On the Come Up Read Online Free PDF Page B

on. 8th grade, first day, AnnMarie strolled up to the yard, looking mad o.d. fine in her brand-new Diesels and black satin hoodie. First day easy, forgetting all about Carlton and Carlotta in the house, with all the
hey y’alls, what up, how your summer go
and fake cheek kisses, looking to see who got coupled up and who still alone. Kids filing into classrooms, teachers and their first-day speeches, the
what I expect from you
speeches, no one paying attention ’cept to each other—who gonna be best friends, who gonna be beefin’, textbooks going around, pages ripped, marked-up and torn from the year before. Take one, everybody need a book.
    Assembly, principal gave a speech, the expectation speech, the behavior speech, the
we’re all one community
speech … Crystal was still gone so AnnMarie had taken a seat next to Patrice and Katelyn, girls she’d known since 3rd grade, PS 197. Choir girls. Good girls who could sing “Lord Take Thy Hand” and “Come to Me” on key, every note clear and beautiful. She spotted Brittany sitting three rows down front. What she got on. Fat bitch. Sitting between Shaquanna and Ashley. Tag-along 1 and Tag-along 2. Got her hair straightened, pulled up into a sweep. Spent some money on that, AnnMarie thought, but still she ugly. Suck-face ugly. Baboon-ass ugly. She watched Brittany lean in andwhisper something to Tag-along 1, the girl laughing, her mouth moving ’til Brittany tsked and she shut up.
    She didn’t know why Brittany hated her, just that she did. It all got started sometime last year, Brittany saying, Stay away from Rashad. AnnMarie’d said, Rashad? Who the fuck Rashad? But it didn’t matter, they jumped her anyway and it went on from there.
    AnnMarie sat forward and re-tucked her Glitter Girl T-shirt, watching Brittany now, turn full around in her seat, her elbow flying. Tag-along flinched, cupping a hand to her cheek where Brittany had clocked her but Brittany act like she ain’t done nothing, neck craning, eyes scanning the auditorium. Tag-along just sat there, dumb.
    AnnMarie stared daggers into that girl. She hope they eyes meet so Brittany could feel the cut, all them blades slicing her apart. But Brittany didn’t notice. Her arm shot up, waving to somebody across the auditorium. Fuck that girl.
    Sixth-period choir. AnnMarie filed in with the other kids, called
Hey, Mr. Preston
, and took a seat next to the boy Crystal had been crushing on all summer. Wallace, who was leaning back in his chair with a new low fade and crisp white Polo. She said Dang, Wallace, you look nice, let me see. He turned his head, showing off the design the barber’d shaped into the side of his head—a swirly
W
ending in a curlicue. Is that a clef symbol, she asked. Nah, that be a dollar sign. Word, AnnMarie said, that is dope.

    Mr. Preston rapped his baton on the edge of a music stand and everyone got quiet. He didn’t do no speech giving. He got right to it. Follow me one at a time, he said, and he sang a melody—high up for the girls, medium low for the boys. And when Brittany walked in ten minutes late, Mr. Preston just motioned her to theback of the room. AnnMarie ignored her. Eyes on Mr. Preston, she stood and took her turn, her voice rising sweet and clear until Mr. Preston said, We’re gonna go again, AnnMarie. He didn’t do that with none of the others. He said, This time we’re gonna harmonize, you and Wallace. Then he counted out a beat and nodded first to AnnMarie, then to Wallace who took the cue, his voice coming up underneath hers, blending deep and rich and beautiful. AnnMarie felt the vibration, like a living thing passing through the room. She watched Mr. Preston close his eyes and listen, swaying like he gone to heaven.
    AnnMarie smiled, pushing out the door, first day done. A few blocks from the school, she hooked up with Raymel and Jason who were walking over to Redfern, heading to 12-70 where they claimed a bench. Backpacks flung to the ground. High-school kids