Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

  “So it’s like that, huh?” He gets up too. He’s a step above me, and now he towers over me. But I refuse to be intimidated.

  “Get the fuck outta my face, Warren!”

  Warren glares at me, but he does what I say. The gate slams shut behind him, and he walks down the street without looking back. I feel all the air leave my body, and it seems like my heart is screwed on backward. I went from catching feelings for Warren to cursing him out in the span of a minute.

  I look up and see Darius is still standing in the window. He nods at me, once. I bite my lip as I nod back. Darius steps away from the window. I sink down onto the steps and cover my head in my hands.

  “What’s going on?” Janae calls out from upstairs.

  My sisters are watching from the bedroom window. Madrina’s curtains are open. And maybe the whole block had their eyes on me, Warren, and Darius.

  And that’s when I know for sure that those boys moving onto this block has changed everything.

  Twenty-One

  WHEN I REACH Madrina’s door, it’s already slightly open. I can see her colorful walls covered in bright artwork: fake Picassos, African masks, Caribbean art, and even the stuff my sisters and I made in grade school, framed and placed beside all the other eclectic knickknacks Madrina has around her home. It was Madrina who gave me my first poetry journal, who encouraged me to write down everything I saw.

  “Madrina!” I call out, and my voice echoes. I need to talk to Madrina about this boy. That kiss. Those photos. And this thing I can’t quite describe that’s swimming deep inside me.

  I search the kitchen, the bathroom, and finally I hear a faint voice coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom. I knock first. Then I open the door to find Madrina lying in her bed.

  “Madrina, what’s wrong?” I ask. I rarely come into her bedroom because never, ever have I seen her laid up in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

  The lump beneath the blankets shifts, and she mumbles something.

  “Madrina?” I take slow steps toward her bed.

  She pulls back her covers, and for the very first time in my whole entire life, I’m seeing my madrina without any makeup. She’s a little darker and her face looks smaller. The wrinkles on her forehead are like ocean waves, her eyes are deeper and piercing, and her thin lips stretch into a weak smile when she sees me.

  “Zuri? Cómo ’tás?” she says. Her voice is still deep and booming, but it comes from a shallow place now.

  “Why are you in bed?”

  “Because I’m resting,” she says, and turns over to her side to face me.

  “No riddles, Madrina. Tell me straight up. What’s going on?” I crouch down beside her bed so that we’re eye to eye.

  “You’re so bossy, you know. The bossiest of all your sisters,” she says, smiling.

  “I get it from you, Madrina. Where’s Colin?” I take her hand and squeeze it. It’s cool, smooth, and dry.

  She squeezes my hand back. “Zuri. You’re also hardheaded. You have all these walls around you that it’s like your heart is locked up in some room.”

  I pull away from her. “You want me to get you some water? Did you have something to eat yet?” I’m too worried about Madrina to even tell her about what happened with Darius on the drive from D.C.

  She starts to get up from beneath the covers. She’s wearing a flowery nightgown, and for the first time, I suddenly see how thin she’s gotten. She’s still a little chunky and soft, but it’s different. For the first time ever, she looks frail. She opens a drawer in her nightstand, pulls out a fifty-dollar bill, and slides it over to me.

  “Keep the change,” she says, and gets up from her bed.

  I take the fifty dollars from her with no questions asked. And no answers, either. I watch her for a long minute as she struggles to pour the boiling water from an electric kettle on her nightstand into a mug. Her hand is shaking like I’ve never seen it before. I quickly get up to help her, but she shoos me away.

  “I had this nice soup called el bisqué at that new farm restaurant. Go get me that el bisqué, Zuri! It was so delicious,” she says.

  Slowly I walk out of her apartment, feeling as if I should still be in there with her. And hoping that when I come back, she’ll be all dressed, with her head wrapped and beads and makeup and deep, joyous laughter.

  “I kept trying to get her to order something else, but she kept asking for more bowls of the bisque,” Charlise says as she goes through a stack of paper menus. “And I kept saying, ‘Madrina, it’s bisque, not el bisqué. The E is silent.’ She spent like two hundred dollars all by herself.”

