Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

  Then she says, “Darius?” and walks away.

  Darius motions for me to follow him out of the living room. I shake my head.

  “Come on. She’s just being my grandmother, that’s all,” he says.

  “Not all grandmothers are that cold,” I say.

  “She’s not cold, she’s just . . . getting to know you, that’s all. You’re my guest. So it’s fine.”

  And with that, I’m following him again, into a kitchen so white and bright, I have to blink a bunch of times just to be able to see straight. A long wooden table is next to the cabinets and shiny appliances. On it are white plates, wineglasses, white napkins, and sparkling silverware. Everything is set perfectly, looking like that farm-to-table restaurant Charlise works at. I almost want to take a picture of all this to send to her. She’d say all the wrong things—that I’ve hit the jackpot, that I need to get into this boy’s pockets real quick, that I need to do something about that Carrie girl.

  But I just keep cool, even after I see this washroom with two sinks and monogrammed towels. I stay in there for as long as I can, just staring at stuff and peeking into the cabinets. I don’t even fix my messy fro in the mirror, splash some cool water on my face, or add any lip gloss. Until someone knocks.

  “I don’t keep my makeup in there,” Georgia says when I finally open the door. “I could hook you up before you leave.”

  “I’m good” is all I say before sitting down at the table. I stare at a big red lobster on my plate, trying to figure out how to dig into it to get to the meat.

  As dinner begins, Mrs. Darcy goes on and on about her foundation, where she helps women and children from impoverished countries with something called micro grants. Darius has to help with another thing called a gala. Georgia talks about her internship with some senator, and then Mrs. Darcy asks me questions. I’d felt invisible before then.

  “Bushwick? I’ve lived there my whole life. And I intend to go back after college. It’s the only home I know, and there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be,” I say, as cool as the cucumber salad on my plate.

  “But Howard? It’s a long way from Bushwick. And you sound like you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Why not . . . Harvard or Georgetown? Darius will be applying this fall,” Mrs. Darcy says. She’s seated at the end of the table with Georgia on one side of her and Darius next to her. I’m sitting next to Georgia, but the table is so long that there might as well be two people sitting in between us.

  “Well, I’d like to go to Howard because of its cultural legacy as a historically black college. I’m going to learn everything I can, and then I’m going back to my hood to help my people out.” I leave the lobster alone and eat the linguine. I don’t care how clumsy I look rolling the pasta onto my fork, because Mrs. Darcy doesn’t seem to care about how disrespectful she’s being to me.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say your hood? So it is a little—how do I say—underdeveloped? Darius, I told your father to wait a few years, at least until Georgia is in college, to buy a house over there. You don’t fit in. None of you do. Your parents did not raise you that way. I’m sure it’s a culture clash for you, Darius. But my ambitious son wants to be a real-estate pioneer. I can’t believe he’s putting my dear grandchildren through all of that.”

  I pay attention to how she holds her fork with her pinky up, how she sips her wine, how she pats the side of her lips with the white napkin, and even how she looks down her nose at me.

  I glance at Darius, who is shaking his head a little. He’s not looking up at me at all. He doesn’t say a word to come to my defense. And Georgia is too busy with her lobster to get a word in. So, like the girl from the hood that I am, I stick up for myself. “Bushwick is a very nice place to grow up, Mrs. Darcy. We have block parties, we hang out on stoops together, and we look out for each other. And Georgia? Me and my sisters will look out for you when you come. Just like I look out for Darius now.”

  With that, he finally looks up, and I squint my eyes at him.

  “Oh?” Mrs. Darcy says, and laughs a little while putting her fork down. “Is that why he brought you here? So you could look out for him?”

  “Grandma!” Darius says.

  Mrs. Darcy turns her whole body to Darius now and asks, “How did Carrie get home? I thought you two were hanging out in D.C. today. I was expecting her, and this is what you bring to my door instead?”

