On the Come Up by Hannah Weyer

herself, couples already seated on yoga mats they had spread out in a semicircle. Girls in front, fellas cupping them from behind. Couple girls there with they mother or auntie, somebody. At least no one was giving her the eyeball. The teacher was smiling, going around, passing out a handout. She saw the boy Terrell from up the block walk in with a girl. Dang, she didn’t know he gonna be a father. He was only a year ahead of her in school. She waited for their eyes to meet but he was busy, settling in behind his girl, looking nervous as hell.
    She liked the instructor with her big voice and warm hands, she liked how she’d sat behind her and showed them all how to breathe. She said, All of you sitting here today need to get quiet inside, find the peace within you, we’re going to learn many things during our time together … AnnMarie had drifted off at that point, her mind wandering to the future, to her due date, to Darius … Would he still claim her, would she ever sing again and then there was no stopping the tears from gushing out, the instructor’s arms holding her, rocking her back and forth, saying, Go on now. It’s okay. Breathe. Go on and breathe.
    After class, AnnMarie took the bus home. She stared out the window at the dark sky and the passing sidewalks where the people was. Everybody heading home. She felt tired from all that crying and leaned her head on the glass. She wondered who the girl was with Terrell. She looked familiar, but AnnMarie couldn’t place her. Maybe she was Katelyn’s cousin. Everybody always related to somebody. You somebody’s sister or brother or cousin. You a half sister, half brother, half cousin. Bloods in front of the White Castle. Look at Amani’s brother over there. That peewee trying to act like he in the block. Wallace gone … She need to light a candle. Light a candle for Wallace.
    House party. Block party. Rec center. Boardwalk. Bench. Storefront. You see it. Everybody making plans. You make plans.
    She got off the bus at Central, walked over to the fruit stand. Bought a bag of oranges. Used food stamps ’cause no one around to see.

17
    That Saturday she showered, lotioned, powdered, then inspected herself in front of the mirror. She looked like a damn pear, all that flesh sagging around her middle, no tight melon ball like the other girls, but her breasts were bigger and she kinda liked that. She lifted them up, holding each one in a hand, then stepped up to the mirror and studied the dark widening of her nipples.
    She put on her favorite blouse with the cap sleeves and lace around the collar, looked in the mirror, changed outta that, put on a T-shirt instead. Too sloppy. She put the blouse on again, left a extra button undone. That looked better. Put on the black stretch jeans that stayed up without the button fastened. She sat on the bed and laced up her Tims, put on the down vest and looked in the mirror. Maybe no one could tell. Twenty-one weeks, she could still fake it.
    She folded up the flyer, put two oranges in her book bag and walked out the door, didn’t tell her mother where she going, just went. Up the block to Mott Avenue, over six blocks to the subway, she’d passed the entrance a million times but had never gone through the doors. ’Cept the one time when they first moved to Far Rock, her and Blessed. Riding all the way down from the Bronx, getting off at the end of the line. Other than that, she’d never had a reason.
    She went down three flights of stairs, all the way down intothe station, hesitated, then dropped a handful of change into the slot, asked the station man for a token.
    She rode six stops without anyone getting on the car, ’cept a mother who look like she need a bath and four kids who climbed onto the seats next to her and sat mad quiet, overdressed in winter coats zipped up to their chins. One of the little boys turned, stretching his neck up to peer out the window but in a flash the mother whipped her hand across the