15
ZIGGY
S
he was there.
Her
. She stood by his locker with books cradled to her chest, and a wide smile. Ziggy locked eyes with her, and his world paused. He couldn't understand for the life of him what it was about this girl that made her different from the others. But there was something. Throwing on his suave, he bit his bottom lip a bit, tried to look secure, hard around the edges even. He couldn't let her know he was soft on her. There was no way he'd show his hand first. If anyone was going to admit they liked the other, she had to do it first. He had a rep to protect and maintain, and pretty or not, he wasn't going to let her ruin his title.
Her smile widened when he was two steps from her, and he recognized she had deep dimples he hadn't before noticed. She also had the straightest teeth he'd ever seen, and her eyes lit. Everything about her said
I'm the girl for you.
If only he knew her name.
“Ziggy,” she said, stepping toward him. “You want to come by my house some time to practice? We have a makeshift studio in the basement with mirrors, a ballet bar, and everything.”
He wanted to smile. Grin. Cheese or something, but he didn't. He just gave her a slight head nod. He was a dude, he couldn't show his emotions. No, there would be absolutely no girlin' for himâon the surface, anyway. He was going to play it cool. “Word? When you wanna do that?”
She shrugged. “Whenever. My parents work kinda late, so I was thinking either after school or during our supplemental time ... if we have the same schedule. It might be best if we were alone. Ya know what I mean?”
They had the same schedule, at least they did or would as far as Ziggy was concerned. He'd skip class to hang out with her at her house, especially alone. He looked at his watch as if his answer was on his wrist, then pressed his lips together in thought. “I think I can swing that. I gotta check on my vending tableâI'm an entrepreneur. I own my own businessâmaybe you can come with me, then we can shoot over to your crib.” He searched her eyes for a hint of excitement, interest, something. Heck, he worked for himself, and that should've been impressive.
She nodded. “Okay. Meet me at the front exit for supplemental.”
“Cool,” Ziggy said aloud, but inside he was screaming:
What's it gonna take to get with you? Do you know who I am? Didn't you just hear me say I'm an entrepreneur ?
“What up, Ziggy?” Wheez, dressed like a hoodlum, stopped and said. She had an apple in her hand and a smirk on her face.
Ziggy nodded. “What up, Wheez? Got any more apples?”
She reached in her pocket, pulled one out, and began to shine it on her shirt.
Ziggy reached over and snatched the apple. “C'mon, Wheez! You're rubbing your germs on my apple.” He walked to the water fountain across the hall, and rinsed it under the small stream. Turning around, he did a double take at Wheez. “Why are you dressed like that anyway?”
“Acting. I'm trying out for a part. We're doing
Set It Off
, and I want Latifah's role.”
“Oh, you got it. Trust me.”
“So you know I hooked up Reese with Broke-Upâ”
Before Ziggy knew it, he'd snatched Wheez in the empty room next to the fountain. “Wheez!”
“Hey! If you don't get your hands off me, Z, there's gonna be desks moving up in here. You lost your mind?”
Ziggy let her go, and began to pace. “Wheez! Do you know what you just done?”
Wheez crossed her arms, and looked at him cross-eyed. “Nope!” she said, biting into the apple. “But you're gonna tell me or I'm gonna get into character for real, Z. Then I'm gonna mop you across this floor. Putting your hands on me...”
Ziggy hopped up on a desk, and laid it all out for Wheez. It bothered him to share his business, to expose that he'd been living a double life, but he had no choice. None of his classmates except Rikki knew he had to hide his talent from his family.
Wheez shook her head. “Z, my bad. I'm sorry. I had no idea. I'll fix it, or at least I'll try. And maybe you should consider acting too. You've done a heck of a job of it already, may as well bank you some school credit for it. And another thing, you can get the money for school. You got the money on your finger.”
Ziggy looked down at the diamond ring his granddad had willed him, and realized Wheez had a point. It would kill him to do it, but he did have an option.
