Let Me Hear a Rhyme Read online

  “He was one of us,” Steph added with a shrug. “He looked out for his people. He was . . . home.”

  The boys looked up through the trees at home, Brevoort. Towering brown buildings, a busy hub full of life.

  “Yo, son, let me hear a rhyme or something,” Jarrell said. “Out here all sad and shit.”

  Steph smiled. “Aight, set it off.”

  Jarrell smirked before covering his mouth, and started beatboxing, Quadir already bobbing his head.

  Unh! Watch me smash it

  Funny how these days,

  You can’t even view a casket

  Of your favorite rapper

  Without gettin your ass kicked

  by the jakes

  That’s harassment, them bastards tried to chase

  Ran out of breath

  We ran out from death

  Tried to Rodney King me

  My peeps ran out like “Steph!”

  Felt like my heart ran out my chest—but I’m blessed!

  Tell ‘em, “King Me!”

  This is checkers, not chess!

  But we doing this for B.I.G.

  Rell compared him to Spider-Man, now I think see why, G . . .

  ‘Cause it’s all about them red and blues

  He got caught up in that web

  Had the press confused,

  telling lies like the Daily Bugle

  But ain’t no J. Jonah Jameson,

  Just some busters in Cali,

  Lames wanna hate him.

  So today we rally,

  They ain’t gonna stop us,

  The year ninety-seven and it ain’t the same without ya

  So you gon’ hear this on these streets all day

  “Spread love is the Brooklyn way”

  5

  Quadir

  We walk into the basement of E. Rocque’s brownstone on Halsey and Malcolm X Boulevard a little after eleven. It would’ve been sooner, but you know the deal: first you gotta get your hair cut. Then, you gotta come up with some lie to tell your parents about where you gonna be, then you gotta follow up with that lie to make sure you’re straight. As usual, I’m “sleeping over Jarrell’s house” and Jarrell is “sleeping over his older brother’s house” in Crown Heights.

  The joint’s packed with kids sipping red cups and smoking trees. The red lights got it looking like a scene straight out of Big’s “One More Chance” video. Once every other month E. Rocque’s parents spend the weekend down in Atlantic City and E throws the illest parties. I think her parents know and don’t care, just as long as they get a cut of the five bucks she charges at the door.

  I’m just happy to be out them funeral clothes and back in my jeans, Timbs, polo shirt, and durag.

  We squeeze through the crowd and hold up the wall by one of the massive speakers near the DJ table.

  “Oh, this party is off the hook!” Jarrell says, bopping his shoulders. “About to get a few shorties up in here.”

  “Just behave yourself, aight? Don’t want no problems like last time.”

  He chuckles. “Ain’t my fault shorty didn’t tell me she had a man. Innocent bystander.”

  I shake my head and laugh. “Man, whatever.”

  She must have saw me from across the room with her eagle-eyes, and all heads turn as Veronica Washington marches in my direction, hips swaying, a crew of girls behind her like a pack of wolves. My back tenses up. My instincts always kick in when she stares at me like I’m dinner and she’s starving.

  “Thought you said you were gonna be here by ten,” she snaps, her arms folding. “I’ve been waiting.”

  I inhale deep, trying to convince myself I’m just out of breath and not annoyed.

  “Sorry, baby,” I say, inching to kiss her cheek.

  She smirks and kisses me back. “You lucky you so cute. You know how many brothas in here trying to holla at me, right?”

  Ronnie could have any dude she wanted, and she reminds me of this every single day. She’s the type of girl you’d see in music videos, the main chick. Got that smooth, delicious dark skin, hazel eyes, thick lips, tits, and confidence to match. I’ve seen grown men try to check for her in the grocery store. I can’t explain how we got together, but I ain’t questioning it. She fine and she mine, and that’s all there is to it. But damn, it’s a lot of work to keep her happy. I rather her happy than on my back. Like my Dad says: happy wife, happy life.

  Yeah, I just compared us to an old married couple, that’s how deep I’m in it.