  “Excuse you?” I say. “Mrs. Darcy, I didn’t ask to come here. I’m supposed to be on a bus heading home right now. But your grandson invited me. So I will gladly invite myself out. Now, can someone please get me a cab?”

  I stand from my seat, grab my bag from the floor, and start to make my way out of that kitchen.

  “Oh, you will not talk to me like that in my own home, young lady,” Mrs. Darcy says.

  “And you will not to talk to me like that to my face.”

  “Grandma!” Darius says through clenched teeth. And that’s all he says.

  But I don’t pay him any mind. I keep walking toward the living room, even as he comes chasing after me.

  “I’m sorry, Zuri,” he says. “Let me grab my things.”

  I open the front door and wait outside. I keep my arms crossed as my breaths get shorter, my heart races, and I feel like running back in there to curse that woman out one last time.

  Georgia comes outside, and I look away from her.

  “I’m sorry about that, Zuri.”

  “You’re cool, Georgia, but your family is bougie as hell,” I say.

  “Please don’t judge my family like that,” another voice says. I turn toward the doorway to see Darius holding a small leather suitcase. “You wouldn’t want me to call your whole family ghetto, now would you?”

  Georgia’s mouth falls open. Darius and I just stare at each other for a long second until his grandmother comes prancing to the door. That’s my cue to keep walking away from that house.

  “Darius, honey? It’s getting dark. You should stay over and go home in the morning.”

  “I have to take Zuri home,” he says.

  “Well, you can take her back to Howard,” she continues.

  “I’ll call you when I’m on the road, Grandma.”

  Darius comes around to the passenger side of the car to open the door for me.

  “This whole thing was a mistake,” I say as Darius gets into the car. “Please take me back to the bus station. And listen to your grandmother. You shouldn’t drive all the way back to New York in the dark.”

  “I’ve done it before. And you shouldn’t be on the bus by yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  That’s when I text my parents and finally tell them that I’ll be catching a later bus home. Their responses are going to come flying through my phone, so I tuck it into my bag. I don’t want to have to explain one more thing to them right now.

  Darius starts the car as his grandmother stands in front of her house with her arms crossed. Georgia is waving to me frantically. I wave back.

  “Your sister is cute,” I say, just to let him know that there’s at least one person in his family I like.

  “Yeah, a little too cute and a little too naive,” Darius says. He backs out of the driveway and has to put his arm around my seat and turn his body toward me to do so.

  He leans in a little bit too much, and part of me thinks it’s on purpose. When he’s out of the driveway, he says, “Oh, sorry.” Then he sighs as he drives away from his grandmother’s house. “Thank you,” he says.

  “For what?” I say.

  “For calling out my grandmother on her bullshit.”

  “I didn’t mean to disrespect her, it’s just that . . .”

  “I know. You held your own.”

  I don’t say anything to that. I just sit back in my seat, letting this strange day wrap around me like new clothes. It’s familiar, but different, and makes me feel brand-new.

  Eighteen

  “WHAT DO YOU like to li
sten to?” Darius finally asks after ten minutes of driving in silence down a highway. “You said you’d deejay, remember?”

  “Trap,” I lie. “Hood shit. Ratchet lyrics with the loudest bass.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

  “See? You should already know what I’m talking about when I say trap music. It should already be on your playlist. Now, what do you like to listen to?” I ask.

  “Why don’t you take a guess, since you already know me so well and what I should be listening to?”

  “No. I don’t like to play mind games.”

  “Really? You could’ve fooled me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “According to you, I should be doing all these things that’ll make me more . . . what? Black? Did you write a manual or something?”

  “Yes, I did. It’s called Boys in the Hood.”

  “Ha. Ha. Very funny, Ms. Benitez.”

  “Ain’t nobody laughing, Mr. Darcy. So, seriously. You don’t got no trap music?” I ask, trying to figure out the buttons on his dashboard.

  “You mean, do I have any trap music?” He says this slowly, enunciating every word.

  “Hold up. Are you correcting me?”

  “Yes.”

