Harlem hands
1439 Words
Jalen
.....
Not a single day had gone by without my mind replaying the moment I opened my admission letter. It had become a tradition, happening multiple times everyday for three weeks, but it ended the same way every single time: my phone's screen dimming over the email I couldn't decide whether to accept or decline. So I just ignored everytime.
I'd gotten accepted into the university. Not just any university, but my dream university. It was something I'd always wanted, but just like the vast majority of my dreams, it was unrealistic.
It was reserved for kids with trust funds, or stable homes. Not for boys like me, scraping engine oil off our nails at Jax's garage. Not for kids like me who slept with singing stomaches, in rooms that could pass for prison cells.
I almost declined multiple times. Not because I didn't want it badly enough, but because the responsibility was just too much and I didn't have a plan. No job, no place to stay in Soho, and no way to afford the kind of life the students lived. Just big dreams—way too big.
Mom could scrap for the tuition, but that was it. I couldn't bear putting such shitload of responsibility on her so I didn't tell her at all.
I'd ranted to Nyla during one of our late night call sessions and she promised to do something, but I took her words with a grain of salt.
She sat cross-legged on the damp mattress, scrolling through her phone with her eyes widened like she was in search of something special.
"Ok. Guess what?!" She adjusted to face me, pressing her phone into her chest.
"You know I'm not good at guessing. Just tell me what the surprise is, and get it over with. With your dramatic ass."
"Come on. Just try..." I remained silent, and she rolled her eyes. "Well... I spoke to my dad, and he agreed to employ you at the workshop. He needs more hands anyway."
My heart skipped. "Shut up! Are you being for real?"
She nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Deadass. I put in a good word for my bestie. Told him you were a beast with old engine and hybrids or whatever y'all gearheads call it."
She paused for a second to catch her breath, and I was too stunned to speak. "Plus, you can live with us,“ she continued. "We have the space. That way, I can keep a close eye on your whoring ass, and I don't have to book a whole Uber to smack the taste out your mouth."
For a moment, I sat there speechless, staring at her like she'd handed me the world. "Nyla, don't play with me. Are you being serious right now?"
"Yes, Jay. We're going to college like we planned. Together."
I couldn't stop the grin from stretching across my face. I felt something loosen In my chest. It was my breath. I was so caught up in my feelings, I didn't realize I'd been holding it the whole time.
"Yo. Thank you so much. I love you."
I pulled her into a bear hug. Her posture was stiff at first, but after some seconds she hugged me bag, her lavender scented perfume, and her sheen hairspray wrapping around me.
"We're gonna make it big together I'm telling you, Jay. Just you wait and see."
As I let go, she stood up immediately and walked to the corner, drumming her nails on my sketchbook. "Also, I have an idea. What if we streamed your painting sessions live on my page like once or twice a week. It could be a new series."
I blinked. "Me? I'm not so sure—"
"Shut up, dumbass. The world has changed. The tide is shifting. The people love authentic, colorful artsy stuff, and you're a demon. We can brand it 'Harlem Hands' or something," she burst out laughing at her own pitch. "But no seriously. Think about it. You've got the talent, I've got the platform... kinda. Let's build something!"
I didn't say anything. I was too busy swallowing the giant lump in my throat, overwhelmed.
Nyla didn't leave that night. She stayed back, curled up in the same old blankets that made me ashame. We spent the next few hours bantering and cackling. From binge-watching reality shows on her tablet, debating pop culture topics like we were guests on a talk show, and dissecting the bars on Nicki Minaj's new music.
We were so lost in the moment when the front door creaked open. I could already smell the steak before I saw her face. It was 9pm on the clock, she was right on time.
"Why didn't you lock the front door? I warned you..." She paused, her words catching in her breath as she set eyes on Nyla."Oh, Hey princess! Jalen, why didn't you tell me she was here?"
"Welcome mama," Nyla jumped up, rushing to grab the oil smudged paper bags clutched in her arms. "It was a surprise visit. Let him live for now."
"You know I'm not letting you out that door this late right?"
Nyla nodded.
We sat together, eating the fries mom got from the local restaurant, and those leftover steaks that tasted I looked forward to every night.
Nyla told mom about the job offer and the accommodation, while Ma gisted us on her youthful days, dancing in block parties and cookouts "before the streets went cold." I kept cutting her off and finishing her sentences. Because well... It was my hundredth time hearing the story.
Though we didn't have much, but we had each other. There was love in every word. Every bite, and every gulp. In little time, we fell asleep, legs tangled, bellies full, and hearts warmer than busted radiators.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
The morning sun filtered through the blinds, landing on my face as I got dressed. Nyla had already set up her phone, tripod and ring light outside with military precision.
"Alright Mr Picasso, it's almost go time," she called from the field. "I'm going live now, it's my prime time."
I rushed outside and sat down, canvas in front of me, and the paintbrush suddenly feeling alien in hand. The world narrowed to the quiet drag of bristles across white.
She started narrating. "Hey y’all, this is Jalen. My best friend, and Harlem's very own artistic visionary. I'm not even gon do too much, just watch him do his thing."
My confidence began to grow as she continued to hype.
I tried to ignore the nerves and focus on the image forming under my hand. She was right after all. I was doing it. It was beautiful.
Everything was going so well until their ball flew to our part of the field.
"Yo guys! Come check this," Marcus called out, ignoring his ball. "Look who’s tryna be the next Basquiat."
My stomach and my morale dropped, and I stiffened. It was them. My bullies—Marcus, Lenny, and Larry. They stood at the entrance, smirking like they'd hit the jackpot.
Marcus swaggered closer, his eyes locked on the camera. "Damn, he painting for clout now? Weirdo!" The twins, Lenny and Larry burst out laughing.
Before I knew it, Nyla stepped in, mouth sharper than a razor blade. "He's more talented than the three of y'all combined. And he’s getting more views than your entire life’s worth."
Lenny laughed. "You better shut your mouth, brat. All that painting and internet s**t is for the softies."
"And you think harassing people makes y'all hard? Better grow the f**k up. Get your ball and get out of here, losers!"
They sneered, but the camera was live. Comments flooded the screen—"Who are they?" "Ew, haters." "Imagine thinking bullying is hard." "Go on Jalen, we support you."
The viewers multiplied, and after some time, Marcus muttered something and backed off. They left as quickly as they came.
I looked at Nyla, and she winked at me, mouthing. "You’re welcome. I got you."
After the Livestream ended, her phone pinged wildly. She stared, then gasped. "One thousand. Oh my gosh Jay, I hit a thousand viewers! That’s a milestone! We’re up!"
She jumped up and down, dancing like a maniac. "I’m a visionary. You need to stop playing with me."
In that moment, I couldn’t help but stare and smile. I now had a job lined up. A place to stay. A shot at my dreams, and most importantly, I had her. We had each other.
Maybe that was enough to start something real.
- Writer