  The menus are printed on thick, textured paper with fancy gold lettering. I keep staring at the name of this place, Bushwick Farm. It’s not on any sign outside the building. The people who need to know that this is a farm-to-table restaurant already know it’s a farm-to-table restaurant. Charlise says that farm-to-table means that the chicken is supposed to still be clucking when it’s on your plate and the vegetables taste like wet soil. The food is that fresh. The people who come here to eat mostly are white, mostly are rich, and mostly ignore us as if we’re ghosts.

  That’s how they treat Charlise as they come into the restaurant. She’s supposed to check to see if they have a reservation, seat them, and hand them their menus. But most of them just walk past her as if she’s not even there. Good. She won’t get in trouble for talking to her friend while she’s supposed to be working.

  “She was here by herself? Not even with Colin. Why?” I ask her.

  “Madrina said she’s souping it all up before the gringos take over,” Charlise says. “And speaking of soup, which one did she want? The fire-roasted tomato or the lobster one?”

  “She didn’t ask for soup, she asked for el bisqué. I mean, bisque.”

  “Bisque is soup, DAH-ling!” Charlise raises an eyebrow and holds her pinky up, and I laugh. “You better learn to say them fancy words. You’re gonna be out in the world soon, college girl. And besides, rich boy from across the street knows how to say it.”

  A chill runs up my spine. I quickly look away from her so that she doesn’t see my face. She would probably know everything just by looking into my eyes. A few customers walk in, distracting Charlise. She grabs a couple of menus and walks them outside, where they ask to be seated.

  In the evenings, they block off a section of the sidewalk and put out wooden folding chairs, tables covered with white cloth, fancy plates, and wineglasses. That whole setup always looks strange to me, because this place used to be an auto-repair shop when I was little. It was closed for a couple of years, and then out of nowhere, it seemed, it became a fancy restaurant. I bet these people don’t even know that car exhaust and engine oil once filled this place. I force myself to think about all these things so Charlise can’t tell that somewhere in the back of my mind is the thought of Darius and our drive from D.C. together.

  “So. When was rich boy in here?” I ask.

  “About a week ago, with his whole family. At the same time as Madrina, in fact. She was eyeing them the whole time. Then rich boy came over and said hi. Introduced himself and everything.”

  “Really? Wait. Which rich boy?” I ask.

  “The fine one!” She tries to hold in a laugh.

  I give her a look. Then she bursts out laughing, and the bartender looks over at us. He just smiles and shakes his head.

  “Okay, it was Ainsley. And they were all nice to me. Too bad Janae is not going out with him anymore. How’s Warren, by the way?”

  I shrug. “We’re done.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “It’s complicated” is all I can manage to say. I want to keep Darius’s secret. And Georgia’s.

  “Well, I have some news.” She tries to hide her smile.

  “What is it, Charlise?”

  She grins wide, revealing all her teeth, as if what she’s about to tell me will shock me.

  “Or, who is it?” I grab my phone to check if I missed a photo on
Charlise’s instagram.

  “Wait, Zuri,” she says. “He’s about to come in.”

  I look out the opened glass door to the restaurant and count down. Ten, nine, eight . . . and in walks Colin, with that fake limp of his, and that cheesy grin as if he thinks he’s God’s gift to girls. As soon as he’s close enough to where I’m sitting, I say, “Hey, Colin. Madrina already sent me here for her el bisqué.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. You should try some of that bisque too, Z. It’s dope.”

  And right before my eyes, he reaches over the podium in front of Charlise and kisses her on the lips. I throw my hands up. “Oh, hell no!”

  “See? I told you she’d get all in her feelings,” Colin says.

  I take a deep breath and stare at the two lovebirds for a minute. I want to be a supportive friend. I don’t want to seem like a hater. “You know what, Colin? I’m happy for you two. Really.”

  Charlise’s face lights up and she smiles bright. “Thank you, Zuri!” Then she turns to Colin. “See? I told you she’d be all right with this.”

