Pride (Page 38)

She watches me get dressed, fixing and fussing over me. “Zuri. Just have a good time, okay? Darius is really nice. Whatever you thought of him before, he proved you wrong, right?”

“You okay, sis?” I ask, smiling, only because she’s smiling. But her eyes are not smiling.

“Yeah,” she says, furrowing her brows. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Janae?”

“Z, I’m over Ainsley. Trust me.”

“Like, you’re not even wondering what he’s doing right now?”

“No, Zuri. I’m good. Really,” my big sister says. But I know her too well. I see it in her face as she glances at the top-floor windows of the Darcy house.

Mama bursts into our room clasping her hands, with a giant smile on her face. “I’m so happy for you!” she sings.

“Oh, come on!” I say, rolling my eyes so hard I give myself a headache. This is the last thing I wanted to happen. For Mama, me having a cute and rich boyfriend who comes from a good family is right up there with getting a scholarship to college.

When I’m dressed and ready to leave, Papi only looks up from his book and grunts. But when I catch his eye again, he gives me a half smile and a nod. This is our secret understanding. This is okay with him. Just okay. He approves for now, but he wants to make sure that I’m happy. If I am, then he is. I smile at him.

“Bueno,” he mouths.

Even though I look extra cute with my outfit and my hair done up in the biggest fro possible, Darius is two steps ahead of me. He’s actually wearing a tight-fitting leather motorcycle jacket. He has on shoes with no socks so I can see his ankles, and he smells way too good. I do my best to keep my cool on the cab ride to Park Slope, where Carrie lives, but tingles go up my arm when Darius takes my hand and holds it in his the entire time.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says.

“Who said I was nervous?” I ask. But he just gives my hand a squeeze. I wonder what there is to be nervous about.

The moon is round and full tonight, and it casts a dim light on this neighborhood where the whole block is lined with tall trees and brownstones. This is a part of Brooklyn that gets shown on TV.

There’s a small crowd of teenagers standing outside one of the brownstones. The cab pulls up to the curb; Darius pays the driver and comes out first. As soon as his no-sock-having foot steps onto the sidewalk, these kids gather around him like he’s the coolest person they’ve ever met. I’m left standing by myself as the cab drives away. So I start to make my way around the group and go up the steps leading to the brownstone’s open front door.

“Zuri, this is everybody,” he says, pointing to everyone who’s standing around him. “Everybody, this is Zuri. She lives across the street from me in Bushwick.”

I just smile and nod.

“What up, Zuri!” one of the white boys calls out.

I leave Darius on the sidewalk and make my way into the brownstone, where the smell of alcohol smacks me in the face and the music is really good. The living room has a chandelier, tall bookcases, and strange artwork on the walls. The lights are mostly turned off, and kids are packed tightly into a long hallway that spills into the kitchen at the back of the house. But nobody’s dancing. Well, some people are moving their bodies, but it’s definitely not what we call dancing around my way.

Carrie is sitting on a leather couch with a red cup in her hand. Our eyes meet. Her mouth drops open. I guess Darius didn’t tell her that I was coming to her party. We stare at each other for a minute too long before I blink away and notice the other people around her. Two guys are on the floor in front of her, playing a video game, and she’s surrounded by white girls who all have red plastic cups in their hands.

Carrie mouths, “That’s her,” to one of them. They stare at me. I stare and cock my head to the side. They quickly look away.

There are four other black girls besides me and Carrie. One of them is standing by a marble fireplace. She smiles at me. I smile back. Another one is sitting on a white boy’s lap in the corner of the room, and the two others are taking turns swigging from a plastic vodka bottle and giggling.

I stop before I reach the dining room, where another wide chandelier hangs from the ceiling and a long wooden table is pushed aside and covered with snacks, boxes of pizza, and more alcohol.

Someone jumps in front of me—a dark-haired white boy with a huge crooked smile on his face. “Hey, girl! What can I get you?”

“Hey, girl?” I quickly say. “I’m not your girl. My name is Zuri, and I’m good. Thank you.”

The boy smiles even bigger, nods, looks me up and down, and says, “Spicy! I like you. You sure you don’t wanna get white-boy wasted?”

“Nah. Really. I’m good,” I say.

“Careful now,” another guy says as he walks up behind the first boy. “That’s Darius’s girl.”

“Darius! This you?” the boy calls out, just as Darius walks into the house with a line of girls trailing behind him.

Carrie quickly gets up from the couch, goes over to Darius, and hugs him as if he’s her man. She talks and laughs too loud and fixes his jacket. And Darius does nothing—nothing to at least show me that he’s not cool with it, and that he’s here with me.

Someone hands him a red cup, and he takes it. A crowd gathers, and they ask him about Bushwick. Is it safe? Is it loud? Are there gangs? Did he meet any drug dealers? I can tell they’re not all serious questions, but just by asking them, they’re making fun of my hood.

So I walk over to the group and say, “It’s safe, it’s loud, there are crews and dope boys. Anything else you wanna know about Bushwick?”

Darius chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah, Bushwick is cool,” he says to his friends. “If I throw a party, will you guys come?”

One of the white boys around him yells out, “Hell, yeah!” Then he starts with “Bushwick! Bushwick! Bushwick!”

I roll my eyes hard at this boy, and I wish Darius would say something to shut him up. He’s not focused on me, clearly, even though this was supposed to be a date. I try to make eye contact with the black girl standing by the fireplace. She’s dancing by herself with her eyes closed and all.

I go over to her and tap her on the shoulder. “Hi” is all I say.

“Hi,” she says, still dancing.

“You know all these people?” I ask.

“Yeah. Pretty much.” She sounds like Georgia and Carrie. Her statements sound like questions.

“They all go to Easton?” I ask.

“Easton, Packer, Brooklyn Friends, Poly Prep, Tech, Beacon . . .”

“Oh. Those are private schools?”

“They’re just schools,” she says, and looks me up and down.

“Bushwick High,” I say.

“Cool,” she says with a genuine smile.

Her smile lets me know that she’s not too stuck-up. I can’t blame her for giving me these short answers, because she doesn’t know me like that. But we may know somebody in common. “Darius is really popular, huh?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding really hard. “That’s an understatement.”

“Really? Like, how?”

“I mean, look at him.”

And I do. He’s not much taller than everyone else, but something about the way he stands and looks around at everybody makes him seem taller. He holds his head up high, nods during a conversation as if that person is saying the most important thing in the world, laughs on cue—throwing his head back and all—and folds his arms and puts his hand back into his pockets at just the right times. He doesn’t dance, even as the other kids around him dance. When another song comes on, he just bops his head to the bass. I don’t know if he sees me. And at this point, I don’t feel like I’m even in the room anymore.