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Authors: Kelli London

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BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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3
ZIGGY
T
eachers, students, visitors, dancers, singers, actresses, musicians—all of the female persuasion—were tempting Ziggy as they made their way down the hallway. He didn't let one pass without scanning her with his X-ray vision—his pretend Superman power, but, still, for him and his vivid imagination it worked as if it were real, and he was sure he could see all of their underwear. Bikinis, thongs, little lacy racy numbers that climbed cheeks and inflicted wedgies, even granny panties, he believed he could see them all, and he loved them all. Even the grannies. He shook his head, walking on the tile with confidence. Tryouts for the major dance competition were only a few minutes away, and he was ready. He had to show the judges—the school, the world—that he had what it took to shine and, hopefully, ballet and hip-hop his way into a scholarship and a part of the prize money. Harlem CAPA was expensive. He didn't know how much longer he could get Broke-Up to hold down his vending table while he went to school, and his tuition depended on the sale of bootleg designer purses and burned CDs.
His head turned left, then bounced right. He shook it in disbelief. Where did all these fine specimens come from? he wondered, barely able to walk straight. There was a sea of female pheromones drifting down the halls, and, happily, he was drowning in them. If only someone would look at him, give him a sign that they were interested so he could holler at them. As badly as he wanted to flirt, he was used to being prey.
Before he could pick one girl from the crowd that he had to have, someone snatched him inside a doorway and slammed him against the wall, his back bouncing off of it with a loud thud. Like a flash, his assailant was all over him, covering his eyes with a hand. Though he couldn't see, relief swooped through him. A dainty hand, all soft and warm, made him feel better. Figuring out his attacker was female made his heart dance instead of race. But who was she? Pulling the soft palm away from his skin, he still couldn't make her out. She was too close and swift, and the vestibule was too dark. He hadn't seen her coming, and really didn't care from where she'd come. All he knew was that she was there, holding him hostage, and planting kisses on his cheeks and forehead like he was a baby, and she kept mumbling something that sounded sweet.
She'd appeared out of nowhere like a ghost, but she sure didn't smell like one, he discovered. Her aroma was delicious.
Ah ...
he thought, that's how he'd be able to tell who she was. Her scent. Inhaling deeply, he drew the sweetness into his lungs.
Vanilla-honey like pretty-girl Chance from one hundred thirty-eighth? No. Maybe it's the softness of jasmine I smelled on La-La, the thin baby- face girl with the sultry voice? No. Or is it lavender like Moni, the bohemian-looking sista with the power to relax people like her scent? No again.
Ziggy shook his head. The girl didn't smell like any of the girls in his mental Rolodex. He shut his eyes tighter, hoping one turned-off sense would heighten another, and he'd be able to sniff his way to an answer. He had to because heaven and earth forbid he call out the wrong name. The last time he'd done that, he'd limped for two days, lost a girlfriend and a dance competition because he couldn't compete due to crazy-girl-inflicted injuries.
“What, you forgot me already?” the unknown girl mumbled in his ear, still planting kisses from his forehead to his chin.
Ziggy decided to play dirty. He cocked his head to the side, almost sure he could place the voice. If only he could get her to speak again. “Wow. You that forgettable? That's too bad.”
A hand pushed back his head, murking him. “Shuddup, Z. You ain't nevva gonna be able to forget me ... not after this summer.”
There. He had her. He reared back his head, peeked a little, and was blinded by a chipped tooth. “Nakeeda!?” He stomped his foot, and pushed past her. “Nakeeda!?
Ill.
Are you crazy?”
“You ain't think I was crazy weeks ago,” she reminded him, making his stomach turn. “You was all over me like heat in the summertime. Wait—it
was
hot and summertime.”
“Ooh,” someone said, then crashed to the floor sounding like a bag of bricks.
Ziggy took that as his cue to walk, jumping back like the sound scared him. But it only took one look for him to switch from fear to laughter. A glance at the sneaker, scuffed on the toe with black marks, told him who'd taken the spill. “Half-Dead? That you ... again?”
