’s probably real confused. First, his big brother dies, now he has all these strangers up in his house. I don’t know what I would’ve been thinking as a six-year-old. Ms. Davis rocks him back and forth, squeezing him like a pillow to her chest.

  I could use a hug like that. Which reminds me, where’s Veronica? She said she’d stop by, and she knew what time the service ended. She get lost coming downstairs?

  “Damn, it’s hot up in here,” Jarrell grumbles, tugging at the tie choking his neck. He can’t take it off ’cause his moms is in the room, watching us like the Feds. One thing about Ms. Mullen, she don’t play no games. Don’t matter if you her child or not, she’ll set you straight in a minute. Jarrell looks like the male version of her. Both got glowing dark skin, bowlegged, got deep wheezy voices, breathing mad hard like Darth Vader. Both got some weight on their bones, but while Ms. Mullen has all the fellas breaking their necks when she walks by, Jarrell’s FUBU sweaters be looking extra-small.

  I check on Ms. Davis again . . . and Jasmine sitting next to her. I almost didn’t recognize her. I’m used to seeing her two Afro puffs and baggy jeans. Only seen her hair straight on picture day, and can’t remember the last time I saw her in a dress.

  She glances at me, her eyes real glassy like she’s about to cry. And I can’t look away.

  She looks so much like Steph.

  “Yo, I just can’t believe he’s gone,” Jarrell says.

  I blink at him, wondering if he caught me staring all hard. But his eyes were still glued to the rug.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “It was mad crazy seeing him in that box.”

  He shakes his head. “Damn. He’s really gone, though. I mean, they just offed him . . . just like that.”

  “Yo, chill, Rell. I don’t even wanna think about that. Not here. Not now.”

  “You right. My bad, son.”

  Mourners line up to pay respect to Ms. Davis, and Jasmine walks out the room. Wish I knew what to say to her. Steph always had a way to cheer her up.

  “I heard Steph’s mom took it pretty hard. Jada said she could hear her screaming from her building.”

  “Yeah. But she did aight during the funeral, though.”

  Jarrell tugs at his collar. “I need a new s
uit. This shit is mad tight.”

  I chuckle. “Or you could chill with the McDonald’s.”

  Jarrell sucks his teeth. “Man, I’ve been in mourning. Stop clocking my mouth.”

  As much fun as it is snapping on Jarrell, all I really wanna do is go home, lie in my room, turn up the radio, and read every magazine I ever saved cover to cover just to clear my head. This ain’t how I planned to end summer, held up in the house, mad depressed.

  Last night, they played Puff Daddy’s “I’ll Be Missing You” at least five times. That tribute to Big never made me cry before, but I sure lost a few tears thinking about Steph.

  “We were supposed to go to Coney Island today,” I mumble.

  That’s what Steph wanted to do. Tradition. Last Friday of summer break, we head to the beach, check out the shorties, then stay for the fireworks. Now we chilling at a funeral.

  Biggie Smalls was right. Things done changed.

  2

  Jasmine

  I always know when I’m about to faint.

  First, all the muscles melt off my bones and slide down to my feet. Next, the room spins slow. Then, my knees stop working. Last, with all ninety-five pounds of muscle on the floor in a heap by my ankles, someone ties my shoelaces together, I take a step and fall flat on my face.

  I overheat easy. Always have. Steph used to say if white folks ever send us back to Africa I wouldn’t last a day.

  My knees just started to feel numb when I escape all the eager eyes in our living room. Everyone’s watching, waiting to see if Mom, Carl, and I will crack so they can open us up and see our insides. The hood is filled with nosy people, sucking up all the air, standing in the buffet line snaking out of our kitchen. How could anyone eat after seeing a body lying in a casket?

  And not just any old body. Steph’s body.

  “First her husband, now her son. Poor thing,” someone says, like they don’t know how to whisper.

  “Poor child, they were like twins.”

