Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

  Eight

  Boys in the Hood

  Ball don’t lie, how it bounces off concrete

  With swag, sway, and dip

  The way the girls on the sidelines flip

  As you run, jump, shuffle your feet

  Your dance moves, like sugar so sweet

  From here to the moon, boy, take me on this trip

  If I snatch this ball from you, will you kiss me on the lip

  Your wink, your smile, your touch like a treat

  You hold this ball in your hand like it’s your world

  You run this block, this hood, my heart

  And if I wanna be your girl

  I’ll steal this ball from you, bounce and spin in a whirl

  It’s been in my court from the start

  I run this whole game, make you fall deep, make your head swirl

  “Why can’t you just rap like everybody else?” Charlise says while balancing my small laptop in her wide hand as she reads my poem. “You got some skills, Z, but if you rapped, you would’ve been had your mixtape by now. And you know Marisol would’ve been selling them on every corner from here to Washington Heights.”

  We’re on a bench near the gate at the basketball courts in the P.S. 151 school yard. Two groups of guys are playing, and Charlise is waiting for a hoop to free up so we can shoot some ball. The school yard has been more packed than usual with guys from around the way. Word on the street is that cops were starting to mess with people over at Maria Hernandez Park. So guys stopped going over there and started coming out here to get some peace. That’s something the Darcy boys wouldn’t know anything about.

  Charlise doesn’t really like balling with me, but it’s much better than just sitting around chatting and chirping like two birds, she says. She doesn’t want us looking like basketball groupies ’cause she’s a baller herself. I don’t tell her that I’m an undercover groupie because I love watching the boys in my hood play ball.

  “You want me to be a rapper while you’re a baller so we could be a dynamic duo stereotype?” I say, taking my laptop from her and putting it back into my bag.

  “Okay, here we go. Why it gotta be a stereotype, though?” She grabs her ball from beneath the bench and starts passing it between her hands.

  “Layla and Kayla still swear that the Darcy parents are ballers and rappers. Well, just the dad . . . the mom is probably just a trophy wife.”

  “And they’d move to Bushwick, of all places?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. They’re too stuck-up.”

  “You’d be stuck-up too, Z, if your pops was making bank.”

  “No, I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t think I was better than everybody else. I wouldn’t look down on other people who look like me. Take Warren, for instance. . . .”

  “Warren from Palmetto?”

  “Uh-huh. Look at this.” I show her his texts in my phone. Since we last saw each other, I’ve already followed Warren on the Gram and Snapchat. And we’ve been texting each other about stuff, like how we almost went to the same elementary school. Nothing too deep, so nothing to gossip about with Charlise. “You would never think that he was smart and went to some private school in Manhattan,” I say.

  Charlise laughs, scrolling through his Instagram and tagged photos. “You don’t know the Warren I know. I remember his little scrawny self in the sixth grade right before he got into that program—class clown, always fighting, but yeah, smart as hell. Teachers said he was bored so they had him take this test, he aced it, then they put him in a white school. After that, we never really saw him around the way anymore.”

  “So he’s different,” I say, with a half smile. “I thought he was hood. . . .”

  “Ay yo, Zuri!” one of the guys from the courts calls out.

  I turn to see who it is, and Charlise steals the ball from me. “What up, Colin!” I shout, then wave back to all the other guys who wave at me.

  “Colin likes you, you know,” Charlise says. “He’s hood.”

  “Come on, Charlise,” I say. “You know what I meant by that. They could be from around here, but they gotta have something going on for themselves. They gotta have goals and aspirations.”

  “What if my boy Darius checked all those boxes, and has bank? While Warren will still be trying to get his moms, aunties, and grandmother out the projects when he starts making money. There’ll be none for you,” she says, passing the ball to me.

  I bounce the ball, spin, pass it between my legs, and toss it back to her. “Aw, come on! Not you too! I’m not tryin’ to get with some dude just so I could get in his pockets! And I can’t stand him.” As soon as I say this, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s a text from Warren.

  Let me take you out tonight.

  Now I know what it feels like to smile with my whole body, like Janae does, because Charlise asks if it’s Warren without even seeing the look on my face.

  “You’re finally starting to get a little action, Z? It’s about time,” Charlise says for all the guys to hear. She bounces the ball over to Colin and the group of guys at the nearby basket.

  “What’s up with me and you, Z?” one of the guys calls out.

  “I got a boyfriend,” I say. It’s not true. But it’s not a lie, either. I reply to Warren:

  No. Let ME take you out tonight.

  Nine

  I’VE NEVER REALLY had a reason to keep a secret from my little sisters. But even if I tried, they’d sniff it off me, because it’s so tight in our bedroom that there isn’t enough space for hidden crushes, unspoken names of boyfriends, and secret dates.

  If my phone buzzes with a new text, Kayla will feel it in her top bunk on the other side of our room. If I’m daydreaming about kissing, Layla will see the dreamy look on my face and ask for a name and a physical description. In no time, both the twins will try to find him on social media and stalk him—even if I’ve made up a name and he’s an imaginary boyfriend.