Half-Dead turned his face toward Ziggy and cursed. “Can you believe somebody tripped me?” he asked, fumbling the truth.
“Yeah, you tripped you. You were dancing again, hunh?” Ziggy held his stomach in laughter, one finger pointing toward Half-Dead on the floor.
Nakeeda made her appearance, stepping out of the recessed doorway. “Half-Dead, you do know your foot's dead, right?” she pointed out, then crossed her arms under her breasts.
“Shuddup, chip-tooth. My whole foot ain't dead. Just half of it. My toes.” He looked at Ziggy with a what-were-you-doing-with-her look. “I know y'all ain't together. Can't be that bad out here, playa.”
“You shuddup, dead foot! I'm a catch!” Nakeeda declared.
Half-Dead managed to get up from the floor. He hopped on his good foot. “Yeah, you a catch, all right. Somebody gone mess around and catch something from you.”
Ziggy laughed again.
“You ain't with her right, Z?”
Ziggy shook as if he were a dog shaking water off his fur. The thought of him and Nakeeda got under his skin, and he'd blamed the summer mistake on heat exhaustion, lack of sleep, and that tiny bathing suit she'd worn that had left nothing to the imagination. “Nope! I gotta go. I'll see y'all around.” He walked away, ignoring her threats and insults.
“Z! Z! Over here,” another familiar voice called.
Ziggy followed the voice. “Rikki! The only love of my life who I don't love like that, what's up?” he asked, pushing his way through the crowded hallway until he reached her, glad to be free of Nakeeda, that chipped tooth, and the fastness that made her too easy for him to want. In one quick reach, he pulled Rikki into a bear hug and swung her around. “Where've you been? I was calling you, knocking on your window to see if I could crash at your crib after the dance-offs today. You know, basically trying to track you down. But no Rikki.” He shook his head, and released her from his brotherly hug. “What, you finally found you someone worthy or something? You cakin' and boo-loving, Slick Rik?” he teased.
Rikki swept her long curls from her face and smiled. “That's you, player-player. I'm not into all that. So you ready for the competition?” she asked.
Ziggy held a finger to his mouth, looked around for Nakeeda, then nodded. Was he ready? He was more than prepared for the tryouts and the girl he knew was in there waiting on him, but just didn't know it yet. “Let's be clear, there is no competition. I am
the
man. And let's not forget, these are the auditions for the auditions.”
It was Rikki's turn to laugh. “Right, I forgot. You have to try out just to be able to make the real tryouts.” She stuck her finger into his chest. “And yes, you're the man a'ight. The man who's hiding his ballet slippers!”
Ziggy snatched Rikki by her arm, pulling her down the hallway. “Shoes, Rik. Shoes. Slippers are for fairies. I rock Timbs and sneakers—and audiences and girls, when I perform.”
“And obviously a clouded perspective like your family.
‘Fairies,'
really? We talk like that now?” She pushed open the door to the room where the competition was being held.
And there she was.
Her
. Ziggy's eyes bulged at the love of his life, whom he'd been admiring since a year ago when he'd spotted her at another competition. “Dang, Rik. You see her? I gotta have her,” he proclaimed, meaning every word. He'd never been affected by a girl the way he was now.
Rikki rolled her eyes.
Beautiful and alone.
Ziggy admired her from behind. Fresh twists. Greased scalp gleaming under the bright lights. A body to die for, be resurrected for, and drop dead for again. Immediately, he dropped his bag, seeing a chance to dance his way into her life. She clearly needed a partner, and he was just the one. As if the gods were smiling down on him, the track she grooved to switched from fast R & B to a hip-hop reggae mix, both his specialties. With a sly smile on his face, he looked over at Rikki, and winked. Before this song came on he'd known he had the ability to get her attention, but with the island-infused hip-hop beat, he was certain he could rock her and hold it. In seconds, he was feet from her, and he only broke his groove to fan himself from the heat. Just looking at the girl had made him warm. Caused him to lose concentration. He kicked off his shoes and closed his eyes, and focused on the hardwood under his bare feet. He'd gotten lost in the music again, and mentally traveled back in time to Jamaica, where he'd learned and perfected a very masculine version of the Dutty Wine.