Â
Wheez's words still rang clear while he watched the busy New Yorkers move in fast-forward haste. Paying attention, he finally realized one thing about the city that he'd never noticed before because he was too busy. All the quick-footed people seemed to be after something and moving at jet speed to get it. Ziggy closed his eyes in the middle of the sidewalk, absorbed the quick energy that whooshed by him in a storm of footsteps, and decided if he wanted everything to be okay, he had to act like it would be. He was going after what he wanted, and he couldn't do any better than that. Choosing determination and positivity, he looked over at
her
as she walked next to him, and wondered if he should ask her name.
Nah
, he thought. Broke-Up would do that for him when he brought her to the table. That way, he wouldn't look so stupid and stuck-up. He didn't want to appear to be so arrogant that he didn't even know her name. They'd danced together, he'd touched her hips, her sweat had blended with his. They were almost a couple, they'd grooved that close.
“Z, what the deal?” Broke-Up asked, smiling, looking from Ziggy to the girl, then back to Ziggy again. As usual, the music was loud. The scent surrounding the table was sweet from burning incense, and two customers were walking away with plastic bags with purses and other items. All good things.
“What's up?” Ziggy looked at Broke-Up, shifting his eyes toward the girl like
Say something.
“We need to stock any more items? You straight on cash? I'm asking 'cause I'm getting ready to get out of dodge for a minute.”
Broke-Up shifted his eyes back and forth, clearly not getting Ziggy's hint. “What? What?” he kept whispering.
“Ziggy, we have to go. We don't have much time,” she said, looking at her watch.
Broke-Up snatched Ziggy by his sleeve, then bent toward his ear. “Ooh. Time for what, Z? What y'all getting ready to do?”
“Hey. You two. Let me see your vending license.”
Ziggy froze. The voice couldn't belong to anyone else but a cop. He looked at Broke-Up, and Broke-Up shrugged his shoulders.
16
JAMAICA-KINCAID
H
er parents were coming. They were coming, calling, and looking for her. Jamaica shook her head, gulped her fear, and went into actress mode. How she'd skated through Connecticut and into New York so long without them discovering her secretâher lieâwas beyond her. Deep inside though, she had to admit, she knew the time would come when she'd have to face reality and bite the proverbial bullet she knew would be shooting her way. As a teenager, there was no way she could get away with tricking them forever. She was still under their care, hogtied with their parental power, and she could feel her freedom tick-tocking away. But she wouldn't let them stomp the life out of her acting bug, as she was sure they'd call it. What she had wasn't a bug, common colds were that. She had a real live dream that they couldn't step on and crush.
“Morning, Mother!” Jamaica said, shifting the computer toward the corner of her room that she'd dressed with beautiful fabric the theater no longer needed. She looked behind her, and nodded at the damask-covered stack of milk crates that looked like a high-end table, and was topped off by an equally appealing lamp. From her parents' end, she was sure it looked like she was sitting in the lap of luxury.
“Jamaica. Jamaica?” her mother's voice asked.
And there it was, Jamaica thought. Her mother's face blurred to oblivion, as it popped up on the screen, clearly too close to the camera as usual. She was also loud, which Jamaica expected.
“Oh, technical difficulties again, Brad. We really need to invest in some new equipment,” her mom was complaining to her dad.
Jamaica's head rotated side to side. It was really a shame how her mother could never get the Skype thing right. “Good morning, Mother!” she greeted her again, chipper as ever.
“Ahh. There she is, Brad. Do you see her? Good morning, Jamaica. Can you see me? Do you hear me?”
The milky skin, perfect makeup, and huge diamonds were shown on the monitor in such clarity, she almost didn't see her. Her mother's extras shined brighter than she did, but Jamaica saw her. In fact, she looked at her every morning in the mirror, and it bothered her that she was so pretty. Pretty was for puppies and models. Jamaica wanted to be taken serious, be the go-getter like her dad.
“I see you, Mother. How are you? Where are you?” Jamaica had to ask. She'd received the text from her sister this morning that her parents were on their way to Connecticut. She hadn't sent the money Jamaica needed, but she gave information. She couldn't ask for better than that. Well, she reasoned, she couldn't afford better than that because that's exactly what she'd been paying for, according to her sister's message. Somehow they'd agreed to Jamaica paying all of her money to her sister for info, never mind that she needed to eat and get to school. Her sister didn't care about that.