  They’ve already done that with the Darcy boys, because Ainsley is all Janae can think, dream, and talk about. Darius gets it the worst because he’s available, according to the twins. But they couldn’t find him on social media. I checked myself. The twins double-checked and are still trying to find out if he has an avatar with a different name. Though they did find that girl Carrie, and several pictures of Darius on her page—the back of his head, one side of his face, even his lips. She and Darius definitely have something going on. But then again, she has pictures of other boys on her page too, including Warren.

  “I’m going to the movies with Charlise,” I say when the twins ask me why I have on lip gloss, my favorite earrings, and extra-tight jeans.

  They let it slide, because going out with Charlise means making an effort to look extra cute because we always meet guys wherever we go.

  “Just make sure that they have little brothers or cousins for us,” Layla says as she stares into her phone. I always ignore her when she says this.

  In the living room, Mama and Papi are laid out on the couch watching TV. Mama has her feet across Papi’s lap, and he’s giving her a foot massage while she talks back to the characters on her favorite show. Without even looking in my direction, Mama calls out, “Ten o’clock! Text or call if you’re gonna be late!”

  I give them each a kiss on the cheek, and in that moment, I feel like I can fly around the world and back if I want to, because this is what will always be here waiting for me: my parents’ love; my loud sisters; my crowded and cluttered apartment; and the lingering scent of home-cooked meals.

  And someone different and new, but who still feels like home, is waiting for me outside—a boy from my hood. Bushwick Warren.

  I told him to meet me on the corner of Jefferson and Broadway, and he immediately knew that I was trying to keep this little hookup a secret from my sisters—and my parents. He knows where I live and could ring the buzzer if he wanted to. But he’s there at the corner waiting with a bright smile.

  “You look good,” Warren says as he stares
at my braids and giant gold earrings. “You’re ZZ, all right.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask with a big smile on my face, because he looks extra good with a new pair of fresh sneakers, a crisp tee, and jeans fitted just right.

  “I like your style, that’s all,” he says, extending his arm out to me.

  “It’s not for you, trust me,” I say, taking his arm even though I really don’t have to, but it’s just there and it’s smooth and strong.

  “Why can’t you take a compliment?”

  “’Cause this is not a date.” I don’t move away or tense up, because even though I don’t know him like that, Warren feels like all the other guys from my high school or around the way. I never really had a boyfriend, just guys I messed around with—holding hands while walking down the hall at school, play fighting in the park, a one-on-one game of basketball where he smacks my booty and I smack his face for stepping out of line. We’d go out with a group of friends, and if we were ever left alone, it still wouldn’t be a date.

  “What is this, then?” Warren asks.

  A cab is waiting at the curb, and he opens the door for me. “We’re just chillin’,” I say as I slide into the back seat.

  I pretend that this is no big deal, that guys always pick me up in a cab and open the door for me all the time. “I don’t chill,” Warren says as he slides in next to me. “I don’t really have time to chill. So as far as I’m concerned, this is a date.” Then he says to the driver, “Downtown. Court and Montague.”

  “Downtown?” I ask. “You got that kinda cash?”

  He only side-eyes me and I wish I could take it back, but this is Bushwick Warren and no matter how fancy his school is, he’s still from HG Projects. So I push further. “Warren? Why don’t we just take the bus?”

  “Because this is a date,” he says, licking his lips.

  I laugh. “This is not a date. And look, I don’t know who you’ve been dealing with over there at the school in Manhattan, but like you said, I’m ZZ and you don’t have to impress me with no fifty-dollar cab ride.”

  “I don’t have to, but I want to.”

  “I’d rather you spend that money on food, or a good movie.”

  “We can do that too.”

  I just stare at the side of his face as he looks out through the windshield, still smiling. “Are you slingin’ dope, Warren?”

  “What?” His voice cracks, and he turns to me wide-eyed and with his mouth open. “I already gotta deal with this in school, and now that I’m finally getting with one of the Benitez sisters, I have to answer this question with you too.”

  “I gotta ask. Come on, Warren. You know ain’t no dude from Bushwick will spend their money on a long-ass cab ride just to impress some girl. So you’re gonna drop like two hundred dollars on this not-date?”

  “Number one: you’re not just some girl. Number two: I’m not just some dude from Bushwick. I thought I made that crystal clear. And number three: I work for my bank. You think I’m gonna go to some expensive-ass school and not take advantage of every single opportunity that comes my way? I work at my school’s summer camp, I help coach the middle-school wrestling team, and I tutor on the side.”

  I don’t care if he sees me raise my eyebrows and look at him differently now. Sure, I was sold on the whole private-school thing, but now that I know that he works hard for his money, I don’t mind this cab ride at all. “I’m not trying to get into your pockets, though,” I say, just so we’re on the same page.

  “I know. Like I said, you’re not just some girl from around the way. Trust me, I can spot a gold digger from afar. But once they find out that I get my money from wrestling and tutoring, they usually kick me to the curb.” He eases his hand toward my thigh and rubs his knuckles against my jeans.

  I laugh and slap his hand away. “No they don’t. Girls from around here . . . as long as you look good and can take them to Red Lobster . . .”

  “I hope you’re not expecting Red Lobster from me.”

