Show and Prove (23 page)

“C
ookie, chill already!” I've never seen her like this. She wants his head, and I have no doubt that if Cookie gets past me, she will run into the train station, jump the turnstile, and throw down with Nike on the platform. Cookie tries to fake me out, dodging and spinning like Dr. J. She almost gets past me, except I grab the tail of her Menudo T-shirt.

“Get off me, Smiles!” she yells as she tries to pry my grip off her shirt. “Or I'll smack the shit out of you, too.”

“Forget about Nike—he's gone already.” I know the schedule of the 6 line like the back of my hand, and I have eight minutes to convince Cookie to tell me the truth about Sara and to catch up to him. If homeboy goes to the Roxy without me, his mouth might write a check that his butt can't cash. “Why did Sara do this to him today of all days? She should've come clean!”

Cookie stops fighting. Her eyes water, and I smell Lemonheads on her breath. “You just stood there.” At first, I have no idea what she's talking about. “Nike said he was going to hit me, and you didn't put him in check. Bad enough y'all call me out my name all the time,” she says. “Now he threatens to deck me, and you just stand there like it's copacetic.”

I'm not getting why Cookie's suddenly so sensitive. We've all been fighting for years. “A minute ago you were gunning for him like you're Wendi Richter.”

“That's not the point, Raymond!” Cookie's chest heaves. As much as I can't stand tough Cookie who has a smart answer for everything, she's much easier to handle than this sensitive Cookie who is at a loss for words. “We're not little kids play fighting in the alley anymore! Nike's practically a man, talking about he's going to deck me.”

“A second ago he was a little brat like Stevie.”

“You really don't get it.” Cookie throws up her hands in surrender. “You know what? You and Nike, the both of you can just go to hell.” She starts to walk away.

Now that's the Cookie I can deal with. I crack, “Just show us the way.” I expect her to snap back, but Cookie keeps heading home. “This whole thing never would've happened if your homegirl wasn't a liar. You want to be mad at somebody, go take it out on Sara.” To my surprise, Cookie doesn't say a word. She doesn't turn around to flash me the bird. Nothing.

I run down into the train station. I have no clue what to say to make Nike feel better, but I can't let him go to the Roxy by himself in this mood. He's liable to pop shit with someone for accidentally stepping on his dogs or something equally stupid and get himself housed.

I hit the platform and thank God when I see Nike still standing there. “Hey.” He doesn't answer. “You missed it, B. Cookie and I got into it as usual.” I force a chuckle. “Yo, she is POed like never before.”

“Ask me if I care.”

At first I fake a laugh. Then I don't know what gets into me, but it's out my mouth before I can stop it. “What you said was cold, man.” If I want to calm Nike down, taking Cookie's side is so not the move, but I realize now why she's so hurt.

“Calling her a crab?” Nike sucks his teeth. “We call her that all the time.”

“Not that.” The last thing I should do is rile up Nike again, but Cookie's emotions are under my skin and pushing to the surface. “You didn't have to threaten to deck her.”

“You took that seriously? I was just mad and poppin' shit. I'm not gonna hit no girl, even if she is some dyke.”

I have never seen Nike threaten a girl before tonight and want to believe he's all talk but no action. Yet this kind of talk itself feels like a hit. “One minute, she's a crab. The next, she's a dyke. What's she going to be next?” I suspect that the only reason Nike's backpedaling is because I called him out. “You know what? It doesn't matter. Foul is foul, B.”

“What's foul is you once again not backing me up, but I guess I should know better than to expect that anymore!”

The train barrels into the station, and Nike gets up and walks to the edge of the platform. Standing my ground, I yell over the noise, “There you go again, making yourself the victim, 'cause that's what you always do, Nike.”

The train finally screeches to a halt, and the car doors slide open. “It's my birthday, and I don't want to talk about Sara, Cookie, or no other skank for the rest of the night.” Nike steps into the car. “And if you don't want to squash this shit, then just stay back with the other girls.”

I stare at Nike. I don't recognize him or myself. Maybe I have changed. Maybe we both have. Or maybe he's always been this way and I'm truly seeing him for the first time.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

I'm clear about one thing, though. I'm not down with this. Whatever it is.

