Ghetto Gospel

Chapter One - The Last Day of my Normal Life

"We can discover this meaning in life
in three different ways: (1) by doing a deed,
(2) by experiencing a value; and (3)
by suffering."
- Victor Frankl

“Here. How does this sound?” Deshaun asks as he passes me a few pieces of paper, with his own creative lyrics scribbled on it in black ink.

My closest friend, Deshaun, is an aspiring rapper, unlike the others I've met. He writes inspirational rap for the kids of the neighborhood and doesn’t talk about becoming rich and famous, like most do. He’s been at it for four years, ever since he was eleven, (when he discovered rap) and, and I have to admit, he’s pretty talented.

Deshaun is one of my very few role models, the only one aside from my mom and my sister. He’s against war and violence, even though he’s the victim of robbery and violence every all too often. He has nothing, but he makes something out of it. His dream keeps him holding on - to rap and to reach out to the people in the “ghetto”, where we live. The city calls it the “low-income housing projects”, the world calls it “Harlem”, and New York City would rather have a three-week blackout than do anything about it. They have rats, mice, ants, cockroaches, no heat, and we have to conserve our energy as best as possible - meaning we sacrifice a lot to keep costs down. We just can’t afford electricity whenever we want.

Deshaun is in a worse state than me. At least my mother is hardworking and raising two daughters - well one now, since my sister moved in with her boyfriend. Deshaun’s mother has a drug habit and survives on welfare. That’s one reason Deshaun is always with me at my house; there, he can escape her screaming and yelling for a little while. Some nights he's kicked out of his house, and he either goes to my house or our other friend's house, Jon, who lives a bit farther down the road than I do.

I let my eyes scan the paper, reading each word carefully, scrutinizing every line. This song is a bit different than his others. It’s not so negative. I nodded and handed the papers back to him.

“Pretty good. Sing it.” Deshaun takes his rap back and gets off the chair. Running his hand over his cornrows once, before he clears his throat. He lets his voice, rich, young and clear, voice poured, no, overflows from his mouth.

“Let me drift away,
reminiscing the days I miss,
listening to hits played on 92 and 106,
sitting in my room,
hearing the tunes, of 2pac,
Bone and Biggy were blaring from my puny boom box
From ‘The Crossroads‘, to ‘Juicy‘, to ‘Life Goes on‘,
I used to rock, the Fugees, the old school songs.
Like ‘Regulate‘, my favorite from Warren and Nate,
I was always saving up all my money so I can blow it on tapes.
‘cause after school, I would walk straight to the record shop,
and walk through every section stopping at hip-hop.
Just to find a song to buy to bring back home,
so I can sing along, when I feel lonesome.
That's what I did just to pass the time.
I was a, young kid, but the sound was sublime.
‘cause the music, I always found,
to be therapeutic.
Looking back at my life now, I know how, I got through it.”

“That’s as far as I got.” Deshaun catches his breath and plops himself on my bed lazily, oblivious to the fact that, once again, I am blown away. How can I be the best friend of someone with this much talent?

“What?” His dark eyes scanned me as I sit there with my mouth open, just gaping and staring.

“You’ve got me again,” is all I could manage to choke from my dry throat.

I can never tell him how deeply I admire his music, how he can take something and make it so beautiful. How he can take one blank sheet of paper and turn it into a treasure. How I love that he’s just so mature and intelligent to just be fifteen. I guess it's a pride issue that I never tell him how great he is and how much I admire him and look up to him. I've been brought up to be a strong person and to not trust anyone but family. Mama always says, "If we lose it all tomorrow, you better not cry. Keep your head up always and move on." So she tells me not to get attached. But I am attached to Deshaun - I love him like my own brother.

“Thanks. Maybe I need to change that...” Deshaun points to a barely visible line on the paper. “It’ll reach people more.”

That’s all he wants, to reach people with his music. Plus, he can be a perfectionist with his lyrics. Myself, on the other hand, I haven’t found anything I love, like him yet. Deshaun always says to do whatever you want, as long as you change the world for the better. Dancing was always fun for me, a hobby of mine, but what was I going to do with that? It's not like I can dance on stage and just automatically change the way people think about the world. Music is different. It can do that.

“Nah... I guess it sounds good like it is. Is that alright?” Deshaun mutters to himself, scribbling out his edit. I grin to myself. It’s amazing how he can fall into the world of hip-hop and writing and forget everything around him in seconds. “Yeah, that sounds fine,” he answers for me.