You can do it, Z! Dance. Show dem gals there how we do,
” his brother's words rang loud within. He opened his eyes, the words drowning out any hesitation he'd had about tantalizing the fine specimen in front of him and making him cut loose. This type of dancing his family wouldn't object to. He could wind all day, and they wouldn't question his manhood or sexual preference. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he worked his way behind the girl, and grabbed her hips. Normally, he'd have been too forward, disrespectful even. But not today, not with her. She was too good for his normal tactics.
“Allow me,” Ziggy whispered in her ear when he felt her stiffen. “Relax, sweet girl, it's only a dance.” Quickly he spun her, pulled her into him, then arched her backward, sweeping her long braids back and forth on the studio floor. In an upside-down U, she became his puppet, and he worked her magic better than many professional conga dancers. He got extremely low with it, repeatedly made her shoulder blades touch the floorboards like he'd learned watching couples dance on TV.
Touch. Lift. Touch. Lift. Touch
.
Hold. Caress.
He repeatedly ordered the girl's shoulder blades, his body no longer dancing with hers on the hardwood but making a love connection. Sexily, he swayed her curved form to the music as the girl shook her bosom and tastefully thrust her hips. He unfolded her into a stance, their faces close enough to inhale each other's breath. Immediately, he released his weight to the ground, dropping to his knees in front of her, and then prowled tigerlike on all fours while his pelvis gyrated in sync with the heavy drums. Sweat formed on his brow as he danced harder, and tried to outdo the other dancers who'd begun to spill into the audition room. He was competitive. Used to being the best. He loved attention, and now wanted to captivate not only the fine girl, but the instructor he'd noticed walking in. The girl locked eyes with him, lending him her energy. Her smile was megawatt, and her body was flexible, Ziggy noticed as he took her in one last time before closing his eyes. Later he could daydream about her, maybe even talk to her. But it was showtime now, and he had to focus.
“You two,” the instructor said, slicing Ziggy's flow. He pointed at Ziggy and the girl. “You're partners.”
Ziggy tilted his head. “I thought this was a singles' competition.”
The instructor, resembling more of a scientist than a dancer, scratched her head. “It is, but there's also a couples'. If you don't want to be a part of it ...”
“Oh, count us in; we're a part of it. We're in.” Ziggy looked at the girl, smiling. Now he had three competitions to look forward to. The singles. The couples. And the biggest one of them all—getting the girl.
4
JAMAICA-KINCAID
H
er phone vibrated before she reached the corner where she was supposed to turn. Jamaica moved her locks out of her face, adjusted her wire-rimmed sunglasses, and stopped walking. She'd been waiting to hear from Gully, her old dorm mate, about an upcoming audition that Gully couldn't make. She whipped the phone out of the case, read Gully's text, and smiled. Jamaica didn't know how she'd pulled it off, but she had. After only days in Harlem, Jamaica already had her first shot at a real acting gig. A teensy part but, still, a chance.
“You
lost
?” a guy's voice asked from behind.
Jamaica turned, looked up, and grinned at the fine man-child towering at least a foot and a half above her. Dark hair, emerald-green eyes, and deep copper skin gave away his Spanish heritage. He was gorgeous. And she guessed his male beauty wasn't only skin deep because his face wore a look of concern, told her that he was caring and not just good looking. She didn't know why she was smiling at him, because he hadn't a hint of a grin. He was just so cute, and there was something welcoming about his expression.
“I don't think so.” She pulled her schedule from her pocket, and glanced at the school's address.
Now he smiled. “Let me
see
that.” He reached for the paper, then read it. “
Oh
, you're here already. It's just around a couple corners. I'm going the same way.
Follow
me.”
Jamaica nodded, then did as he instructed. “So you go to CAPA too?”
He nodded. “Yep,
and
believe it or not, I also
go
to your apartment building.”
Jamaica froze. She'd heard many things about New York, not all of them good, and now she worried. How did he know where she lived?
