Free Uptown Dreams by Kelli London

Then she wished that other people saw her the way the girl had: as an artist, a girl with a nice do who was just a girl, not a white girl trying to blend into Harlem.
    Continuing down the hall, Jamaica slipped into the cafeteria, and found her a seat in the corner of the room. She dropped her book bag on the table, whipped out her phone, and dialed her lifesaver. The line rang and rang, but no one answered. Where was her sister? She looked at her watch again. She definitely wasn’t in class because, if Jamaica remembered her sister’s schedule completely, her sister was in study hall. She shook her head. Her sister was in charge of the money—her money—and she needed some. Her stomach growled again, reminding her that she only had one dollar and forty-eight cents, a MetroCard credited with seven subway fares, a dream, and a Backstage magazine. Defeat etched her face. A lump grew in her throat. And a rising heat threatened to make her explode, fall all over her emotions, and cave in to self-pity. But she didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. She only had time to pull it together so she could get it together. She’d been scouring the actor’s dream paper all morning, looking for every open audition only to be disappointed. There seemed to be no demand for new talent.
    Disappointed, Jamaica picked up the paper and tossed it in the corner trash can. “Everybody wants agented actors.” She stretched, her arms held high and her hopes low. She needed money to live and get her plan under way. There were only so many auditions she could make with seven train rides. With her sister ignoring her calls and not depositing money in her account, Jamaica didn’t know how she would do it. Yes, she would get a job, she’d decided on that. But at her age she’d only qualify for a small-time gig that would equal an equivalently minute paycheck. That probably wouldn’t be enough. She had to wrap her dainty fingers around hundreds to cover the rent, buy groceries, and make her rounds to get acting work. Definitely more mint-green paper than she had in her pocket.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re one of them .” Mateo appeared next to her with crossed arms, waiting for an answer.
    Jamaica looked at him, then began smiling but didn’t know why. She could never figure out why he made her happy for no reason. “One of who ?”
    â€œYa know, the perfect ones. Like the dancers—especially the ballerinas, the ones who sit in the cafeteria so they can say they went to lunch, but are so concerned about their weight that they don’t eat. You missed the memo too? Perfection doesn’t exist,” he answered with a hint of a sparkle in his eye.
    â€œYou can’t be serious, Mateo. I wrote the memo. I’m not acting like I’m going to lunch—I can’t afford lunch! And I’m desperate.”
    Mateo ignored her words, picked up her bag from the seat, and walked away. “And I’m hungry and thirsty. Let’s go get our eat on.”
    Jamaica was on his heels. “Wait! Where do you think your goin’ with my bag?”
    Mateo stopped. “Perfect and deaf too?” He laughed. “I told you already. We’re goin’ to get our munch on.”
    Out of breath, Jamaica was too tired to make excuses. “Listen, I can’t go anywhere until I track down my sister,” she explained. “Besides, you’ve done too much already. I need to pay my way.”
    Mateo turned back and winked. “So pay you shall. I’ll make sure of it.”
    As they turned the corner, passersby still whizzed by them in blurs, their words just a jumble of nothing to her ears, just like Mateo’s rants about some teacher. Jamaica slowed, tried to calm herself after she’d sent her sister a fifth text. She didn’t want to appear frazzled when she got to wherever Mateo was taking her.
    â€œ Here ,” he said, stopping at a