“Savannah,” he says, apparently reappearing in the real world, “can we head down to Studio Zero? I think I know the perfect beat for this.”

Deshaun works four days a week after school, at Strawberries. He gets discounts on music there and, sometimes, discounts on studio time at Studio Zero. Studio Zero is a haven for some local bands and rappers owned by New Day Records, a hip-hop record company. They own around one hundred studios around America, most for local aspiring musical artists. He loves his job; he can buy good music with next to nothing and spend time at Studio Zero working on his demo without emptying his pockets completely.

“Um… sure,” I reply, completely aware that there’s nothing better to do on a swelteringly hot and humid June afternoon such as today. It’s the second day of summer vacation, and Deshaun and I have just been hanging out as usual. Sadly, he has to go back to work tomorrow and he’s working new hours; ten o’ clock in the morning until one o’ clock in the afternoon. He’s not upset about it, but I just have to deal with it and find my own job or at least something to do to pass the hot, summer hours I'll most likely spend by myself, hidden in my room like some kind of crazed hermit.

So I slipped my feet into my worn-out Adidas sneakers and followed Deshaun out of the door, out of my apartment and into the dry and cracked streets of Harlem. A group of kids are playing stickball in the middle of the road, trying to hit the ball before a car hits them. Their parents sit on their porches and watch, gossiping about God knows what. My mother is one of the few who doesn’t do that, and since I look up to her, I don’t see the point in gossiping either.

“You know,” Deshaun draws my attention away from the home run that Chrissie has just smacked down the road, “Akon has a song called ‘Ghetto’. It’s real good, have you heard it?” Deshaun always talks about music, and although it gets on my nerves sometimes, it also teaches me something every once in a while. I shake my head, not exactly wanting him to continue. “Well, it’s a great song. The video and the song together are amazing. He’s one of those rare, special artists that… when he gets behind the mic, he doesn’t take any punches - and he just raps about deep things. It’s like Tupac Shakur; he raps more about what he sees and what’s going on around him than taking hits at people.”

“Yeah, but Tupac died.”

“Even if he did, his music will live on forever. You know, the hip-hop culture originally came from the Bronx. It’s cool to know we live in the same city that rap came from… it’s like….” I sighed inwardly and let the balmy afternoon sweep my thoughts away from Deshaun’s conversation.

“… So, Jon’s trying to hook me up with a guy that’ll produce my demo and work the turntables for my music. Maybe you can learn from whoever’s gonna’ drop the beats, so you can pick it up and do something to keep yourself off the street.”

“Excuse me?” I stared at Deshaun, who looks innocent as ever. I've only occasionally stood near someone on the turntables, but I've never tried it. Soundboards confused me to no end also; I can never figure out what the treble is supposed to do, what the snare is... it’s was all like algebra. Impossible and complicated.

“Well, hey, I don’t want you to fall into the black hole of drugs and gangs. You’ve been trying hard to stay out of it. But you can get some skills in the turntables or the soundboards and work with me.”

“Whatever, D. I ain't fallin' into the 'black hole of drugs and gangs', so chill."

"Hey, you can't be mad at me for lookin' out for you. You're like the sister I never had."

"Yeah, well," I snort, "you're like the father I've never seen."

Immediately I regretted that. What did I just say? What had just come out of my mouth? I didn’t meant that. The poisonous words I just spoke obviously strike a nerve in Deshaun though, and he presses his lips together and looks straight ahead with an intense look across his face that he normally only gets while writing lyrics.

"Can you do me a favor?" I nod at his request. "Never say that again. Your dad wasn't there for you or anything, but I am. Don't say that. Think before you talk." I freeze up this time, realizing what I’ve done. Truly I am sorry, and Deshaun, thankfully, is a very forgiving guy. He leaves it at that and we continue to walk.

A lot of people think Deshaun and I are dating, but we're not. So what if we spend over fifty percent of our waking hours together? We're just good friends - best, that is. I've known Deshaun since kindergarten, when we shared a box of Crayola crayons to draw our favorite animals. Ever since, we've shared everything with each other.

Yes, I love him. But not that 'aww, teenage love' sort kind of thing. We love each other like we're siblings. I witnessed him discover his passion for rapping, in my room, after he’d been listening to rap music for a few months and had just heard an acoustic beat on the radio. He poured all of his feelings out into just free styling on the spot and his dreams started from there.