  Colin wraps his arm around Charlise’s neck, pulls her in, and plants a big fat kiss on her forehead, just as a well-dressed couple walks in. I step aside and watch Charlise shoo Colin away, then attend to the guests. It’s a long minute before I realize that the couple is none other than the Darcy boys’ parents, and I want to run out of there. But Charlise points to me, and they both turn. Darcy dad smiles. Darcy mom doesn’t. Then she smiles a fake smile.

  I grab the paper bag with Madrina’s bisque and quickly leave that place, walking really fast down Knickerbocker Avenue and back to my building. As my heart races, I think that maybe I read the Darcys wrong. Maybe the Darcy mom has a bad case of resting bitch face. Maybe they were just in an argument and they went to that restaurant to patch things up. But then again, first impressions are everything. Madrina says to trust my gut. My gut told me that the Darcys were all conceited, and their sons thought that they were better than us. But I kissed one of them. And he apologized to me. Sort of.

  As I’m walking back to my building, I get a text from Darius.

  Hey, he types again.

  I take a breath.

  Hey, I respond.

  Twenty-Two

  Him: Zuri, I’m sorry about everything.

  Me: . . .

  Him: Sorry about Warren too. I know you liked him.

  Me: Don’t apologize for Warren. He’s an asshole. You proved your point.

  Him: I wasn’t trying to prove anything.

  Me: . . .

  Him: You and him still a thing?

  Me: We’re nothing. You did see me curse him out, didn’t you?

  Him: I couldn’t miss it. It was epic.

  Me: . . .

  Him: Can we have a do-over?

  Me: . . .

  Him: Please, Zuri Luz Benitez. ZZ.

  Me: . . .

  Him: ???

  Me: I’ll give you another chance. But you best step up your game.

  Him: ☺☺☺

  Madrina left her apartment door unlocked for me.

  “Madrina!” I call out as I’m staring at Darius’s texts. “I got your soup! And it’s bisque, not el bisqué. It’s a fancy word for soup.”

  She doesn’t say anything and I look up from my phone and towards her bedroom. “Madrina?”

  “I heard you, mi amor,” she says with an unusually raspy voice. “Just put it down, okay? Gracias, mija.”

  She coughs a couple of times as I start to reply to Darius’s last text. But I don’t send anything. I walk out of Madrina’s apartment with my head in a shimmery pink fog. I read Darius’s texts over and over again as I climb the steps, almost tripping.

  Twenty-Three

  AGAIN, I’M LYING to my parents and my sisters about being with a boy. I can’t believe I’ve become that girl.

  Charlise is covering for me. We’re supposed to be going to the movies. My sisters side-eye me because they know I don’t like movies. I explain that it’s Charlise’s last summer before college and they buy it. They think I’m going to meet boys at the theater, and I don’t argue with them. It’s better than letting them know that I’m meeting the boy across the street who I’m supposed to hate right now.

  I feel bad about not telling Janae, though.

  I told Darius to meet me at the L train stop and to leave home before me. There’s no way he can come pick me up at my door.

  He texts me that he’s almost at Wyckoff Avenue. I’m two blocks behind him, and I speed up a bit. Even though I’ve agreed to hang out with him, I’m not really sure what I’m getting into. A ride home from D.C. was one thing, but Darius Darcy taking me out on a date is another.

  I don’t see him when I get to the train station. He hasn’t texted his exact location. So I look around, and two minutes go by. I’m a little conscious of what I’m wearing—a loose-fitting sundress and sneakers. I tried to be cute, but not too cute, so he doesn’t think that I’m trying too hard. My stomach stirs a little bit, thinking that he might be playing me or has stood me up, or something. A small part of me still doesn’t trust him.

  Suddenly I feel someone’s presence behind me, so I quickly elbow them in the belly. I turn around to see Darius doubled over, holding his stomach.

  “You can’t be rolling up on nobody like that on the subway!” I say.

  “Tell him, sis!” someone nearby calls out.

