to prepare for a battle, but a win could jump-start my career, you know?”
“Let me get this straight,” she says, sitting up.
Imaginary alarms go off in my head. Warning: Your teacher is about to gather you, boo.
“You’ve been so focused on rapping that your grades have dropped drastically this semester. Forget that junior-year grades are vital for college admissions. Forget that you once told me you want to get into Markham or Howard.”
“Mrs. Murray—”
“No, you think about this for a second. College is your goal, right?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
I shrug. “College isn’t for everyone, you know?”
“Maybe not. But a high school education? Critical. It’s a D now, but that D will turn to an F if you keep this up. I had a similar conversation with your brother once.”
I try not to roll my eyes. It’s nothing against Trey or Mrs. Murray, but when you have an older brother who did great before you, if you don’t at least match his greatness, people have something to say.
I’ve never been able to match Trey here at Midtown. They still have the programs and newspaper clippings on display from when he starred in A Raisin in the Sun. I’m surprised they haven’t renamed Midtown “The Trey Jackson School of the Arts Because We Love His Ass That Much.”
Anyway.
“He once went from As to Cs,” Mrs. Murray says, “but he turned it around. Now look at him. Graduated from Markham with honors.”
He also moved back home this summer. He couldn’t find a decent job, and as of three weeks ago, he makes pizzas for minimum wage. It doesn’t give me much to look forward to.
I’m not knocking him. At all. It’s dope that he graduated. Nobody in our mom’s family has a college degree, and Grandma, our dad’s mom, loves to tell everyone that her grandson was “magnum cum laude.” (That is so not how you say it, but good luck telling Grandma that.)
Mrs. Murray won’t hear that though.
“I’m gonna improve my grades, I swear,” I tell her. “I just gotta do this battle first and see what happens.”
She nods. “I understand. I’m sure your mom will too.”
She tosses me my phone.
Fuuuuuck.
I head to the hallway. Sonny and Malik lean against the lockers. Sonny types away on his phone. Malik fiddles with his camera. He’s always in filmmaker mode. A few feet away, the school security guards, Long and Tate, keep an eye on them. Those two are always on some mess. Nobody wants to say it, but if you’re black or brown, you’re more likely to end up on their radar, even though Long himself is black.
Malik glances up from his phone. “You okay, Bri?”
“Go on now,” Long calls. “Don’t be lollygagging around here.”
I open my mouth, but Sonny goes, “Let’s just go, Bri.”
Fine. I follow Sonny and Malik toward the doors and glance at my phone.
It’s 4:45, and Hype still hasn’t called.
A city bus ride and a walk home later, nothing.
I get to my house at exactly 5:09.
Jay’s Jeep Cherokee is in our driveway. Gospel music blares in the house. It’s one of those upbeat songs that leads to a praise break at church and Grandma running around the sanctuary, shouting. It’s embarrassing as hell.
Anyway, Jay only plays those kinda songs on Saturdays when it’s cleaning day to make me and Trey get up and help. It’s hard to cuss as somebody sings about Jesus, so I get up and clean without a word.
Wonder why she’s playing that music now.
A chill hits me soon as I step in the house. It’s not as cold as outside—I can take my coat off—but my hoodie’s gonna stay on. Our gas got cut off last week, and with no gas, we don’t have heat. Jay put an electric heater in the hallway, but it only takes a bit of the chill out of the air. We have to heat water in pots on the electric stove if we wanna take hot baths and we sleep with extra covers on our beds. Some bills caught up with my mom and Trey, and she had to ask the gas company for an extension. Then another one. And another one. They got tired of waiting for their money and just cut it off.
It happens.
“I’m home,” I call from the living room.
I’m about to toss my backpack and my coat onto the couch, but Jay