Now, though, Deshaun lets the music carry him away. It rules his mind every waking minute, and even in his sleep. He dreams about it at night and he daydreams about it during the daytime. Sometimes he would hums a tune, shakes his head from side to side and taps on the nearest surface with his fingers, and his eyes shut. He doesn't need drugs - music is his ecstasy, his reason for living, his fuel to get through each day, the legs to his table, the air that he breathes, the light in his dark, Bonnie to his Clyde, et cetera. It's mind-blowing, especially to me, since I’ve known him before music became his passion, when he was an active athlete and, dare I admit it, slightly arrogant.

When he listens to music (on his seemingly un-detachable headphones), he falls into a trance, or so it seems. The world around him slips away. The yelling outside vanishes, the horrible stomping around on the floor above us quiets, and any physical and emotional pain in him just... dulls. It brings him peace and it calms him when he panics. If nirvana is a true state of mind, then when he puts on his headphones, he's already reached it.

Maybe he relates to the life stories of others told in the songs – who knows? The whole ‘growing up in the ghetto with no father’ deal. That hopeless feeling we all get, in one way or another? He says that knowing that people have made it out of his spot, where he is right now, he says, makes it all worth it.

I don't feel like his best friend (talking about myself here) is good enough for him. I don't understand why music has such a deep and hypnotic control over him. Why is it he won't hear a gunshot outside when he's in complete silence and writing down his lyrics? Why is it that acoustic melodies and insightful lyrics give him everything he'll ever wants to be truly happy in life? I just don’t understand why it’s such a big deal, but Deshaun is my best friend, and like he’s always been there for me, I’ll stick by him and support his writing.

But I get jealous sometimes. He has skills in rapping… I haven't found my talents yet. I get jealous because he slips out of reality into pure bliss. I get jealous because even though he's not being brought up, he's being "dragged" up and yet; he's so smart and wise for his age. I may sound like a bitch, but I want to be like him like no other.

Worst of all, I feel like he'll be offered a record deal eventually and leave everyone behind. He's promised me repeatedly that if someday, he does get signed; he won't become a sell - out and glorify the ghetto (he says: "Only those who never grew up in the ghetto would give it something to glorify and be proud of it,") or brag about himself. But even so, I'm scared that someday he'll be partying in his twenty-five-room mansion without remembering where he came from or where his roots are. Will he forget these terrible years and those that got him through it? When he's rolling on twenty-four inch chrome rims, will he even care?

If there is anything I’ve learned from Deshaun, it’s that some of us are angels from God, here to make a difference and change people’s lives. But really, I could never sum up everything he’s taught me so far, in one sentence. His philosophies are the deepest I know of, his brain is constantly working. When he’s not writing lyrics, working or doing homework, he’s reading complicated books with words I’ll never (in my lifetime) figure out. He could give me lectures on 16th century authors, and I couldn't tell you a thing about Shakespeare.

Growing up with him has always been the best aspect of my life; especially before he found his love for music. We'd roam the streets of Harlem, walk down by the river, separating Harlem from the Bronx, sit there at sunset and just let the day slip away. We were like the other kids in Harlem; playing football in the middle of the cracked road, breaking a few windows here and there. Our summer and fall days (during baseball season - we were just inspired) were spent by smacking a whiffle ball with a stick. We’d attempt to, every summer, break or damage the fire hydrants when it just got too hot outside and we’d dance around in our bathing suits as the water poured down on us. Sometimes it took us hours, but the feeling of that clean and icy water on us made it all worth it.

Now those ignorant, innocent naive days are over. We’re teenagers now: both of us at the sophomoric age of fifteen. We’re no longer kids, but we still have a while to go before we can do things kids can’t, like driving. We’re just stuck, and this may be the reason so many of us are falling into drugs and the “alternative lifestyle”, as some call it. I guess some of us just get bored.

The neighborhood kids paraded around us; the girls setting up a spot to jump rope, and the boys huddling on the sidewalk, planning their football plays. The sun is setting over the projects; the vivid reds, oranges, yellows and purples reflected on the tenement buildings. The heat is beginning to die down in 'sync with the sun, and the moon is already clearly visible overhead, in a half-circle. Litter and debris choked the sidewalks that we walk on every day. The humid, New York City night, hangs over the streets like a woolen blanket, itchy and uncomfortable.