  “I wouldn’t mind . . . a MetroCard for the subway, a good movie, some cheddar biscuits, and I’m good.”

  “Oh, is that all it will take?”

  “What do you mean ‘Is that all it will take’? I know what you’re thinking, so no! I might just want Red Lobster, and that’s it. Ain’t no tit for tat in that!”

  He side-eyes me again, as if to ask me if I’m sure. At that same moment, something settles in my belly and I need to remind him that this is not a date. “We’re just chillin’, right? I mean, you’re cool and all, so I wouldn’t mind getting to know you.” So we have small talk on the whole ride to downtown. Well, he has small talk. In half an hour, I know all about what it’s like to be the best-looking black guy at the Easton School. When he says this, I immediately think of Darius. I don’t want to, but he pops into my mind, and I start comparing the two of them.

  As for looks, Darius wins for being almost perfect, like a model, as if he’s been Photoshopped with that smooth brown complexion and a symmetrically angled jawline. But he’s almost too pretty and stuck-up for my taste. So Warren takes the prize for overall swag—handsome with a little edge, some rhythm to his walk, bass in his voice, and he laughs at his own jokes.

  I pretend to laugh too, but the passing buildings and streets out my side of the window are competing for my attention. I want to ask him about the set of new condos going up on Fulton Street. I want to search the newly rounded street corners for the old Rasta man with the white beard who used to sell colorful rugs, old wooden furniture, and even used pots and pans in an empty lot. I want to know what happened to the row of wood-framed buildings that were sandwiched between a day-care center and a grocer. We’re driving through Bed-Stuy and Clinton Hill, and these neighborhoods are like my face and body when I was in middle school—familiar but changing right before my eyes.

  “Personally, I don’t know why they moved to Bushwick in the first place,” Warren continues.

  I’m pulled back into his small talk, didn’t realize that it had turned to Darius. “Why does he say he moved to Bushwick, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t chill like that.” He shrugs.

  “You’re cool with Ainsley, though, right?”

  “He’s cool. They’re both cool. It’s just that there’s not really much we can talk about. We don’t have anything in common. There’s some other brothers in the school that I roll with. But not Darius.”

  “I feel you. Trust me.”

  “I see Janae’s all up on Ainsley.”

  “No. It’s the other way around. My sister doesn’t get down like that.”

  “You’re different from Janae, right?”

  “Yeah. Wait. What do you mean by different?”

  “You wouldn’t go for some dude like Ainsley. Those bougie dudes who think they’re better than everybody. Especially Darius,” he says, smirking. “I can tell you like guys you can relate to. A little hard and with a little edge.”

  “You can say that again.” I laugh.

  He laughs too, at some inside joke we haven’t even shared. I side-eye him because clearly, he’s got game.

  We get to our destination, and I assume we’re going to the movies because it’s just a couple of blocks away, but we’re headed down Montague Street, a part of downtown Brooklyn I’ve never really been to. Brooklyn is segregated like that. There are definitely parts that are not hood, like Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights, but all kinds of people walk through here for whatever reason. I never have. The stores are too expensive, there are no basketball courts or handball courts, no bodegas or front stoops to roll out a barrel grill for jerk chicken, no pastelitos in deep fryers in small, smoky kitchens, and no crowded apartments filled with aunties, uncles, or cousins from Haiti or the Dominican Republic.

  “You’ve been to the Promenade before?” Warren asks, taking my hand.

  I gently pull away and pretend he didn’t do that in the first place.

  I have to decide in a split second whether or n
ot to let Warren know how sheltered I am. There aren’t many places in Brooklyn my family and I have ventured into. A big shopping trip is taking the B26 bus down Halsey Street to the Fulton Mall. And when we do take a cab, it’s to the Brownsville BJs in Gateway Mall or to Costco in Sunset Park. Going to Manhattan is a treat. I can count on one hand how many times we’ve been to Times Square.

  Mama and Papi are either always working or always tired—Papi with his two jobs and Mama with us and the housework. So we mostly stay in the hood, where we can just walk around on our own and everybody knows us.

  “Yeah, I’ve been to the Prome-whatever,” I say.

  “Well, that’s where we’re going. It’s my favorite spot in Brooklyn.”

  “Oh, really?” is all I say.

  “You know, that’s kinda what I wanna do with the kids in our neighborhood,” he says, almost reading my mind. “Take ’em on field trips. I bet you a lot of them ain’t never been to the Empire State Building or even Harlem. That was the case for me.”

  “That’ll be really cool. Make it big and give back to the community,” I say really calm, but my heart is doing backflips. I never had a checklist of what I would want in a boyfriend. That was more Janae’s thing. But as Warren talks, I’m making a mental list and checking it off at the same time. One: fine as hell. Check. Two: smart as hell. Check. Three: dreams, goals, and aspirations. Check, check, check.

  Though I should take off points for how he keeps glancing down at my butt.

  I wonder if this Promenade is expensive or if we’d both be out of place, but Warren seems like he can handle being anywhere, even with his diamond studs and sneakers. “Next time I’ll take you to my favorite spot, other than the corner of Jefferson and Bushwick,” I say.

  “Where’s that?” he asks, walking a little too close to me.