by Ibi Zoboi
“I know, I know,” I say.
“Seriously, Z. If you don’t do these things, you won’t ever get outta there. Home will always be here, and Bushwick will always be Bushwick.”
“Will it, though?”
She’s quiet for a moment and looks out over the other houses and buildings. “Okay, well, what if you come back home and get started on your career, and then you could actually buy something in Bushwick and afford Hernando’s bodega prices no matter how many ‘organic’ signs he puts up.”
I laugh, and then remember what I’m supposed to be working on this summer. “You think this will make a good topic for my essay to get into Howard?” I ask. “How to save the hood?”
“It depends on how you frame it. What’s your angle, your thesis statement? What are you trying to say?”
I pause for a moment, thinking about my hood and how even though families grew up and changed, things essentially stayed the same, until now.
I uncross my legs, and at the same moment, the door to the mini-mansion opens and out come the Darcys. Each of them has changed into something different. The mother is now wearing a flowery sundress and the father is in a pink button-down with khaki slacks. Ainsley is dressed in a crisp T-shirt and jeans. Darius is dressed exactly like his father.
“Hi, Darius! Hi, Ainsley!” We hear someone yell out from below. It’s Layla, of course, yelling out the window.
The two boys look up. Only Ainsley smiles and waves back. Then he looks up even farther and sees Janae. She freezes, and I can tell that she doesn’t know whether to wave or scoot back so he doesn’t see her. Then she relaxes and stares until Ainsley disappears into the back seat of the SUV, along with Darius, who never once even looked up.
The Darcys drive away and turn down Bushwick Avenue. I wonder where they’re going. They just walked into that fancy house—why would they leave it so soon, even if it’s for a few minutes? I wonder if they’ve been out of the state, out of the country. I wonder about all the places and things and new experiences their money has been able to buy them.
So I start to ask Janae, thinking that she might have the answers, but her eyes are fixed on the setting sun, and I’m sure her dreams are floating with the clouds.
I can see the dim moon in the distance, the orange-blue sky, and can hear the bustling sounds of Bushwick as they wrap around us, and this roof becomes like a cupped hand holding the two of us up.
“Z?” Janae says without looking at me.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I have a chance?”
“With who?” I ask.
“Ainsley,” she says, her voice soft.
“Shit” is all I say.
Four
IT’S THE FIRST Saturday morning of summer vacation, and the apartment is a delicate bubble—quiet, full, and round with me and all four of my sisters squeezed into one room. We’re all about the same size and height now, still sleeping in the beds we’ve had since we were little.
Two bunk beds are pushed against the walls in our bedroom, and Janae’s single bed is right beneath the front window.
I’m up before my sisters and in the middle of my book, a highlighter and pencil in hand, just like Papi taught me. I’m reading Between the World and Me and thinking about Ta-Nehisi Coates’s mecca, Howard University, and how it’ll be like a whole other country with no outsiders moving in to change things up and throw things away; where the faces of the people are the same now as they were back in 1867, when Howard was first founded; where even though people come from different parts of the country and the world, they speak the same language—and that’s black, and African, and Caribbean, and Afro-Latinx, all the things that make up me: Haitian, Dominican, and all black.
I finish the chapter I’m on and peek out the window—checking to see if anyone is setting up for the block party yet. But all I see are the Darcy boys in front of their house. Ainsley is jumping about, punching the air as if he’s ready to fight. Darius is stretching out his legs, and both of them have patches of sweat around the necklines of their T-shirts. Something about the way they’re dressed lets me know that they definitely weren’t playing ball at the park, nor were they doing pull-ups on the monkey bars like all the other guys in the hood.
On the corner, a white woman is scooping up her dog’s poop with her plastic bag-covered hand. She pulls off the bag, ties it up, and tosses it into a nearby bin, then pets her dog as if he’s done a good job. I spot Mr. Turner from down the block, standing outside Hernando’s with his cup of coffee. Soon he’ll pull out the plastic crates, turn them over on their sides, and wait for Señor Feliciano, Stoney, Ascencio, Mr. Wright, and some of the other grandpas to join him in a daily game of dominos or cards while smack-talking about politics and the latest soccer match.