“You know, Savannah, I’ve never heard you sing anything. You’re voice is rich, a bit throaty, but it’s refreshing and strong. You should try singing.” His almond-colored eyes are busy fixated on a brick towards the top of a tenement building, that looks like it could fall down and crack someone’s head open any second.

“I don’t like singing,” I lied. That’s another thing; Deshaun usually knows when I’m lying or not, he knows me that well. But this time, it looks like he doesn’t catch it.

“But, don’t you love music, like me?”

“No… you don’t just love music, Deshaun, you live for it and you breathe for it. It’s like... you’re addicted to it. Sometimes, it feels like it’s all you care about.” I’ve never said this in the four years he’s pressed that play button and drifted away from the world. Deshaun stays quiet for a bit, apparently thinking over it.

“It’s not all I care about, Shay.” He calls me that a lot. “I care about you, I care about Harlem, I care about my mother-”

“What has she done for you?” I reply curtly, remembering the last, horrifying time I was at her house. It had smelled like urine, mold and marijuana, and Deshaun’s mother hadn’t been in the best of moods. But when your addicted to three different kind of drugs, have no money, and your house smells bad, is it even possible to be in a good mood?

“I’m well aware that she has a habit. I know it makes her a bitch sometimes, like I don‘t pick up on that when she hurls her Ibuprofen bottle at me. But she’s the only person I’ve known my entire life. She gives me a house, sometimes food, occasionally heat.” I laughed, catching his joking tone. He’s never lied to me, and he’s not lying now, but sometimes he jokes about it. How he can live like that and keep his lighthearted nature is beyond me; like many other things about him.

“Why is music so important to you though? I still don’t get it.” Deshaun drapes his heavy arm across my shoulders and makes gestures with his other hand while he explains.

“It’s my way of making my mark before I die. It’s the reason I drown everything out and get by-”

“I guess so! A few weeks ago you didn’t even hear a gunshot outside. It was loud, and you were sitting on my bed with your headphones off and writing lyrics to whatever. It was silent in my room and you didn’t notice that gun go off!” Deshaun stares at me with a curious look.

“Really? Whoa... so I miss a lot when I write, I guess.” He takes his arm back and runs his hands over his head. He interlaces his fingers behind his noggin and stares at the multicolored sky above and breathes out a long sigh.

“Deshaun, this could like... get you killed. You could be sitting on a porch, writing lyrics, and there could be a drive-by and you wouldn’t notice.”

“You have no faith in me whatsoever, huh? I think if I was shot, I’d notice. Besides, don’t worry about it. Like your wonderful mother says: ‘if we lose it all tomorrow, don’t cry. Keep your head up and move on.’ Don’t cry for me if I die. Don’t be sad because I’ll be away from all of this bad stuff on earth. I won’t have to worry about guns and violence. It’ll all be over. At best I'll be an angel somewhere. At worst, I'll be in pure silence. There's nothing bad about that.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I demanded. I can’t imagine Deshaun dying. He’s my closest friend. He's been there for everything. School is still a pain in the back because I can't seem to make any other friends. I still haven't come to a full conclusion as to why this is yet, but even though, Deshaun has always been there. He never ignored me when he was with his guys. He fit in with just about every clique in school, no matter who they were. He had an admirable sense of humor, personality and views on life.

It seems he succeeds in everything he does, yet another reason I’m envious.

He’s a beautiful person too - clear, mahogany skin, dark, and hypnotic eyes, smooth hair, and a little bit muscular. He’s great at sports, at least compared to the other neighborhood kids, and always has girls asking him out, but he often declines. Myself on the other hand... I’m not beautiful, nor am I hideous. My brown eyes don’t sparkle like Deshaun’s do. My gaunt, wiry body can’t take athletics as well as it used to, unlike Deshaun; who can throw a football clear over a three-story apartment building. My coffee-colored, Latino skin isn’t nearly as attractive as Deshaun’s. It looks like someone took the color and blended it with yellow and brown, and guys rarely pay attention to me.

Even though I’m jealous, it’s not like he rubs anything in my face or brags, so I can‘t be mad. He doesn’t want any pity or attention. But even if he’s not asking for it, he stands out like a sore thumb. He’s one of the few rappers that don’t glorify “the ‘hood”; he says it’s not something we should say to make us seem tougher; it’s something we need to fix. He’s one of the few rappers who don’t throw any punches behind the microphone. He’s one of the few rappers who are anti-violence, anti-drugs, et cetera. For that, I admire and love him.