“We're
neighbors
,” he explained, stopping next to her. “Don't worry, I'm not one of the
crazies
. I live across the hall from you. I left right after you this morning, then we were in the train station together. I'm surprised you didn't
see
me.” He laughed. “You know you
really
need to be more observant. There aren't too many people who look like you in the neighborhood.” He offered her his hand. “I'm Mateo.”
Jamaica introduced herself, feeling even better than she had seconds ago. It wasn't because he was super cute. She wasn't attracted to him like that, and he didn't seem to be interested in her either. It was his vibe. He was just cool in an intoxicating wanna-hang-around-him way. Plus it was nice to meet someone who went to the same school, and shared a neighborhood. Now she didn't feel so alone.
“So what's
your
art?” he asked, after they'd resumed walking, and turned the corner.
“I'm an actress. You?”
He smiled, then shrugged. “Let's just say I'm a
late
bloomer. I'm pretty good at most arts: music, singing, dancing, etcetera, etcetera. They want me to act or sing, but I don't know
what
I want to do yet.” He pulled open the heavy metal school door and held it open for her. “So you wanna eat together at lunch? I can introduce you to some people. This is my second year here, and I'm pretty
pop
ular 'cause, ya know, my extraordinary personality is just
so
magnetic that no one can resist,” he teased.
Jamaica shrugged and raised her brows. “Depends on what you're doing later. Say, around three?”
Mateo mimicked her, shrugging his shoulders and raising his brows too. “
Whatever
. As long as we keep brow lifting
and
shrugging, count me in!”
She laughed, not only at his joke, but at the fact that he stressed at least one word in everything he said. It was hilarious and such a contrast to his handsomeness. “Deal. Well, since your personality is
so
extraordinary
and
magnetic, I could use company on the way to this audition I have. Maybe some of your magnetism can rub off on me before we get there, and then they won't be able to resist my acting skills.”
 
“You call that acting? Can you
act
like you can
act
?”
Great, another guy inflecting words
. Jamaica almost fainted from anger. She couldn't believe this mess of a man in front of her berating her talents. But he was the genius in charge, and she was desperate. But, if she could've slapped him with the director's chair and still gotten what she'd wanted, she would've hit him with the piece of furniture twice. Hard. Shattered his face, his ego, and his pride like he was doing to her confidence. But she wasn't even close to violent, and she couldn't knock him down even if she really wanted, so she swallowed her anger and crossed her tanned legs. She repositioned herself in the uncomfortable seat. Settling back, she cut her eyes low, looked up at Maritzio, the Italian director who was a gift to the American movies. The latest hotshot, he commanded top pay and the best actors. He also liked new blood.
Jamaica rotated her ankle, and ordered her hands not to wring one another or his neck. Nervous wasn't the word for the shaken energy moving through her or the anger firing up her pulse. If she proved herself, impressing Maritzio with the talents she knew were hiding deep within but didn't seem to want to surface, her opportunities would shuttle to the heavens. If he continued to ridicule her with his uncensored slights, any chance she had would be dead because she'd shuttle him across the room, face-first into the wall. She was there for an acting gig, a chance to be glimpsed so she could eventually be watched. Gully had been nice enough to offer her the chance to audition for the super-small part, but a Hollywood acting career was what she really wanted—what she'd always dreamed. She had to have a chance to show and capture a big-screen audience with her acting abilities, not bore it with a second-rate B part. Extra parts were easy, and the few lines she was auditioning for weren't too far above extra. Something anyone could do. But Jamaica had something else. A special talent. She could cry on cue, totally suspend the audience's disbelief in seconds like Aristotle wrote about in his
Poetics
, and she'd promised herself that she'd make history. But first she had to win this uppity Maritzio over so he could introduce her to the masses as the star she was destined to be.
“Focus. I need you to blossom, not close up,” he snapped. Literally snapped his fingers at her like she was some lowly waitress taking too long to serve him.
