01|Chapter One
2015, January | Harlem, New York
It was getting cold in Harlem.
It wasn't the type of cold that called for a scarf and some boots. But the blistering cold that picked at any bare skin that you were foolish enough to leave out. It was the type of cold that forced you to pull out your thickest winter coat (no matter how ugly it was) and pull it over. It was the type of cold that forced you to stay inside surrounded by friends and just laugh at all the stupid jokes they make when they were high.
And that's exactly what I was doing now.
It was about six us gathered inside one of my friends, Quentin's house. He was seated on a single couch, and the rest of us, Joey, Leah, Rakim, Deja (Quentin's on and off again girlfriend) and I squeezed onto one of his bigger couches. An instrumental was playing off of the boombox that was hooked up to Quentin's phone. Quentin, much like Rakim and Joey, was a rapper. He was known around the block as Quen. I hadn't heard much of his music, just the one he played around me, but I knew he sounded good. Everyone was high whether it be from the weed, or the second hand smoke that was blowing around.
Quentin insisted that we all freestyle, even Leah, Deja and I, even though I insisted that I wasn't a rapper. But then again, I wasn't a smoker either, but I was feeling somewhat blazed right now, so I didn't argue anymore. Quentin went in on the smooth instrumental that played in the background. His voice was hella deep, and when he rapped, his words slurred together but you could definitely hear the meaning between each verse. He rapped like he had been doing this for ages, when in reality, he just joined the rapping crew about six months ago.
We all nodded our heads to the beat, 'ooh'ing every time he said something deep. Quentin went on for what seemed like hours before he ended his verse with a solid line. I wanted to clap for him, but I knew if I did, I would fuck up the flow that everyone was enjoying.
Rakim went next.
He was more of the goofy one of the group, so compared to Quentin, Rakim's verse was more laid back in chill. Rakim was someone who enjoyed puns, so his raps included a lot of word play and verses that made you want to rewind time and listen to it again, this time, taking in the amazing word tricks he did with his mouth. His verse was a lot shorter than Quentin's, but we nodded our head to the beat anyway, turning toward Joey once Rakim was done.
Joey's rapping skills surprised me.
He was the youngest of the two boys, being only nineteen, my age. He rapped like a true poet, each of his verses (or stanzas) flowing correctly with the last. His words were coming from the heart and you can tell by how each of them told a story. He always made this one face when he was thinking for his next lyric, and when he did state the line, it was as if he had wrote it down. He got dissed a lot for it, and a lot of people called him a "fake rapper" for his freestyles were always deep and "recording label" ready as I liked to call it. It made me even shyer that I had to go after him, he was a tough one to beat.
"So they call me Icy Isis..." I trailed on.
The boys laughed and Deja shook her head at me. I rolled my eyes at them. "Come on, I told you I can't rap." I stated, the instrumental looping over as I talked to them. Quentin shook his head. "Because you hesitated, you gotta rap now." He responded. I pouted, sending him a pitiful face. He smiled at me, laughing but sticking to his word. He leaned his head against Deja's shoulder, giving me a gesture that said "Hurry up, we don't have all day."
Before I could begin rapping, Joey's phone rang. He glanced at us, sending us a look that said sorry before picking up the phone and leaving.
Everyone had a thing about using their phones when around one another. We tended to turn ours off, mostly because in the company of friends, phones shouldn't really matter. Whoever was on the phone with Joey must have been important, for Joey was one of the people to enforce the rules.
