11
ZIGGY
C
ars blurred by, spitting puddle water on the sidewalk. Ziggy cursed under his breath, grabbed the few leather bootleg designer bags that were on the front of the vending table, and inspected them for damage. Sure enough, the spray of dirty drops had hit the bags, ruining one red one and two natural-colored ones. His mind clicked, calculating numbers, and he could already feel the fifty-dollar loss he'd have to take for the damage. If he were lucky, he'd be able to discount them, but there was no way he could sell them at full price. Not now, unless some unsuspecting tourist snatched them up, which was all he could hope for. He was already short on his tuition money.
Snapping his fingers, he signaled Broke-Up.
No answer.
Again he snapped his fingers, popping them as loud as possible, but the music was too loud, and it was raising his irritation. He didn't know how his brother could think or be productive with all that noise. How on earth did he talk to the customers if he couldn't hear? “Broke-Up! Broke-Up!”
“What you yelling for, Z?” Broke-Up finally turned the music down and asked.
Holding one of the tan purses as if it were a baby, Ziggy looked at his brother like he had an ear in the middle of his forehead. “Pass me the leather cleaner and a rag, yo.”
Broke-Up put his fingertips down on the table with his fingers spread. He returned Ziggy's crazy look. “âYo' nothing. What ya deal with, Ziggy? Why are you looking at me like that?”
A face-off between the brothers was brewing, and Ziggy could feel it in his bones. Sometimes Broke-Up just rode his nerve, but he couldn't say anything because he wasn't doing Broke-Up a favor, it was the other way around. Still though, his brother's ways bothered him. Like now, after he'd asked for leather cleaner, Broke-Up was too concerned with turning up the music.
“I feel your eyes on my back, Z. Don't mess up my day. I met this pretty Coolie-looking chick with long hair, some producer gal, and I ran into her again last night. I'm sure I can bag her, been thinking about how to make my move when I see her again, and you're ruining my vibe with your attitude.”
Now Ziggy had to laugh. Broke-Up met a lot of people, but he never bagged girls. Pulling cuties just wasn't one of his strengths. Sure, he tried, but usually his knees got in the way. Literally. Almost doubling over in laughter, Ziggy said, “Yo, Broke-Up, remember when you tripped trying to catch up to that girl? You needed to have your pins oiled or something.”
Broke-Up banged his fist on the vending table, making the purses and CDs jump. “Don't play me, Z. I can pull this girl, I know I can. She likes my music. She's some girl who goes to that Harlem performing arts school or whatever the name of it is. Reese. That's her name.”
Ziggy swallowed his laughter, and coughed.
Did he just say Reese?
Worry filled him until it overflowed. He cleared his throat, hocked up phlegm, then spat. He'd caught his breath, but that was all.
How in the ... ?
“Broke-Up, stay away from them artsy girls, they're flakes. You want a girl you can count on. Let me find youâ”
“No, Z. I want
her
. I think we can really vibe. Ya know?” Broke-Up said, digging in his pocket. He pulled out a wad of ones, fives, and tens. “Here's what we did earlier.”
Ziggy took and counted the money. There still wasn't enough to pay his tuition yet, but he didn't panic. He still had a week or so. Folding the bills, he stuck them in his pocket alongside the fear of Broke-Up finding out about him through Reese. “Cool. Thanks. I'm going to take this to Canal Street and get some more bootleg bags. We gotta make more dough, Broke-Up. We gotta take advantage of this table.”
Broke-Up gestured for him to hold up. “Another thing, Z. The cops been around here checking vending licenses lately. You gonna have to get a new one from Sandman. You can tell ours is fake. We should've spent with Sandman, and we wouldn't be having these problems.”