When the street lights come on, they’ll move out of the way for the younger guys—Colin and his crew, who just stand there checking out girls, drinking not-juice from bottles, and also smack-talking about politics and the latest basketball game. Then the block party and the music will move in, and everyone will eat and dance late into the night. It’s one of my favorite days of the year. And it’s like a smaller version of my other favorite days: going to the Dominican Day parade with Papi and the Puerto Rican Day parade with Madrina, and repping the Haitian flag at the West Indian Day parade with Mama. Our block parties bring everybody in our hood together, though—the Dominicans, Haitians, Jamaicans, Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Panamanians, African Americans, and white couples too, who are buying up a lot of the brownstones down the block.
My neighborhood is made of love, but it’s money and buildings and food and jobs that keep it alive—and even I have to admit that the new people moving in, with their extra money and dreams, can sometimes make things better. We’ll have to figure out a way to make both sides of Bushwick work.
That gives me an idea. I grab my small laptop and type the first words of my college application essay to Howard.
Sometimes love is not enough to keep a community together. There needs to be something more tangible, like fair housing, opportunities, and access to resources.
My younger sister, who is a self-proclaimed finance whiz, says it best: Love is abstract. Money is not.
I type, delete, type, and delete over and over again. I inhale. Close my eyes. And let my fingers dance across the keyboard.
How to Save the Hood
If my name was Robin
I’d steal the tight corners
Where hope meets certainty
To form perfectly chiseled bricks
Stacked high to make walls
Surrounding my Bushwick
Sometimes I don’t go to the other side
Where Bed-Stuy or Fort Greene
Are guarded and armed with coffee mugs
And poodles on leashes
I don’t see any more homeless pets
Like the ones that used to gather
In the junkyard on Wyckoff Avenue
Beneath the overhead train tracks
Like marks on the arms of junkies
Who used to stumble down Knickerbocker
Boxing the air, fighting the wind
Suckerpunching a time
When those graffiti-covered walls
Used to be background canvases
For old ladies in house slippers
Pushing squeaky shopping carts
Around those tight corners
Where hope meets certainty
Hope is wishing that corners will
Turn into long, unending streets
Where all the traffic lights turn green
Certainty is knowing that corners
Will always be home
Where ninety-degree angles
Are the constant shapes in our lives
Always a sharp turn
By late afternoon, our apartment is a smoky sauna of Mama’s cooking for the block party. I’ve gotten used to the smells by now, and so has our block, and maybe our whole neighborhood too.
>
All the windows are wide open to let out the smoke, and my sisters and I have stripped down to just shorts, tank tops, and aprons, along with hairnets and gloves when we’re handling the food.
The new people moving into our neighborhood probably think that our part of Bushwick can’t get any louder than on a random Saturday night in July.
The bass has been pumping since noon, and with that kind of noise, there’s no reading, thinking, or dreamily staring out the window for me. The deejay is set up right in front of our stoop, and our whole building seems to dance to the rhythm of the music. None of us can sit still. Even as I help cook, I bop, snap, do a little two-step, and follow along as Layla and Kayla practice their dance moves for the block party’s talent show.
The block party is something we’ve been putting together for the last couple of years, ever since Mama became the one-woman planning committee of the block association. She manages to bring together the ladies on Jefferson and Bushwick to cook and set up a few tables at the other end of the block, while Papi and his homies set up grills on the sidewalk and large coolers of beer near our stoop. People from other blocks sit on lawn chairs all up and down the sidewalk. Kids run and ride their scooters. On each end of the block, two or three cars block off traffic. This is Mama’s dinners on steroids.
Finally we’re done cooking and everything is ready to go into aluminum containers. We help carry the food downstairs and then are free to go enjoy the party. Janae goes to fix her makeup before coming to join me on the stoop. She holds a plastic cup of ice cream and sits next to me while bopping her head to the deejay’s latest beat. Behind the deejay is a ministage where the talent show contestants will perform—right in front of the Darcy house. This was never a big deal before, since it used to be abandoned.
“You think they’re pissed?” Janae asks as she scoops up a spoonful of ice cream.
“Who?” I ask, playing dumb.
“You know who I’m talking about. The Darcys. They’re not even here a week and already our block is bringing all this noise to their doorstep.”
“I don’t care,” I say.
“Yes, you do.”
“No. I do not.”