The dynamic-duo, myself and Deshaun, make our way to a small building, clustered in with a Mexican restaurant, The Lone Sombrero, and a hair salon, Stacy's. My stomach growls when I smell the tortillas and quesadillas cooking in The Lone Sombrero, but Deshaun doesn't care. His mind is on one thing - finding a beat for his song.

"Oh hey Deshaun," a man behind the desk in the lobby says.

"Is the studio free?" Deshaun asks, giving him a weak wave.

"For how long?"

"Less than a half hour," Deshaun pulls his lyric paper out from his back pocket and unfolds it.

"Alright. I'll give it to you for free this time, but don't tell anyone. Be out of there by eight." Deshaun thanks the man and leads me down the hall into an unoccupied recording room. Deshaun has all the tracks and freestyles he's done on tapes hidden away in my room. He doesn’t trust them at his house because a certain cocaine addict could damage them, or sell them for more drugs. I leaned against the door and watched Deshaun get to work. He raps his lyrics once more and sorts through drawers of tapes consisted of pure, unadulterated beats.

Acoustic, rock, upbeat ones, slow ones, piano tunes, et cetera.

Deshaun goes through several of them; all kinds, in search of the perfect beat to match the flow of his lyrics.

It’s a good twenty minutes before Deshaun plays yet another acoustic beat. The light-hearted guitar melody pours from the speakers and flows into my ears. The drums on the record nearly replace my own heartbeat. I almost feel like Deshaun does when he's escaped into his world of music. Deshaun begins to rap, and it amazes me beyond belief. The flow of the lyrics and music match perfectly.

Deshaun finishes the verse, and does it again. When he completes that verse, he scribbles a few lines down. When he finally finishes, he looks up at me. His clear, excited voice tells me he has found the perfect melody to go with the flow of his words.

"'When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest of times, and to the latest.' Henry David Thoreau."






Chapter Two – Shift

"You can't shake hands

With a clenched fist."

- Indira Gandhi

"I can't wait for tomorrow. I'm going to go to work, then, back to the studio to wrap up the rest of the song." Deshaun's heavy arms hang on my sagging shoulders as I watch the vibrant colors of the sky change like the Aurora Borealis. Of course, it’s impossible to see that in New York City.

“I thought you were going to Jon’s.” Groaning inwardly, about to smack my head on the cracked concrete below my feet. Instead, I remind myself that when it comes to music, Deshaun has a tendency to let others down.

“He’ll understand.”

“No, Deshaun, I’m sick of this.” My voice cracks as I struggle to keep my tone calm. “You make plans everyone looks forward to, and then you send the whole thing tumbling down because you’re too busy to spend time with us, your friends!”

Silence.

Deshaun withdraws his arms from my shoulders as if I’ve just bitten him. Seconds later, I watch my best friend in the whole world stomp away in anger, leaving me in the darkening streets of danger.

What? Excuse me, mister sensitive!

I italicized it, but I think it must’ve gotten screwed up through the format I sent it in. Sorry !

Maybe I should start thinking before speaking. Heh, it works for other people.

It’s not like what I said was even that bad. I only hinted that he’s a horrible friend and hates those who care about him. Of course, that’s not true, but it probably came across that way to him.

I see why he’s walking away now.

And it hurts.

Like hell.

I fiddle with the keys to my apartment for around three minutes. Seems like someone actually locked the fifth lock. Either that or the sudden shock of Deshaun’s sensitivity has distracted me. I realize it’s a combination of both and I push the door open with my foot and find my sister yanking down her sleeve and sitting up quickly from the couch.

I haven’t seen Carmen in about two weeks. Why is she home and what is she doing?

It was italicized, but like above, the format screwed it up.

“Hi Carmen,” I mutter as I walk in and shut the door behind me.

“Hi Shay.” Carmen usually seems perfect to me; hair neatly in place, shining, her dark eyes sparkling, and all in all, just looking like she takes care of herself. But this is a different story, although I don’t know what the story is just yet. Her long, mahogany hair is frizzy and unkempt; her eyes don’t focus, they dart around the room and look hollow and soulless. And the fact she’s wearing a neon yellow long-sleeve shirt in 90 degree weather with blue sweatpants trashes the idea she might have a sense of style.

“Why are you here?” I’m so polite, eh?