  And I laugh.

  “I was trying to surprise you,” Darius says in a strained voice.

  “Nope. Not here. And not with me. This isn’t Park Slope,” I say.

  And he laughs. His laugh softens me a little bit. And I return his hug. He wraps both his arms around my upper body while I wrap mine around his waist. His body is strong and I almost stay there for a second too long, but then I remember where I am.

  I’m still in my hood, and somebody might see us and tell my parents.

  On the train, the first thing I say is “This isn’t a date.” I said this to Warren too.

  “I know,” he says, shrugging. “You can call it whatever you want. Bottom line is that we’re doing this, whatever this is.”

  There’s not much I can say to that. So I just nod. “You’re saying all the right things. Did you practice or something?”

  He laughs. “Or something. Let’s just say I have an idea of what pisses you off.”

  “So you’re trying to avoid those things?”

  “Basically.”

  “That’s not very authentic.”

  “Well, I’m just trying to be on my best behavior and be a gentleman.”

  “There you go with those good manners of yours,” I say. The train inches toward Morgan Avenue, and I notice how the people who started getting on at the last few stops look different than the people who were on this train when we got on.

  “What’s wrong?” Darius asks. He slides away from me a little bit and turns his body toward me, as if I’m about to give him the most interesting answer ever.

  I see him now. For the first time since knowing him, I see him. He still dresses as if he’s off to a teaching job or something. But his jawline is not as tight. And his eyes are smiling. He looks as if he sees me too. So I open up to him. “I’ve been taking this train my whole life. The train is the same. The stops are the same. But the people are different.”

  He looks around. “I know what you mean.”

  “Do you really, though?”

  “Yes,” he says, and moves closer to me again. “But I don’t want to talk about that now, because I’d rather hear about the last book you read.”

  “If I tell, then we’ll have to talk about that,” I say.

  He smiles. “Okay. What’s your favorite food?”

  Again, this is something that no one has ever asked me. It’s a simple question. So I let everything about this moment be simple. And he hangs on to my every word.

  The rest of the afternoon goes by like a warm summer breeze. We get off at Bedford Avenue on the L train, and
even though I rep Brooklyn all day, every day, I still never have been to Williamsburg. The streets here are narrow and filled with artsy white people with tattoos, piercings, thick beards, and colorful hair. There’s nothing but little shops and restaurants on this strip of Bedford Avenue. I eat gourmet pizza with him. I sip bubble tea and have frozen yogurt. He insists on paying, even though this is not a date. I walk into my very first vintage store, like the ones Janae described up near her college in Syracuse.

  “You want it? I can buy it for you,” Darius says as I hold a sweatshirt up to my body.

  “I know you can buy me anything I want. The question is, do I want you to buy me anything?” I say, putting the sweatshirt back on the rack.

  I’m about to move to another rack when I feel Darius tug at my dress. I stop as he gently pulls me toward him. He takes both my hands in his hands. I step closer to him until our bodies touch. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot our reflection on a fitting-room mirror. I turn to see just how perfect we look together. He’s way more put together than I am. His clothes are newer, more expensive. I look cute, but still a little hood, a little less polished. He watches us too. And he slips his arms around my waist while still looking at us. I lean in to his chest.

  “Perfect,” he whispers.

  His breath reaches the back of my neck, and my whole body tingles. So I face him again and reach up to kiss him. We kiss right there in the middle of the vintage store, in front of a fitting-room mirror, for all these hipsters to see.

  Someone says, “Awww!”

  Still, we don’t stop. And I melt. Darius hugs me so tight, picking me up off my feet, it feels as if he’s inhaling me. And I’m exhaling him.

  When we finally release each other, he still holds me in his arms, trying to smooth back my fro.

  “Save your energy. My hair doesn’t move,” I say, just to break up that heated moment.

  He laughs and I pick up the sweatshirt—a logo of Hillman College from that old TV show A Different World—and hand it to him. I walk out of the store and wait for him outside as he pulls out his wallet with a big fat smile on his face.