  “What up, Ronnie,” Jarrell says over my shoulder. “I didn’t see you at Steph’s funeral today. You know ’cause your man’s best friend and mine was shot, and his funeral was today!”

  “Son, really?” I groan.

  Ronnie’s eyes narrow at him before turning to me, her face softening, squeezing herself closer to my chest.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I . . . didn’t know you wanted me there.”

  I didn’t think I’d had to ask. I mean, I sat in the hairdresser with her for over four hours while she got that long swoop bang like Aaliyah that covers half her face. The least she could do is be there for me. I could have used the comfort.

  “And you know . . . I don’t do good at those things. They scare me. Thinking about it now scares me.”

  Them almond eyes of hers, the way they stare up at you and rip your soul out your body . . . that’s why I’m with her. Yeah, I’m a little tight that she wasn’t there, but I know she ain’t lying. She doesn’t even like reading the news or watching scary movies, everything I love.

  “I know,” I say with a shrug. “It’s aight.”

  She nervously pushes her bang out her eye and reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss me with them lips that taste like the cherry gloss she stays wearing. She kisses me hard, like making a scene of it, which is weird ’cause she says she ain’t into doing things in public, but I guess she got something to prove to Rell, so I’ll take it. When we done kissing, she bites her lower lip.

  “Anyway, you here, so . . . just forget about all that for now, aight,” she says mad sexy, winking at one of her girls. “I mean, people die every day, right?”

  I shake my ear, hoping I’m hearing things. Did she really throw Steph in with everybody else?

  Jarrell sucks his teeth, grumbling. “It wasn’t just people. It was Steph.”

  Ronnie winces at his name, and I pretend it doesn’t bother me.

  “Quady! Rell!” E. Rocque pushes her way through the crowd with a smile that lights up the dark room. “I didn’t see you come in!”

  “What up, E! Sick party.”

  Ronnie squeezes herself under my armpit, laying one palm flat on my stomach.

  “I heard what happened to Steph,” E says over the music. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe he’s gone!”

  Ronnie sort of flinches under me but still doesn’t say nothing.

  “Yeah, neither can we.”

  “Y’all want a drink? I can mix you up something!”

  “Wellll,” Jarrell chuckles, smoothing his eyebrows down with his pinkies. “You know I don’t turn nothing down but my collar.”

  E. Rocque laughs. “Be right back.”

  “Oh yo,” Jarrell says, tapping my arm and pointing to the DJ behind the turntables. “That’s my boy Cash! Let’s go say what up!”

  “Be right back,” I whisper to Ronnie, unhooking her from my arm.

  “Come back soon, okay? Don’t leave me alone.”

  I nod and follow Jarrell through the crowd. DJ Cash is digging through his crates of records under the table, his Yankees fitted hat turned backward.

  “What up, kid!”

  He gives us both a dap. “What up! What up!”

  “We see you doing your thang,” Rell says.

  “Ain’t nothing. Making a little bread, keeping the people happy.”

  “Yo! You wanna do me a favor?”

  “I got you. What’s up?”

  Jarrell digs in his back pocket and pulls out a CD. Steph’s CD.


  “Play this for me, man.”

  Cash takes it and chuckles. “What, you a rapper now? Shopping your demo?”

  “Nah, it’s my homeboy’s. I just want to hear it . . . I guess.”

  Cash nods, noticing the pain in his voice.

  “Aight, kid. No problem.”

  “Word. Thanks, man.”

  Jarrell looks at me as his face crumbles. Whoa, I’ve never seen him cry before. He shakes his head and rushes through the crowd toward the back.

  I don’t chase after him. Sometimes you need to let people just be. But the sadness came down like a hammer on top of my head. I walk back to Ronnie, who doesn’t notice my change, and sip on the cup of Henny and Coke E. Rocque offers. Time to drink the pain away.

  I lean against the speaker, watching the party through some sort of red filter. Everybody’s smiling, happy, laughing, the room a blur. Ronnie is grinding and dancing on me hard, but I can barely feel her. The third cup of Henny ain’t helping.