I stand back, letting the car doors slide closed between us. Nike's eyes bloom open, and I can read his mind.
I knew it. Flat leaver. Left me hanging like always.
As the train pulls out of the station, I nod in response to the look of betrayal on Nike's face.

'Cause it's like that, and that's the way it is.

T
he closer I get to the Roxy, the more obvious it becomes who is also on the way there. The fly girls rock skintight Jordache jeans and colored beads on their braids matching the stripes in their pinafore blouses. The homeboys wear pin-striped three-piece suits, fedoras, and Cazal glasses with their initials at the bottom of the right lens. The other b-boys are in full uniform with their tracksuits and untied kicks. A few of them even tapered their pant legs with safety pins and then laced them up like sneakers.

Everyone is rolling with a crew. The girls sashay toward the entrance in duos, trios, and quartets. Whether they're dancers or not, the guys bop up Tenth Avenue in full posses.

I'm the only sucker here by himself. That's cool. I only need three people to bust it out: me, myself, and I.

The melody to “Pull Up to the Bumper” greets us from a block away. The line outside the Roxy is already down the street but moving quickly. I head straight to the ropes because I have juice with the bouncer, Gordo. “Gor-doh!” I offer him my hand for a shake.

He puts his clipboard with the guest list under his arm and shakes my hand. “Ni-ke!” Then he looks about me all confused. “Where's your crew at?”

“Ah, you know how it be. Girls be taking forever to get ready, and dudes ain't trying to piss 'em off. Leave 'em behind now, get no play later.”

Gordo laughs. “Word 'em up.”

“Me, I can't let them make me late for the competition. I'm always right on time to go for mine. I got moves to bust and toys to dust.”

“Damn, Nike, you sure you ain't a rapper?”

“Yeah, and it's my birthday, too.”

“For real? Happy birthday! How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” Gordo hoots, and I hold up my hand for his high five. “You know what time it is.”

“Party time.” He unclips the rope so I can enter the club. “Tell me the name of your folks. I'll add 'em to the list and let 'em in whenever they get here.”

“Word. Um, Smiles, last name King.” Gordo writes his name down on his guest list. “And, uh, Cookie Camacho, and Sara…she'll be with them. Oh, and they might say that they're with Willie.”

“Got it. And good luck, B. Show 'em what you got.”

“Thanks, Gordo.” I let the guy at the ticket booth know that I was on Gordo's list, and the girl stamps my hand. As the music pulls me into the space, I get to thinking that this could still be my night.

The DJ switches from the throbbing bass to a blast of highs and lows, cutting the music with vocals. I walk past the packed bar toward the dance floor, looking for signs about the competition. To my surprise, the crowd is sparse. The few b-boys I recognize are dancing with some girls as if they're at your average party. And then I see one of them holding a trophy.

I race across the dance floor not knowing who or what I'm looking for. Then I spot a table with a poster board that says
REGISTRATION
. Behind it stands a promoter I recognize from past competitions talking to another girl who works there. I move toward the table and listen in on their conversation, waiting for a chance to interrupt.

“…over. The juice isn't worth the squeeze.” The promoter puts his hands up like,
C'est la vie.
“Nobody wanted it to last more than me, you know, but I always had this feeling that it was just a fad.”

The girl says, “Yeah, I see that with the rapping, too.”

“No, no, no. The MC'ing, the DJ'ing, anything involving the music's gonna stick. Even if it changes—and that's not a bad thing per se—the music's here to stay.”

“Thank God for that at least, right?”

The promoter shrugs as if he doesn't care either way. “From the streets to the suites, no matter. So long as you can package and sell it.”

I tap the table. “Yo. Excuse me.”

The girl finally turns to me. “Can I do something for you?”

“I'm here to register for the competition.” Suddenly my stomach drops. Saying the words opens the door to the truth I was trying to keep out.

“Oh, sweetie, the competition is over.”

“Already?”

“We only had a few dancers, so it went quickly.” The promoter shrugs as if to say,
That's what I'm saying.
The girl turns back to him, and he continues to rap to her, making me feel like a third wheel.

