Shed So Many Tears – Book Excerpt
CHAPTER 2

“Dawg, you gotta turn down the sounds when you push through this early,” Malik said as he settled into the front seat.
Drizzle killed the music. “Since when you don’t want me comin’ through beatin’, nigga?”
“Since momz almost went into cardiac arrest after her walls started shakin’,” he laughed.
“Damn, my fault.” Drizzle looked worried. “I thought she hit it to work already.” He stared toward the house. “She salty at me?”
“She won’t hold it against you. Just keep it down when she’s at the crib,” he advised. “Or we’re both bound to get stood on.”
Drizzle dipped out into traffic. “No doubt.”
Malik picked up the joystick and powered up the Sony Playstation. “Ya kinda early. What’s the b.i.”
Drizzle got geeked. “I wrapped my first demo last night, and I’m tellin’ you, fam. I’m lyrically diggin’ in niggas’ chests,” he jacked. “Six cuts of uncut product.”
“Straight P?” Malik asked.
“Straight P, no mix,” he confirmed. “And ya know I’m obligated to give you the young exclusive.” He aimed the remote at the Pioneer DVD Flipout. “The beats are so-so but ya boy spit it ridic’. Check it.” He subbed the sounds. The four 12 inch Kicker Solo Barics started breathing thru the back seats. All the mirrors vibrated along with Malik’s whole being. They bobbed their heads and exchanged nods of approval. Drizzle rapped along with his recorded vocals, gripping the steering wheel with one hand, gesticulating with the other to add emphasis to what he was spittin’:
“…Cut me in or cut it out, don’t give me
the cold shoulda/ ya either roll wit’ us
or you get rolled over/ livin’ everyday
like it’s my last day/ I only know how to
get dough inna fast way/ …”
From the chorus he went into the verses. Drizzle twisted up his mouth like a man intent on convincing the world that he’s the undisputed truth. Both boys swayed in perfect unison. Each track got them more geeked. By the time the last one ended, they were riding high on the waves of adrenaline rushes.
“Fam, you zoned out,” Malik complimented. They pounded fists.
“We ‘bout to bizzle, my nizzle,” Drizzle said, “Now all I need is that right industry plug and it’s curtains for cats’ careers. Cut us in or cut it out.” They drove up and parked in front of Rufus King High School. All eyes fell on Drizzle’s Chevy. The routine admiration didn’t give Malik much of a thrill this morning. He focused on the future. “When you comin’ back to the classroom?” he asked, shutting down the video game. “You know our minds need to weigh a ton for what’s to come. Feel me?”
“I do need to pick back up those books,” he acknowledged thoughtfully. “Been so caught up on this paper chase, try’na--” the soft tap on the driver’s window stopped him in mid-sentence. There stood a bevy of smiling girls. Drizzle relaxed, shifted into playa-mode, and lowered the window. “What’s up, pretty young tenders?” he greeted with debonair flare.
One of the girls eased closer, her smile expanding. “What’s up, ‘Dre and Malik?” said Kila. She shared 4th hour lunch with Malik. He’d scoped her and her buddies out on a couple occasions, but never tried to holler. It wasn’t no secret that Kila’s crew were certified dime pieces and they all stayed fitted in the slickest fashions, year round. And Kila stood the baddest P.Y.T. of them all, hands down. Rumor had it that she only messed with ballin’ cats, years older than Malik. “I wanted to invite y’all to my birthday party on Friday,” Kila told them. “I’m throwing it down at Kemet Quarters.”
Kemet Quarters? thought Malik. This was the hottest, most jumpin’ club in the Miltown. A ghetto tycoon named Prophet Kemet owned it. Malik and Drizzle had wanted to make their presence felt ever since it first opened its doors last summer. But the 21-and-older policy got religiously enforced. The closest Malik and his underage peers got was the parking lot. All of the grown ballers, hustlers, stunnas, fly chicks, and other patrons rode up in their fly whips, hopped out, and strutted and strolled up to the club, getting in with no problem. Drizzle would’ve been cool with getting in just on Fridays, during the Flow Session. On these nights, the owner booked known acts or allowed locals to perform. Drizzle even planned to hit the highway to Illinois for a fake I.D.
So Kila’s invitation piqued their curiosity. Drizzle was on it. “I’d love to shoot through and party,” he assured Kila, “but K.Q. card at the door every whop. So unless you can pull a rabbit outta hat, we’re burnt up.”
Kila didn’t conceal her pride. “No need for tricks,” she said. “My uncle P owns K.Q. He said I can have my party there, but it’s going to be more like a teen night.”
Malik was with that!
Drizzle’s game face was on. “Can we get V.I.P. status?”
Kila leaned closer. “Baby, you can have it all if you put your mind to it.”
Drizzle leaned closer too. “In that case, it’s a wrap. Me and my nigga will have our face inna place.”
Kila dug in her purse. “Here’s my number.” She handed it through the window. “Call me if you have any last minute questions… about the party or whatever else,” she smiled flirtatiously, like she was inviting him to more than one kind of party. “My name is on there too.”
Drizzle scanned over the info. “Killa, huh?” he smiled. “Drop dead gorgeous Killa?”
Corny, thought Malik as he suppressed a chuckle. Kila smiled from earring to earring. “It’s Kila,” she corrected him. “You emphasize the ‘i’ sound.” The girls giggled. Malik wondered if he mispronounced her name on purpose.
“Malik, why you so quiet?” one of Kila’s buddies asked.
He didn’t know her name but recognized her face and dug what he saw. “I’m just coolin’, layin’ in the cut,” he replied.