  “Mm-hmm. Lost a brother, but gained an angel.”

  Mom squeezes Carl tight with one hand, clinging to the back of my cardigan with the other. But just the simple touch has my body hitting a thousand degrees.

  I don’t want an angel. I want my brother back.

  I rush out the room, in search of air that’s not mixed with perfume, pity, and fried chicken.

  Sweating through the stockings Mom made me wear under the dress that I can’t stand, I bust into Steph’s room and throw open the window. The relief is like sticking your face in the freezer. After spending two hours fighting with Mom’s hot comb last night, my hair is already frizzing. Of course. There could be a drop of rain two states away and my hair would peep it and shrink up. I wanted to wear it in my regular puffs, but Mom made a big deal about straightening it for the funeral, and I didn’t have the courage to argue with her. She doesn’t like me rocking my hair natural. She’s old-school. She still believes in blue flames and blue grease to straighten hair when all the other girls are using flat irons.

  At least she didn’t say nothing about my medallion. It’s round, leather, with a cutout shape of Africa, stitched with red, green, and gold thread. It used to belong to Daddy. He wore it everywhere.

  Déjà vu.

  I hid in here during Daddy’s funeral too. Except Steph was already in here, recording songs off the radio to make a new mixtape. He had this technique that made his tapes sound real professional. You have to listen close, one finger on the Record button, the other on the Play, half pushed down. Then when the first beat of the song he wants comes on, he’d push both buttons down real fast and it made for a smooth transition on the cassette tape. Last February, he gave Mom an R&B mixtape for Valentine’s Day, and she thought he’d paid big money to have it done.

  Lady of Rage stares down at me with that “Don’t even try it” expression as tears rain on my dress. Would she be crying like this? I remember when I put that poster up for Steph. All he had were pictures of brothas, but ladies rap too. And no, not some models/side chicks pretending they know how to spit, rapping about all the clothes, sex, and money they get. I’m talking lyrical geniuses. Independent and strong. Everything I want to be.

  “What up, Jazz?”

  Quadir stands in the doorframe, squirming, looking unsure of whether it’s safe to take another step.

  “Uh . . . what up?” I say, sniffing back tears and quickly wipe my face dry. Dag, I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. Especially Steph’s friends.

  “You okay? I was just . . . whoa.” He gapes at the walls.

  Mom used to say Steph’s room looked like a magazine threw up all over the place with every artist you could ever think of: Biggie, Puff Daddy, the Lox, Mase, Method Man, Capone-N-Noreaga, Jay-Z, Big Pun. One side of the room dedicated to The Source magazine, Rap Pages, and Vibe. The other, movie posters: Scarface, Coming to America, Boomerang. You’d never know the walls were painted blue underneath his shrine to hip-hop, his first love.

  Quadir gawks like he’s walking into a museum. We lock eyes for a brief moment before Jarrell pushes past him.

  “Yo, son. You think you a ghost or something and I can just walk through you? Move out the . . . whoa.” Jarrell spins around, letting out a small chuckle. “Damn, look at all this shit!”

  He grabs the basketball propped up next to Steph’s bed, tossing it in the air.

  On the desk is a three-disc-changer stereo with detachable speakers, covered in old fruity scratch-and-sniff stickers, so worn down the colors are faded white. Steph begged for almost a year for that thing, drove Daddy crazy over it. Daddy found one at a pawnshop, slightly damaged (one of the CD slots doesn’t work) but for Steph, it was love at first sight. He almost cried when Daddy walked in with it. Stacked around the stereo were cassette tapes and CDs. Dozens of them. Some named, some left blank.

  “No wonder he never let us up in here.” Jarrell laughs, snatching a tape off one of the piles, and reads the label. “‘The Build, Volume 1.’ Yo, this fool was serious.”

  “You know how he is . . . was about his music,” I say, feeling the need to defend Steph. He wouldn’t want nobody touching his stuff, but I’m too numb to stop them.