  Suddenly, I hear Steph, the bass in his voice vibrating through the speakers pulsing on my back. For a split second, I forget, and my eyes run around the room, searching for him. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe I didn’t see him lying in that casket.

  The hype of the crowd dies down a bit. They don’t know him, they don’t recognize his voice or music, but they’re listening. They’re drawn to him, and in a few short moments, they’re feeling it. Arms in the air, singing the hook, bouncing to the beat. Loving it, loving him.

  I sip my cup and take it all in.

  6

  Jasmine

  There’s a Lauryn Hill concert going on in our living room.

  “Tell Him” bumps out the speakers over the roar of the vacuum. It’s the secret track on her new solo album, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Steph and I been hyped about it since she dropped her “Doo Wop” single earlier in the summer.

  “This is about to be hot,” Steph had said. He bought the CD for me at the Wiz downtown, popped it in the living room stereo, and it’s been there ever since. I don’t think he had the chance to listen to it.

  They found his body the next day.

  I hum along until the words can no longer stay in my head and start singing. Not too loud. Not as loud as I want. I want to belt the song sitting at the bottom of my belly and wear my lungs out. But I can’t.

  Because Mom is home.

  So I keep my voice low, and it feels like I’m holding in a sneeze. I vacuum up the cookie crumbs and rice pellets from yesterday’s repast, hoping if we put the house back in order, maybe we can start being normal again.

  “We got enough leftovers to last us through October,” Mom shouts from the kitchen, her sanctuary. “Won’t have to worry about cooking much when I head back to work.”

  Work? Already? Steph’s barely been in the ground a day. But I guess she has no choice. The bills ain’t gonna pay themselves, plus I don’t want to argue with her. So fragile, any word out of line could break her in two. If Steph was here, he’d know how to put a smile on her face. He’s been filling in since Daddy died. Now I got both of their shoes to fill.

  But I’ll do it. I’d do anything to make them proud.

  Carl runs into the room giggling with his toy Hess truck, driving it into the vacuum with crash sound effects.

  “Watch out, pook,” I say, shooing him away with a smile. He’s been handling all of “this” better than the rest of us.

  Mom inches out the kitchen, her eyes swollen. She hasn’t really slept since it happened. She wipes down the TV stand, staring at the picture of Steph sitting on the top shelf, next to some of Daddy’s books I’ve read—Huey P. Newton, Malcolm X, James Baldwin, and Marcus Garvey.

  “Hmph. I see your hair is back in them puffs. After all them hours it took to straighten it.”

  Wish Mom liked my natural hair like Daddy did. Daddy had to fight her not to put a perm in it. Said it made me stand out from the rest of the weaves. I mean, why would I want to look like the people who stole us from our home, enslaved us, and murdered our ancestors? Why we worshipping white as beautiful when we were queens?

  “Chill, Sis,” Steph would say. He ain’t here but he always a second voice in my head.

  “Nice of the boys to come, Jarrell and Quadir.” Mom sighs, sitting on the orange sofa. “I saw them . . . coming out of Steph’s room. They didn’t take anything . . . did they?”

  “Nah.”

  Mom nodded a few times. “Good. That’s good.”

  I don’t know why I lied to her. Something about the way she’s been trying to track everything down. Before the funeral she had counted all the towels and washcloths in the closet. Maybe it’s her way of holding on to . . . something. After losing so much.

  “You know, I’m surprised no one from his job came. Did you see anyone?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh. Maybe we missed them. They must’ve heard by now. Seems like everyone . . . knows.”

  I take a deep breath. “Mom . . . do you . . . know what happened yet?”

  Mom’s eyes go wide and shakes her head. “Oh no no no. They’re still investigating. No witnesses yet.”

  We both know what that means. There would be none.

  “But . . . he was working up until . . . ,” she says with a frown. “And . . . they probably have his last check. Think I’mma stop by there tomorrow.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mom.”

  Mom hesitates before nodding. “Alright. Just make sure they pay what they owe him. Don’t let them cheat him ’cause he’s . . . gone.”