Â
The bottle was housed in a paper bag with the top if it crinkled and bunched around the mouth. Ziggy gripped it tightly, and took a swig of it. He knew he was taking his chances as the beat cops walked down the street toward him. They'd think it was a beer, but he didn't care. He was in no mood to please or cater to anyone. He'd been doing that for years, hiding his art to make his parentsâno, to make his fatherâhappy, and he was tired. So what if he danced? Did that really make him the sissy his dad liked to call guys in dance shoes? And what was up with the whole straight-dudes-don't-dance thing, anyway? What was the deal with the men in his family being so homophobic? They were a hate group that taught Ziggy and all his male relatives to hate what they hated, but the truth was Ziggy didn't dislike anyone, and saw no reason to judge. He didn't care if all the guys who wore ballet shoes alongside him liked girls or boys, all that mattered to him was if they could dance or not. Talent was important to him, not preference.
“What's the 911, Z?” Rikki asked, walking up to him.
“What's in the bag, son?” a cop asked, reaching him seconds after Rikki.
Ziggy looked at Rikki, and she shook her head in the negative, begging him with her eyes not to get smart. He sucked his teeth, then swigged his soda from the bottle. His eyes were on the police officer the whole time.
“You hear me?” The cop walked up on him, snatched him by the collar, then pressed him against the building. “What's in the bag? A Heineken?” He snatched Ziggy's drink. “You're a little young to be drinking. What else you got on you?” he quizzed, pulling the bottle out of the bag.
Ziggy watched him, wide-eyed and daring. He wasn't scared of the police. Had never feared the streets or authority. Nothing put fear in his heart, except his dad finding out he danced.
“You little ...” The cop stopped himself from cursing, then handed Ziggy back his soda. “I should take you in just for being so smart.”
Ziggy snatched the drink. “You can't. You know it and I know it.”
“Sorry, officer,” Rikki said, pulling Ziggy away. As soon as she had him around the corner, she pushed him into a parked car. “What's wrong with you, Z? Are you trying to go to jail or get the mess beat out of you?”
He looked at her, blinking hard. He was so mad tears wanted to come, but he couldn't cry. Men in his family weren't allowed to do that either. “Broke-Up met Reese, and now he wants to holler at her. Something about her being a producer too. You know about that?”
Rikki reared back her head in disbelief. “You mean our Reese? Like Harlem CAPA's classical pianist and almost-every-other-instrument-playing Reese?”
His look answered yes.
“Well, we gotta stop that before it gets started, Z. You got the competition coming up, and if your dad finds out ...”
“If my dad finds out there won't be a competition for meâmaybe not a family or home either. And if I can't get my hands on a more authentic-looking vending license, it won't matter anyway because I won't be able to afford CAPA.”
12
JAMAICA-KINCAID
T
hey strode through the hall arm in arm, more like boyfriend and girlfriend instead of BFFs. With all the attention they were getting, Jamaica was sure everyone else thought so too. She looked over at Mateo, smiled, and shook her head. He was eating it up.
“So, what are you doing
later
?”
Jamaica gave him the side eye.
“Oops,
working
! I forgot.”
Acting class was next, so Jamaica was in a good mood, and decided not to punch him in the arm like she usually would. “This way... . Your groupie's waiting.”
Mateo pulled away. “Not today. I don't want to lay eyes on
Hammerhead
-Helen today or
ever
, and I don't feel like acting
or
dealing with Mr. Sassafras.”
Jamaica burst out laughing. “Mr. Sassafric,” she corrected. Their acting teacher was over the top in every way imaginable. She thought it was hilarious, and enjoyed him. Mateo was just the polar opposite. He could live without Mr. Sassafric and all his antics. He hated the way the teacher spoke, dressed, and sipped his tea with his pinky finger raised. He had a bad word for everything Mr. S. did, but act. Now that even Mateo couldn't deny. Mr. S's acting and his ability to develop his students were ridiculous in a great way.
Jamaica pushed open the door, made an entrance with Mateo still on her arm. Without thought, she dropped her bag on a seat, and Mateo walked her up the few steps to the stage, where she took her place. She longed for the lights, craved instruction, and wanted to cry daily just because she had the acting skills to do so. And Mr. Sassafric catered to her every need. She looked to her right, smiled at the guy she was going to run the scene with, then to her left and laid eyes on Hammerhead-Helen, who felt just the opposite of their teacher.
