I Rise

I drained all the color out of Harlem. I made the wind so angry it’s pounding on the window like po-po at the front door. I even made the tree branches mad-so mad, they bend away from me. Everyone who looks out the window thinks it’s just a cold, gray day in September, but I know the truth: Harlem is giving me the side-eye.

But despite my neighborhood’s tantrum, I will follow through with my plans. I can’t keep putting it off. I had all summer to break the news to my mother and I didn’t. I stayed silent. Well, no more.

Do you hear me, Harlem? You can howl and roar all you want; today is the day I claim my freedom.

I nod pointedly at the window and turn my attention back to homeroom. We’re only a week into the new school year and most of the students have already broken up into groups.

There’s a bunch of guys in the back of the room gathered in a circle. They bounce in rhythm to the music coming from their mini speaker. I call them the Knights, short for “Knights of the Hip-Hop Round Table.” They love hip-hop and live to argue about every aspect of it. Their discussions are generally peaceful- except for the time they were arguing about who the greatest rapper was and someone said “Drake.”

Drake?

Seriously?

Sitting across from the Knights are a group of girls with long nails and even longer weaves. They’re perfectly put together, from their sculpted eyebrows to their designer boots. For them, mirrors are a religion and Rihanna is their high priestess. I call them the Narcs after Narcissus, the hunter in Greek mythology who was so vain, he fell in love with his own reflection.

But don’t get it twisted-vain doesn’t always mean stupid. Last year they held a workshop during lunch called Lace Front for Beginners. They charged twenty bucks a head and cleaned up. And now they have their own YouTube channel, with over three hundred thousand followers.

A few feet away from the Narcs is a small tribe of kids with their heads buried in their textbooks. In addition to their love of all things academic, they have an affinity for old-school stuff- like Richard Pryor T-shirts and Nintendo games. I don’t know why, but something about the past seems to make them really happy. So, I call them Vintage.

Standing in the opposite corner are the basketball players and cheerleaders. They don’t get a nickname. God already gave them enough.

I look up at the clock on the wall; class will start soon. I go to unzip my backpack, but I feel a sharp pain just below my shoulder.

“Ow!” I shout as I turn to the desk behind me.

“Hello? I asked you a question,” my best friend, Naija, says. “What are you doing later?”

“Looking for new friends, ones who don’t resort to violence to get my attention,” I grumble as I try to inspect the mark she left on me.

“Girl, I called your name three hundred times. And as usual, you were dumbing out.” I’m sure she only called my name once or twice; Naija’s being extra. It’s her way.

I turn toward her and playfully announce, “Queen Naija, oh great one, I’m sorry I wasn’t listening. Please honor me with your sacred thoughts.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do you wanna come to my house later?”

“I can’t. I’m having dinner with my mom. Tonight’s the night.” Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. “You’re gonna tell your mom today? For real this time?”

“Yeah. I have a plan. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Well, knowing your mama, it better be good,” she warns me. One of the girls from Narc-Joy Mitchell-looks up from her pink compact and calls out to me, “Ayo, I saw the words ‘How Much?’ spray-painted on the back wall of the precinct on One Thirty-Fifth and at the nail shop by my house.”

One of the Knights shouts, “My girl Toni said she saw it on a sticker in front of the post office and the supermarket. And yesterday, I saw it on a banner outside the laundromat.”

“I’ve seen it all over the place too. Girl, your mom knows how to get people’s attention,” Naija adds.

She’s right. My mom knows how to get noticed. She’s responsible for all the spray-painted signs, stickers, and banners throughout Harlem. They all ask the same thing: “How Much?”

When I walk by anything that’s been spray-painted with that question, a pool of ice forms in the pit of my stomach. It’s a reminder of what I have to do later today, and it makes me queasy. Thankfully, I don’t have to think about it too much, because our new history teacher enters.