I step back from the table and stand there in the middle of the floor. The lights swirl around me, and the music pounds in my ear.
Let the music play, he won't get away.
In that moment, I feel like I lost everything, all without having danced a single step.

Someone bumps me hard as he brushes past me toward the table. “Yo, it's been real,” he tells the promoter, extending his palm. “I'm breakin' out.” He has his back to me, but I can tell by his parachute suit he's a b-boy.

The promoter says, “Yo, man, thanks so much for agreeing to judge this thing. I'm crazy sorry the turnout was so low.” The girl stares at this b-boy, batting her mascara-clumped lashes. “But my word is bond, Haz, I'ma pay you what I promised regardless…. ”

This sucker that just bumped me like some pooh-butt is Hazardiss. I still have my chance. Crew or no crew, I have to take it.

The DJ rocks the extended version of “Let the Music Play,” and I sense the circle forming. “Haz,” I say as I give him a hard tap on his shoulder. Haz whirls around like, and looks me up and down. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Nike Fresh.” I walk backward into the middle of the floor, pointing at him. “And I'm calling you out.” I warm up with a basic top into a corkscrew. I add a few quick shuffles, follow with some Zulu spins, and then stand again.

The DJ mixes into “Rockit,” and the crowd yells,
Ho!
Haz jumps into the circle, catching the moment the beat drops. He toprocks, points to the DJ, and then takes it to the floor. He does some fast footwork and spins into a baby freeze before doing his trademark move—switching his legs to the beat. The crowd soups him up.
Go, Hazard, go, Hazard, go!

My gut vibrates along with the record's scratches, but I refuse to be fazed. No sooner is he finished than I yawn at him during my next toprock. The crowd gets it.
Oh, he tryin' to say Haz is boring with his same ol' moves, aha!
I shuffle back a bit and launch into a suicide like,
You bore me to death, B.
I nail the landing, making eye contact with him, and everyone knows that I just burned him! Competition or no competition, I'm rockin' it.

I move into lightning-quick belly mills, never taking my eyes of Haz. Then I go into my back rocks, followed by some next-level back rocks onto my shoulders. I'm real high as I tap my feet to switch over to my other shoulder, freezing right on the beat.

And that's when I lose my Nike.

My left sneaker flies into the crowd, sending folks ducking.

Now they're laughing at me.

I give my all to keep the beat, but my sweaty sock won't grip the hardwood. I keep slipping. The harder I try to regain my footing, the more I slide. Somehow I manage to get to my feet, holding on to my battle face. I point at him, ordering him to dance.

And Haz's twirling my Nike on his finger like a Harlem Globetrotter would a basketball.

The crowd loses it.
Embarrassin'!
And Haz is not done. With my sneaker still in hand, Haz proceeds to toprock. He takes a whiff of my Nike and pretends to crumple to the floor. The crowd roars as he continues with one-handed shuffles, followed by shoulder rocks. Then Haz transitions into a back spin, ending in a freeze while pretending my sneaker is a phone.

I wait for him to get up, then motion for him to return my sneaker. Haz acts like he can't hear me over the music, putting my sneaker behind his ear. “For real,” I say. “I need it for my next set.” When I lunge for it, Haz tosses it to some dude in the crowd.

Now I'm really going to throw down, launching into that combo that everyone knows Haz can't do.

I do a top swipe, praying to God that I land squarely on my left foot. When I do, I continue into a second swipe, which I plan to follow with a windmill. The DJ mixes into “White Lines,” with Melle Mel yelling,
Don't do it!
As if the warning was to me, when I try to move from the swipe into the windmill, my damn sock slips again. Robbed of the height I need to make the transition, I land on my chest and shoulder and barely miss my face. The impact knocks the wind out of me, so when I try to whip into some windmills, I just sputter into a slow butt spin.

Haz walks over and drops my sneaker into my lap. Someone in the crowd imitates the sound of Pac-Man dying, and another person yells,
Game over.
I sit there in the middle of the battlefield, watching Haz bop out the Roxy with the promoter's cash in his right pocket and my dignity in the left. And I don't know whether to be devastated or relieved that I didn't have a single friend to see it.