Making a production of it, Mateo kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear. “She
hates
you. You know that, don't you?” he said, laughing and walking away.
Two hand claps signaled the beginning of class. Mr. S. stood in front of the stage with his thin lips pressed together. Jamaica looked at his getup of the day. Burnt-orange pants, old-school white espadrille shoes with straw bottoms, and a flowery button-down with a tight checkered T-shirt underneath, almost choking his neck, and the checkers matching neither his clothes nor his shoes. His hair was moussed to a crisp wisp in the middle of his head, making him resemble an old Alfalfa from
The Little Rascals
. She loved his style. He didn't care what anyone thought, and she thought that was admirable. Fingering her own locks, she could dig his uniqueness.
“Tea, please.”
Jamaica shot Mateo a look, saw he was feigning vomiting, and she fell out laughing, breaking her character before she got into it.
“Jamaica-Kincaid,” Mr. S. tsked, shaking his head slowly. “Cry for me. In five, four, three, two ...” He snapped his fingers.
And the tears burst like a dam. Without work, without hesitation, Jamaica's eyes reddened, her nose ran, her cheeks flushed. Her breath even caught, making her gasp for air like she'd hurt herself something awful. She cried, then smiled, turning it off like she'd hadn't just seemed like the saddest person alive.
“Laugh like you've just heard the funniest thing in the world. In five, four, three, two ...”
Laugh, she did. She cracked up until the tears came again.
“Be sad ...”
“Now anger ...”
“Now somberness ...”
“Happiness, Jamaica. Give us happy. Now give us death... .”
She and Mr. S. went in and out of emotion as if they were the only two in the room. For every emotion he requested, she delivered.
“Now sing. Sing like you're a Grammy Awardâwinning star. We're your audience, the people you owe your fame to.”
With a voice worse than she believed anyone should be cursed with, Jamaica opened her mouth and belted out Billie Holiday's “Ain't Nobody's Business If I Do.” Back and forth across the stage, she strutted, taking hands and shaking them as if the students were really her fans, and some of them were. Most were, except Hammerhead-Helen. Jamaica decided to have fun, hoping that Mr. S. would do what she predicted he would. She strutted over to her enemy, singing and grabbing her hand, and stayed in front of her belting what she knew was the most awful rendition of Billie Holiday.
“Helen, act! Swoon. Pass out. Jamaica is your favorite starâpay her homage.”
With mouth still wide, Jamaica managed to smile, and almost broke character when Hammerhead
-
Helen had to fall to her knees. Then she walked away, leaving her hater in her trail.
Mateo stood, clapping the loudest and the longest, tears streaming from his eyes. “
My
baby is a
star
... right,
Hammer
... Helen?” he asked, catching his slip before he could finish.
Mr. S. turned and looked at Mateo. He nodded. “Yes. Yes, she is.”
Â
Jamaica ran as fast as she could. Her job was only two blocks away, and she had to beat feet to get there. She was running late, but would make it in time. She took everything she did seriously. She wasn't sure if it was because of her parents and how they'd raised her or because of the boarding school and how they'd demanded she conduct herself. Whatever reason, it was ingrained in her.
“Sorry,” she yelled to the man she'd just collided with, sure she'd knocked his phone from his hand. Turning the corner, Jamaica lengthened her strides, turned left into the alley, and bounded toward the backstage entrance. She pounded on the door with all her might until she heard steps on the other side.
“Well, come in. Why are you so flushed and sweaty?” the head stagehand asked. Her name was Madeline, and she looked like a Madeline. Everything about her screamed prep and kisser-upper. She had a clipboard under her arm, surely the assignments for the day.
“Didn't want to be late,” Jamaica explained.
Madeline shrugged, then looked at her watch. “Well, technically, Ms. Ellison, you're not late. However, you're late for the good assignments. I passed those out minutes ago. You have bathroom, dressing room, serving, and clean-up duty. Pretty much everything that's not really stagehand work.”