A Slum Love Crime. (A$AP Rocky Story)

Part Uno

For The Parents of Tremaine Aldo.

I felt like crushing up the stupid envelope as I read those words in Ms. Solomon’s rushed handwriting. It was most likely either a letter notifying my parents that I was failing most of my classes, or a suspension letter. My mother probably wouldn’t want to read it, since she’s too busy reading our bills. This envelope would end up ignored anyway, so why not just throw it out?

I crushed it up in my hand and threw it in the neighbor’s bin, causing an uproar of barking from their pit bull.

“Don’t be throwing your dirty garbage from off the street in my garbage bins, lil’ girl! Them bins is for my OWN garbage, not yours!” The miserable old woman that owned the brownstone yelled at me. I ignored her and fixed my bandana around my head.

The bright afternoon sun was shining at its brightest right before it was to set, leading our neighborhood into night time. That’s when the mob would be running up and down these streets, shouting and playing loud music on their boom boxes.

They were in front of my brownstone apartment building now. Two of them were sitting on the steps, one of them was riding around in circles on his bike, and the one who was holding their attention was sitting on the stair rail rapping.

His name was Rakim. He’s about my age or a few years older than me, but he dropped out of school a few months ago. Most of the boys in Harlem drop out of school around his age, so it was no surprise to his parents or anyone else.

“Tremaine, what’s good girl?” Ferg, one of Rakim’s outlaw friends, asked me. I nodded at him and held on to the straps of my Northface book bag.

“Your momma told me to tell you she ain’t home right now. She said stay in the house ‘till she get home.” Ferg added.

“Sure she did.” I said sarcastically. Ferg’s always high—I can’t trust anything he says.

“I’m serious…she probably left you a note or something. Check when you get inside, ight?”

“Ok, I will.”

I waved goodbye to all of them as I entered my building, and locked eyes with Rakim for a split second. I looked away quickly and rushed in the house.

When I got inside, I checked the cable box for the time…it wasn’t showing time, though. There were four little dashes on the box.

Damn, Momma didn’t pay the cable bill.

I sucked my teeth and dumped my bag on our sofa. It was about 4:00, since school was dismissed about an hour ago. I went in the kitchen to look for something to eat. There was a post-it on our fridge next to the one and only picture I know of my Daddy, where he’s holding me on his lap in the hospital.

Tre, I’m not gonna be home when you get back. Order food, and leave some for me. Do your homework, and Ferg should’ve told you to STAY IN THE HOUSE.

-Momma.

I threw the note on the floor, opened the fridge, and grabbed our almost-empty bottle of juice. I drank it all and threw that in the garbage too, and made my way to my room.

My room isn’t big, but it ain’t small either. I have a bed, a hand-me-down dresser, a lamp, a rug, a mirror, and a nice big window. My favorite thing about my window was the view. It showed the front steps of my building.

I couldn’t care less about all the other people that came into and out of the front door, but there was one particular person I liked to see outside that window.

Yeah, Rakim. I don’t stalk him or anything; it’s just that it feels good to actually see him. When I see him outside, I always look away because it’s too awkward to look him in the eye. This is the only time I get a good look at him.

He’s still rapping down there, about Lord knows what. He’s good, too. One day he’ll probably get famous with his friends.

I walked away from the window and to my mirror. I picked up the brush, took off my black bandana, and did the best I could to brush it down. I was one of the few girls in Harlem that didn’t have to wear weave. My natural brown hair reached a few inches past my shoulders.

I used to get it permed, but Momma hasn’t been able to take me to the salon lately. So I braid it, and then take the braids out and leave it curly like it is now. Besides the fact that I don’t have weave and I’m light-skinned, I pretty much look like all the other girls—clear lip gloss on my full lips, bright eyes, acne from puberty, and a hopeful smile.

The house phone suddenly rang. I ran out to the living room to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Tremaine! What you doin', kiddo?” Shandy, my best friend, screamed into the phone. She was one of the most ghetto people I know, but she’s lovable.

“Nothing, I was just about to go order some Chinese food. Where you at?” I asked her, twirling the phone line around my finger.

“At home, but I’m bored. Wanna go out?”

“Shandy, my Momma said I can’t leave the house. She’s working late.” I informed her.

“SO?! Now you know whenever your Momma works late, that’s your chance to get some time to LIVE! So come on, let’s go out!” Shandy exclaimed.

“And get in trouble? Uh, no thanks.”

“Please?”

“Nah.”

“Please.”

“Shandy!”

“I’m coming over to pick you up.”

“Fine.”

I hung up. And there I go, disobeying my mother again. I hope I don’t get caught. But if I do, it’s nothing new. That’s just how it is.