  “How you holding up?” Quadir asks. He’s always been friendly, in a quiet, shy type of way.

  “I’m straight,” I lie, adjusting my posture. Just because Steph is gone don’t mean I’m some weak girl who needs to be babied. “How you two doing?”

  Quadir glances at Rell, combing through tapes. “We aight. Sorry about Steph. We know you two were close.”

  I swallow back the rising tears. “Not as close as you three.”

  “Aye, Quady, come look at this,” Jarrell says.

  “Yo, quit messing with the man’s shit. It’s why he never wanted us in here in the first place.”

  Jarrell blows him off with a wave of his hand.

  “Check it,” he says, flipping through the pages of a black-and-white composition notebook. “Look at this. All this fool ever did was write rhymes.”

  Quadir reads over Rell’s shoulder. “He didn’t even need to. He was better off the dome anyways.”

  “Yeah. Remember, when he called that dude ‘a player who got burnt up and strung up ’cause he hit that broad up?’ With his girl standing right there? Son, I was dying that day.”

  Rell cackles and Quadir can’t help but snicker with him.

  “Damn, that kid was good.”

  Quadir sighs. “Yeah. He was.”

  Their laughter slowly dies down and they both glance at me, like they forgot I was in the room. Yes, y’all, we’re still at the repast for my brother.

  Rell clears his throat. “Let’s see what this fool was listening to.”

  He presses Play on the stereo, and the cassette tape hisses before Steph’s voice fills the room.

  “Oh shit, this must’ve been those tracks he was working on.”

  “Didn’t he say he was going to a studio the night before he . . . died?”

 
; Wait, Steph was in a studio? Like a real one?

  Jarrell presses stop and ejects the tape before turning to me. “Yo, Jazz, you think I can have this?”

  Quadir watches me. Is he waiting for me to crack too? Bet they expecting it, but I ain’t giving them the satisfaction.

  “Sure. It’s not like anyone else is gonna listen to it,” I say with a shrug as the little girl inside me says in a small voice, “Anyone except me.”

  3

  Jarrell

  Whenever we chill on the corner, we got to play our positions: me, posted up against the wall; Quady sitting on milk crates; and Steph leaning against the lamppost outside Habibi’s bodega. Homie loves Quady ’cause he got a Muslim name even though he ain’t Muslim. Can’t stand me ’cause I mess up his name all the time. Not my fault I can’t roll my r’s and shit, but they halal food be the truth.

  The spot Steph would’ve been standing in is looking mad empty now that he’s gone.

  My pops hate them type of words: should’ve, would’ve, could’ve. They ain’t nothing but excuses. Pops don’t even live with us and I’m afraid to use them words up in our spot. He’s quick to make me do twenty push-ups when I try. Probably got the place wiretapped or something.

  He’s right, though. There ain’t no excuse for Steph not being here with us. Somebody killed him for no reason.

  “Damn, it’s hot out here,” I say, and gulp down another ninety-nine-cent Arizona Iced Tea. “Hotter than it was up in Steph’s crib.”

  After we rapped with Jazz real quick, we took to-go plates of Mummy’s jerk chicken, rice and peas, and cabbage, then bounced. I didn’t want to be up in there with all them sad people and pictures of Steph staring at us. I’m sad enough as it is. Quady is too. He don’t have to say it. It’s all over his face, living in his voice.

  “Yo, you think he knew what was about to go down?” Quady says, glancing at Steph’s spot on the corner.

  “Nah, son. No way.”

  I loosen my tie, my collar wet with sweat. These church clothes be killing me. Don’t get it twisted. I still look fly, and no one in the hood have these black gator dress shoes. But I had to pop a pant button open just to finish my plate. Yeah, I could’ve stopped eating, but when Mummy gets busy in the kitchen you never let her food go to waste. I mean, I guess I can’t really call them church clothes since we only roll up in there for holidays. Now they got a new name: funeral clothes.