But
, Jamaica shrugged,
that's what little rich girls had a habit of ... not caring.
But why would they? she questioned. They hadn't a care in the world.
“We're on the plane to see you,” her mom yelled into the speakers.
Hunh?!
Panic rolled in immediately. “When are you getting thâI mean, here?”
Her dad popped up on the screen now, his face in front of her mother's. “Couple of stops first, darling. I'd say ...” He turned his back on her, asked someone else, probably one of his assistants she hadn't yet met: “What is our Connecticut ETA?”
She couldn't make out whatever whoever said, but it sounded like a bit too soon for her comfort. “Well, Father, I may not be in Connecticut if it's a weekend. Gully has this thing in New York, and I'm going with. She needs my motivation,” she threw out as a hook since her dad was a motivational guru and coach. “Plus, I told her I'd help her and some of the other cast members with makeup from Mom's line.”
There, that should do it. Two baits, hooks, and, hopefully, bites.
Brad moved back in front of the camera, clearly more tech savvy than her mom. “When, darling?”
“I'm sorry, let me look. When did you say you were coming again?” She pretended to scour her calendarâher academic one, where she'd normally write everything down because the boarding school insisted. It was now empty, of course. But it looked good on camera, she was sure.
“Two weekends from now, darling. Mix-up in the schedule, I'm afraid,” he said, pronouncing schedule like shedge-dual.
“Nope. No good,” Jamaica answered, then flashed her calendar at the screen too fast for anyone to make out.
“Well, we're coming to you. I'd love to see how much you've motivated Gully, and I know Mother would like nothing more than to see how her line works on stage.”
She touched her wrist to see if she still had a pulse. She was sure she was going to die, or would very soon from acting malnutritionâa disease her parents would inflict on her once they found her out.
Â
“I have to quit. I know I have to,” she said to Mateo as they walked the halls.
Music blasted; people sang, mimed, got into their respective arts as if they were the only ones in the hall. Mateo gave a pound to a few guys, winked at a couple of girls.
“Do you hear me, Teo?” she asked, cutting his name in half.
He stopped, placed both of his hands on her shoulders, and gave her his full attention. “No, you
don't
. We don't quitâactors
never
quit. We just take on new roles. Life is a production.”
“It certainly is. And what's this I hear about your quitting?” Mr. S. asked.
“Okay, now I'm going to die,” Jamaica uttered, not sure how Mr. S. had snuck up on them and, more importantly, how she was going to explain. “In the theater now!” he ordered in a serious tone that didn't match his cotton-candy pants and red, black, and green tunic. Jamaica's eyes stretched. Sure enough, Mr. S. had on a Black Power African-inspired tunic, pink slacks, yellow flip-flops, and, to make the color-clashing gods happy, a Jewish yarmulke on his head. And Mr. S. was neither black nor Jewish, but definitely confused, she decided.
In seconds they were in the theater, and Jamaica did her best to explain her situation, leaving out that she was basically half of a runaway because she wasn't totally missing, and that she lived alone. She made it clear that her parents would make her leave Harlem CAPA, and even clearer on it being her dream that she wouldn'tâcouldn'tâgive up.
Mr. S. nodded, looked off into the distance, then threw his hands in the air. He stood proud, made his declaration with the top of his lungs: “We act our way through this. That's what we do. Act.”
Jamaica looked at him crossways. “Can't you get fired?”
“For what? Teaching you, Jamaica? I'm not sneaking. I'm not lying. And neither are you. You're acting. Your whole stint here has been an act. Your conversationâ lies, all acting. Fix it. Get into character. But you will not quit. Would you like me to talk to them?”
Jamaica took a long look at Mr. S. She knew he meant well, but there was no way she could put him in front of her parents. Not looking the way he always did. They'd think he was base, lowâa clown. “Sorry, Mr. S., and no offense, really. But they'd never take you serious ... not with the way you dress.”
He bounded, paced. “I'm an actor, young lady. I can become anything and anyone, including royalty ... or a Rockefeller who owns a school for artists, but will include leadership studies next semester.” He nodded and smiled, pleased with himself.
And Jamaica was just as pleased. “That may work, Mr. S. It may.”