  I don’t have any words for him. I just stare at the side of his face, and if he wasn’t driving at sixty-five miles per hour down a highway right now, I’d mush him so hard, it would make him rethink his whole life.

  But it’s too quiet, so I reach for the radio at the same time he does, and our hands touch. I start to pull back, but he holds my hand for a moment as he stares out at the road. I slowly pull away.

  “I need you to drive with both hands, Darius,” I say as I notice the sign for Baltimore. “Wait, weren’t you supposed to take me back to D.C.?”

  He sighs. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was so ready to head back to Brooklyn that I just hopped on ninety-five. We can go back, or you can catch a bus in Silver Spring. We’re not too far from there.”

  I laugh a little. “You’re trying to kidnap me?”

  He doesn’t laugh. “I would never do something like that.” He’s dead serious.

  “Dang. Relax, Darius. I’m just joking. I can’t wait to get back to Brooklyn either. So I’ll ride with you.” I want to take those last few words back, in case he reads too deep into them. But he doesn’t respond.

  I text my parents that there was a change of plans, that Darius is giving me a ride home. Mama doesn’t even ask how or why or what. She just texts back a million heart emojis. I roll my eyes and shove my phone to the bottom of my bag. After a long, quiet minute, Darius says quietly, “You’re probably hungry, since you barely ate any dinner. We can stop somewhere to get something to eat.”

  My first instinct is to say no. But I don’t. My stomach twists. “Sure,” I say.

  I let the quiet swell between us for a moment. He never puts on any music and doesn’t say another word. Neither do I. But the time is moving slowly, even though the car is zooming past miles and miles of trees and road. I sink into my leather seat and watch Darius because he can’t watch me. He’s more comfortable driving a car than I expected, using his turn signal to switch lanes and keeping his hands firmly on the steering wheel. Everything about him looks . . . confident. He knows who is. He knows this road. He knows this world. His skin looks extra smooth in the dim light of the setting sun. His face and whole body are relaxed. So I let my guard down a little bit. He glances at me for a quick second and shoots me a smile. This time, I don’t look away. I keep watching him. Even though there’s still some weird vibes between us, I feel safe.

  Darius’s ringing phone breaks the silence.

  “Hey, Mom,” he says as if he’s talking to one of his friends.

  “Darius?” his mother’s voice is like music coming through the car’s speakers. She almost sings. “Are you with that young lady from across the street?”

  “Zuri? Yeah.”

  If my stomach was twisting before, then now it’s a straight-up tornado.

  “Well, her parents came to our door saying that she was with you. I assured them that you’ve made this trip several times and that she’s in good hands. And I see you’re on your way back to New York. Drive safe, honey!”

  She hangs up before Darius explains anything. And I exhale a bit knowing that his parents are tracking his phone. He takes an exit off the highway, and I tense up because he’s going a little too fast when he makes a sharp turn onto another road.

  I dig out my phone and see that I have a new text from Warren and a ton from my sisters. I have no idea what to say to any of them right now. How could I possibly explain to Warren that I’m in the car with Darius?

  We pull into the parking lot, and the lights of the rest stop flicker on in the gathering darkness. I open the door and get out of the car. Crickets chirp and the air is gentle. The hum of cars driving past is almost comforting. I know that we’re near the highway, but this almost feels like the countryside or something, like I’ve been transported to a place I’ve only seen in movies.

  We walk side by side and get hit by a blast of air conditioning when we step into the rest stop. Darius turns to me, concern etched between his thick eyebrows. “Wait. What do you like to eat?”

  I look around at the fast-food options and walk ahead of him to a chicken spot. He follows. At the counter, I order the largest meal I can buy with my fourteen bucks. Darius orders fries and a club soda. While we’re waiting, I realize that he’s standing way too close behind me.

  “Yo, ease up, bruh,” I say with a smile on my face.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you were cold. They’re blasting the AC in here.”

  “Yeah right, Darius,” I say, bumping my body against his. And he’s right because it’s hella cold in this fast-food restaurant and I notice the goose bumps on my bare arms.