  “I got you, Mom,” I say. Something Steph would’ve said.

  She looks at me for a long time, like she’s thinking.

  “Gonna pick up some extra shifts . . . try to save up some. That way, we can move.”

  “Move?”

  “Yes. It’s just . . . not safe here.”

  I don’t want to leave home, not yet. What happened to Daddy was an accident. But Steph . . . I don’t know what happened to him. And I can’t leave without knowing.

  She grabs her giant black purse off the recliner. “Can you put this in my room? I don’t want to lose it.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  She smiles and curls up on the sofa with Carl, turning on the TV.

  I slip into her room, setting her purse on the bedside table. Inside is a stack of Hallmark cards, some filled with cash. No wonder she wanted to keep tabs on it. All through the repast she kept asking for her purse. Thought we were gonna have to live with Grandma at the old-folks’ home while she stayed at the crazy house. I laugh at myself and head for the door before noticing a manila envelope sitting on the dresser. I wouldn’t have paid it no mind if I didn’t catch NYPD written on a card paper clipped to the seal. Didn’t she say she didn’t know nothing yet?

  Back in the living room, I shove the vacuum cleaner in the hall closet with a yawn.

  “Tired, Mom. Think I’mma go to bed.”

  “Okay, baby, good night,” she whispers, Carl asleep in her arms. “And, uh, Jasmine?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ms. Greene offered to watch Carl after school, so he can play with her boys. Your afternoons will be free, so when you go tomorrow . . . maybe see if they’d hire you . . . to take your brother’s place. We could . . . use the money.”

  I force a smile. “Okay.”

  I kiss her cheek and rush into my room, with the manila envelope tucked under my shirt.

  Steph said he worked at Star Caribbean, on Fulton and Kingston. West Indians went there to buy and ship barrels or boxes of goods back to their peoples in the islands. He had joked about not being able to understand his boss’s accent.

  “He be yelling at me with all types of crazy Jamaican words. I don’t know what he be saying, Jazz! Need Rell to translate!”

  So I slicked back my hair in my usual two Afro puffs, slip on my uniform (baggy Guess jeans, white tee, plaid shirt, black Reeboks) and head down Fulton.

  “Aye yo, Queen of Sheba! You nee
d my comb, girl? Ha!”

  I quickly cross the street without turning, recognizing the stupid nickname some girl from school gave me the beginning of freshman year, when I started wearing my puff.

  At Star Caribbean, the line stops at the door, people miserable in the stuffy heat, Mr. Vegas’s “Heads High” blasting out of speakers. The place must be short staffed with Steph being . . . gone. I skip ahead to the front where a young rasta stands behind the counter, checking items off his clipboard.

  “Hi! I’m . . .”

  “You have to wait in line,” he says in a crystal clear American accent without looking my way. Okay, maybe not a rasta. Just a brotha with dreads.

  “Nah, I’m not shipping nothing. I’m here to pick up my brother’s check.”

  He frowns and glances down at me. “What?”

  “My brother, Stephon Davis. He worked here, right?”

  “Stephon Davis? No one here by that name.”

  “Um, you sure? We called him Steph. He was here all summer. Maybe the manager knows him.”

  “I am the manager. And like I said, they ain’t never been no Steph, Step, or Stephon working here. I got five guys, and they all on my payroll!”

  My heart deflates. “Aight. My bad.”

  On the walk home, I keep replaying all the times Steph left or came home from work. All the stories he told. All the money he slipped Mom. That wasn’t no pocket change. Steph was peeling off hundred-dollar bills. So if Steph wasn’t working there, where did he get all that money from?

  “Hey! Jazz! What’s up!”

  Drama waves from the corner . . . while holding Tania Stewart’s hand. What’s he doing with her?

  “Um, heyyyy, Drama.”

  Drama’s this cool brotha from around the way that’s big in the underground poetry scene. I always run into him at open mics. He tilts his fatigue cap back, and the smile glowing under his freckled nose competing with the sun warms me.