Jamaica nodded. They'd been through this twice already because he knew she had
it
because he'd glimpsed
it
. That's what he'd told her, and she wanted to believe him. If only she could find
it
again, she'd certainly give
it
to him. Nervously, she uncrossed her legs, then lifted her five-foot body from the chair. In a pair of hot-pink shoes, flesh-tone pants, and ratty faux-fur coat, she strode back to the X marking her spot in stage center, and felt the heat of the lights and pressure.
Maritzio gave her the action sign, letting her know it was her turn to give him
it
. Jamaica shivered, crossed her arms over her chest, and prominently stuck out her foot like she'd been instructed. “I'm hungry, mister. Please help. You can have my shoes for a dollar,” she said, hoping she'd delivered her three lines to satisfaction. Maritzio's lips turned up into a smile. Well, his version of a grin.
“Great. Great,” Maritzio praised. It was the way he'd dismissed all the other actors, that's what Jamaica had heard from a few of the ones who had graced the stage before her. And she trusted their words when he set his clipboard on the table next to him. “
Finito
!”
Jamaica walked over to him and shook his hand, thanking him for the opportunity. “Thank you,” she said again, still holding his hand, trying to convince him that she was nice and liked him.
He shook his head and waved away the thanks. “My pleasure, young lady. You're a very talented girl. When you understand that, you'll become it a thousand times over.”
Jamaica smiled, happy for it all to be over, then walked away chastising herself.
Why'd I have to be so eager and shake his hand?
 
The sun spilled its lemon light on the Spanish Harlem neighborhood as cars hustled on both sides of One Hundred Tenth Street. Taxi horns blared at other cabs; drivers yelled at other cabbies to pick up their passengers and move out of their way or get off the street. Kids crossed the wide, busy lanes with slices of pizza, ice cream, and beef patties with cheese. And a Dominican food truck, parked on the corner, provided shade for the teenage boys who shot a game of Cee-lo, all hoping for the four-five-six that'd make them win the pot while someone pushed a cart of frozen ice in tropical flavors. Jamaica surveyed her surroundings and wondered how long she'd be safe. She liked the people, the Spanish music that blared until all times of the night, and the safety that the thugs in the unsafe area provided. If you were in with the ruthless, the bad didn't come after you—that's what Mateo told her. So she was determined to learn the ways and people in her neighborhood. Still, though, she was tempted to pack up and move to Greenwich Village, an artsy and eclectic part of Manhattan where she believed an actor of her talents should bunk, and utilize money her parents could easily send her if she came up with the right lie. But that'd be too hard, especially with her sister receiving her funds. Plus, that would be caving. She had to make it on her own with talent.
“Don't feel bad, Jamaica,” Mateo said, pulling her toward him in a side hug. “This is New York, there's
always
opportunities.”
She forced a smile on her face, then nodded. “I guess you're right. Wanna come by my house for Ramen noodles and cold faucet water? I boiled it last night, so it's cleaner than tap.”
Mateo laughed. “
Ra
men noodles?
Wow
!” He playfully swatted her locks, then swept her outfit with his eyes. “You're rocking
five
-hundred-dollar jeans. That shirt cost at
least
a buck, and I don't even want to guess how much the shoes cost, but last I checked he doesn't make a pair under
four
. What, you
never
heard of a consignment store, or something? I thought girls who looked like
you
ate better.”
Jamaica rolled her eyes. “Girls like me have to eat Ramen noodles until we find jobs. My parents used to buy my clothes, but now I have to support myself, Mateo. And I didn't bring enough clothes with me to even think about consigning any.”
“Aren't you an actress, like theater
and
movies?”
Jamaica nodded. “Sure. I can do any type of acting. And I'd love to work in theater one day. You kind of have to to show you're a serious actor—and definitely for under pay scale, too.”
“Well, if that's the case I give you a definite
no thanks
to the Ramen noodles. I'll pass. But you can come by
my
crib for dinner. My mom's making
el pollo guisado
—Spanish for stewed chicken.”
She nodded, still smiling. This time genuine.

And
maybe ...”
Jamaica bit. “Maybe what?”
“Maybe
you
can talk to my moms. She works for a
couple
of theater people.”
BOOK: Uptown Dreams
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