“Evan and I, we broke up.” Her apathetic tone shocks me more than the actual news, even though the two of them have been together for two and one-half years. They always acted like newlyweds, feeding each other publicly and scenes of PDA.

“Oh my God, what happened?” The fact that she used to always cry over other boyfriends also contributes to my curiosity.

“Stupid crap, really.” Carmen’s hands begin to shake a little.

“Are you okay?” I’m about to panic here, and the most Carmen can do is nod her head.

“I’m fine, go in your room. I wanna’ talk to Mom when she gets back from work.”

“But you feel warm,” I say, placing my palm on her sweaty forehead.

“It’s okay! Mom’s here anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Does any other car on this street sputter, backfire and squeak at the same time?”

“You have a point.” Our car is a true piece of crap. It’s as low on the car-chain that you can get. It’s below the ‘86 Honda Civic with three multi-colored doors. It’s below the ‘32 Chevy pickup, missing half of what it began with in the first place. In fact, our car is such a piece of craptastic plastic that the backseat was stolen. Apparently it was the most valuable thing in the car. We’re lucky the doors don’t fall off their hinges.

I leave it at that and pop open a "Coke" from the Dollar Store. Then I disappear into my room for the night, trying to convince myself that Deshaun will forgive me eventually. In the meantime, I'll just wallow in my despair.

In Jon’s apartment the next day, I flop down on the couch in his living room, and I notice Deshaun isn’t anywhere to be seen.

"Where's Deshaun?" I ask, watching Jon scribble on the piece of paper he has. He doesn’t bother to look up at me.

"He's at the recording studio, last I heard."

"When's he coming over?"

"I don't know. But some of my other friends are coming over."

"Oh really? Who?" I hate meeting new people. Call me antisocial all you want. Last time I approached a stranger my age, I was nearly punched in the jaw.

"My friend Manny, Saleem and this girl named Kin. She's going to be in our rap group. The first lady."

"The first lady of what? You don't even have a name for your group."

"We’re planning on it."

"Don't you need a name to perform?"

"Not a group name. We need emcee names. I'm MC Saw, Kin is MC Kinetic, and Deshaun... doesn't have one yet."

"How about MC Void." I almost laugh as I straddle the chair to look out the window onto the streets below.

"Huh?" I glance back at Jon. He's thoroughly confused.

"Because he 'avoids' his friends." I snort in spite of myself, glancing over my shoulder at him.

"Are you alright?"

"Never."

"That's what I thought."

I flip the television on and watch the Yankees game against the Red Sox. Half of New York City is about ready to toss their televisions out the windows since the Red Sox are ahead six runs with two innings left.

"So what song are you working on?"

"Not sure yet." Jon is confusing like that. Then he adds, randomly, "How about Harlem Harmony?"

"Huh?" I ask, confused.

"Or Bronx Blues."

"What?"

"Or Manhattan Melodies."

"What?!"

"For the band name."

"Oh. Homegrown in Harlem is a good one." Jon nods, before processing my sentence. Then he nearly jumps.

"That is good." He writes it on the sheet of paper and then there’s a knock on the door. "Come in!"

Three people, who I suspect are Saleem, Kin and Manny, walk in.

"Hey, hey, hey," Kin gives Jon a high-five, like they’re best friends.

"Everyone, this is Shay, Shay , and that's Kin." He motions to the girl. She is Asian, with deep, coffee color skin and an amazing sense of style.

"That's Saleem." Saleem happens to be a heavy, older teen with a large afro and a tattoo of a Marijuana leaf on his shoulder. "And there's Manny." My knees would buckle if I stood up.

He has tan skin, a small afro and dark, hypnotic eyes. I nearly get lost in those mahogany pools. He smiles and I feel a tingle down my spine. Dimples and a set of sparkling white teeth don his mouth. He has a baby face, but there's a maturity factor in him that stands out.

Manny's hands are shoved in his jean pockets and he’s wearing a black, loose, beater, baggy jeans and white G-unit sneakers.

"H-hi," I choke ridiculously. Because guys just love girls who stutter in their presence. He nods and collapses on the couch, a good three feet from me. But it’s too far.

Saleem strides into the kitchen for a drink, and Kin sits next to Jon, analyzing his lyrics on paper.

"I've been thinking about group names," Jon begins began, directly to Kin and no one else, though I can’t help but overhear. "How do you like Homegrown in Harlem?"