  “I can keep you warm while we wait,” Darius offers innocently.

  “What? No. I’m good. Really.” I shake my head and turn away so he doesn’t see me smile. Then I say, “I can keep you warm.”

  He hugs himself, rubs his arms, and goes, “Brrrr . . .”

  I laugh. “Oh my goodness! You are so stupid!”

  “Well,” he says, holding out his arms. “I’m still cold.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head just as they call our number for our order.

  “That’s all you’re getting?” I ask.

  “I just ate. And you barely touched your lobster.”

  “I’m not into lobster. And your grandmother spoiled my appetite.”

  “Zuri, I’m sorry about my grandmother,” he apologizes again. “She can be a little uptight.”

  I just hrumph. I don’t want to get into it again—and no amount of apologizing can fix that woman, anyway.

  The cashier girl places our bags of food on the counter, and I reach into my pocket for my money. But Darius touches my arm, and he already has a card in his hand to pay for the food.

  “I can pay for myself,” I say.

  “I knew you were going to say that. But really, it’s my treat.”

  “Well, a’ight then.” I can’t help but give him a sliver of a smile as I let him pay.

  I’m back at the car waiting for him to unlock the doors when I notice that he isn’t behind me. He’s sitting near a set of benches and tables in front of the restaurant. I didn’t realize we were turning this into a full-on picnic.

  I pause for a little bit to watch him open up the bags and pull out his food. He eats fries as if they’re the most expensive thing in the world. He catches me looking at him and motions for me to come over.

  For the first time during this whole trip, I’m able to sit back and take in the wide blue-orange sky and warm summer air. There are no tall buildings around or sirens or loud music and voices—just the soothing sound of speeding cars in the distance.

  And Darius’s brown eyes with those thick eyelashes, staring at m
e.

  “Yes?” I ask as I dig into my two-piece meal. I don’t feel any kind of way about eating fried chicken and fries in front of this boy, even as he refuses to look away.

  “Nothing,” he says, trying to hold in a laugh.

  “You played yourself by only getting fries. You know you want some of this,” I say with a mouthful of chicken.

  “No, thank you. I’m just . . . amazed.”

  “You ain’t never seen a girl eat fried chicken before?” I lick my fingers and take a sip of soda.

  “No. Not like that.”

  “Of course not. I bet Carrie eats fried chicken with a knife and fork. Oh, wait. She’s probably vegan.”

  “As a matter of fact, she claims to be.”

  “Figures.”

  “Why are you using her as a gauge? You’re completely different, Zuri.”

  With that, he leaves me speechless for a hot minute. I finish my food, take a few more sips, and wipe my mouth. “I know I’m different. That was my point.”

  “You’re more than different. You’re special, Zuri. I mean, damn. I’ve never met a girl like you.” He looks down when he says this, as if he’s been practicing or something, and he didn’t know how I’d react.

  I don’t know what to say to that, even as my whole body tingles with tiny granules of sugar, as Madrina says. So I get up, wipe my mouth and hands with a napkin, toss the rest of my food into a nearby trash bin, and start heading back to his car. “We should hurry up. It’s getting dark.”

  I’m almost near the car when I realize that he’s not following me again. I turn around to see him standing a few feet away, just staring at me.

  “Okay. You’re creeping me out. For the record, my father knows I’m with you, he knows where your parents live, and he owns a machete,” I say.

  He smiles in a way I’ve never seen him smile before. I only shake my head and wait for him to open the car with his remote-control key thing. But instead he walks around to my side and is coming closer to me. I don’t step back. I just stand there as he inches closer and closer, and before I know it, we’re face-to-face. Still, I don’t step back. Slowly, he leans in, breathing heavy, looking into my eyes, and his lips touch mine. He pauses as if making sure it’s okay, and that’s when I finish what he started. I fall into his kiss, making sure that I’m still in the lead, that I’m still in control, and he slips his hands around my waist and pulls me in. I pull him in even closer. We feel like one body.