"You've been thinking?" I cut in and, suddenly, everyone's attention focuses on me. I can feel their eyes, like lasers, on my body. "I came up with that."

"Yeah," Jon confesses, rubbing his neck. "But I still like it."

"Yeah, it's good with me. Now we just need to see how Deshaun is with it."

"Kin, you don't even live in Harlem." Manny laughs, and I feel shivers down my body. It's a laid-back, light-hearted laugh. His voice is as smooth as honey; slightly deep, but clear and heavy.

"I was born in Harlem, though." Kin catches my confused look and she laughs. "I live in Manhattan now."

"It's all New York City to me." I chuckle, slouching in the couch to achieve a more laid-back look. Instead I looked bored and tired. Manny grins.

"Good philosophy." I'm so flattered I don't process that Manny might just be a complete idiot. One part of the city is so different from another; they might as well be different cities.

"That sounds like too many syllables to me," the all-knowing Saleem declares, leaning on the wall of the living room.

"What do you know? You don't even know what a syllable is." Manny grins with an awkward, goofy smile. Saleem looks a bit stuck.

"What? Like you do?" He glares daggers at Manny.

“Yeah."

"Then what?"

"It's like... something that says something about another thing." Manny makes confusing gestures with his hand.

"That's an adjective, you nimrod!" Kin practically shouts, chucking her pencil at Manny, who ducks easily.

"Well, what's a syllable then, you goddamn genius?" Manny turns to me and whispers, "She goes to a private school. They teach those kids everything."

"Yeah, Manny, they teach us everything we don't need to know in life." Kin grabs her pen from Manny and continues, "A syllable is one sound you make with your mouth." Kin claps her hand once and says, "New." Then she claps four times while saying, "New York City. 'New York City' is four syllables. 'New' is one syllable."

So I sit on the couch, witnessing three people explain what a syllable is and their confusion by it. Eventually it becomes boring, so the only thing keeping me on the couch is my desperation for Deshaun to waltz through the door and the fact that one of the sexiest teenagers I have ever seen is sitting next to me.

I become the bystander in a debate ranging from syllables, to music, to Michael Jackson, to George Bush, to accents. Time crawls by. Deshaun isn't showing up anytime soon and I want to sink into the chair, in boredom. I overhear Kin and Jon planning out a verse to a song. It appears they already know about Deshaun's verse (the one that he rehearsed yesterday), since they keep repeating it to follow the flow for the next verse.

Kin eventually clears her throat and Manny catches my eyes to see what I'm looking at.

She downs a sip of water and begins the second verse.

"Growing up, I was social but, never was the type to open up,

So my closest friends were never close enough,

I suppose to them I was emotionless...,

So, my headphones were my constant companions,

Around my neck they were constantly hanging,

And late at night when I'm haunted by phantoms,

The songs I would jam would subconsciously ban them,

And damn,

I know it's just lyrics and beats,

But lyrics to me are like infinite peace,

And peace,

Is what hip hop had brought me,

Strumming my pain like it was 'Killing Me Softly',

Killing me, but what a way to die,

Overdosed on flows, comatose on rhymes,

And I,

Wanna drift away,

Staying conscious enough just to hit replay, okay...."

A small burst of applause between the audience of four breaks out and Kin blushes and reads over the lyrics once more.

I, frankly, am too shocked to do anything but gape like some crazed lunatic. Kin glances at me. She completely amplifies what Deshaun is trying to say in the first verse, just in a more personal way. She also delivers each line with such intensity and force I nearly feel my lungs rattle in my chest.

"Are you okay, Savannah?"

I smile shyly. "Uh... yeah. That was really good."

"Thanks." Kin hands the lyrics to Saleem to be reviewed before turning to me again. "Deshaun called me last night and he was like, ‘ 'kay, you have to do a second verse for this song. It's about loving hip-hop and how it helps us.' He played the beat for me and did the rap."

"Well, you definitely stuck with the message."

"I couldn't explain how much it's helped him though. You obviously know what he's been through, you're his best friend." I say nothing, heading off into my own thoughts.

Since Deshaun’s become involved in the whole music scene, he’s never really opened up to me. Everything is music this, music that. Maybe a lot of stuff has actually happened. Maybe he’s been coming to my house so he could write lyrics, not to spend time with me.

Maybe he's not as strong as I thought he was. Maybe I was never the one helping him through it all. Maybe it was only this music that was keeping him sane all along.