“You should’ve seen your face when Darius saved you from that bike.”
“I don’t care what I looked like, Janae!”
She just laughs at me, and I give in and laugh too. No one can stay mad at Janae for long.
I spot Charlise making her way over to us from Bushwick Avenue. And as if she already knows I’m looking straight at her, our eyes meet. She smiles her Charlise smile—a head nod and one corner of her mouth turned up.
I hadn’t texted her that the new neighbors had shown up, because I wanted her to see them for herself.
“Z-Money. What up?” she says when she reaches our stoop, giving me one of her hard daps with her man hands. Charlise is a baller who’s been accepted to Duke on a basketball scholarship. She’s a year older than me, and between her and Janae, I know all about what to expect for applying to college. But Charlise is planning on coming back after Duke too.
I shimmy my shoulders, clap one time, do a little two-step with my feet while still sitting on the stoop, a little dance move with my hands, and Charlise figures it out real quick.
She gasps, nudges Janae so she can sit in between us, faces me, and asks with wide eyes, “What happened, Z? Is this an inside story, or an outside story? Hot tea or iced tea? Spill it! I got my teacup right here!” She pretends to sip from a tiny cup while holding out her pinkie.
Both Janae and I start laughing. Charlise loves neighborhood gossip just like Mama.
I fix my mouth to start telling the story of how those Darcy boys moved into the hood when the music changes and some of the kids rush to the deejay to do the latest dance moves.
“Aw, yeah! That’s my joint right there!” Charlise sings, and takes my hand to pull me up, and that’s when I see the Darcys coming out of their house. I automatically stop dancing and sit back down.
“What happened?” Janae asks, finishing her ice cream.
“Nothing,” I say, only bopping to the beat a little.
But Janae knows me too well, so she stands up and sees what I just saw. And of course, she waves. “They’re coming over here.”
“I’m out.” I start to stand to go back upstairs, but Janae stops me.
“Aw, come on! What’s wrong with you, Zuri? We can’t avoid them for the rest of our lives.”
“Rest of our lives? Who says we’ll know them for the rest of our lives?”
“What are y’all talking about?” Charlise asks. She’s still dancing and hasn’t noticed the boys.
Janae taps her shoulder and points toward the Darcys with her chin.
“Oh. Hello!” Charlise says. “Who are they?”
“Those’re the boys who moved into that house,” Janae says.
“What? For real, for real?” Charlise says, smiling and wide-eyed.
“For real,” both Janae and I say together.
“Damn. They’re hella fine.”
Janae throws me a told-you-so look.
“I’m not blind, Janae. I know they look good. It’s just that they’re off-limits,” I say.
“Zuri doesn’t like them just ’cause they live across the street,” Janae tells Charlise.
“I feel you, Z,” says Charlise. “The way y’all do things on this block, it’ll be like they’re your cousins.”
“Thank you!” I say. “But, wait. No. I mean, it’ll be complicated. They won’t be like our cousins. I mean, look at that house.”
“Okay. They’ll be like your rich cousins,” Charlise says. “But they won’t be my cousins. Introduce me, Zuri.”
“No!” I almost yell. “Not you too!”
“Look,” Janae says. “If those Darcys did all that stuff to that house, then they’re gonna be here for a very, very long time too. We might as well get to know them.”
“They’re not really trying to get to know us, Nae. Yeah, they fixed up that house, and soon they’ll want to fix up our whole block. I don’t think they’re feeling this block party.”
“Oh, yeah? Look,” she says, pointing with her chin.
Ainsley has joined the group of kids dancing with the deejay. He’s wearing a big ol’ smile.
Janae starts dancing along. “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” she sings to the music, acting just as corny as Ainsley.
Charlise doesn’t join them, thank goodness. She just watches Ainsley and giggles.
Ainsley turns to us, still dancing, and somehow, he and Janae manage to dance with each other while he’s a few feet away and she’s still on the stoop. Ainsley calls her over. Janae shakes her head and calls him over instead. He and my sister are acting like complete cornballs.
“No, Janae. Please don’t,” I mutter under my breath.
But Ainsley doesn’t move, and in no time, Layla makes her way over to him and starts dancing.
“Uh-uh. No she didn’t!” Janae says.
“Your little sister don’t waste no time,” says Charlise.
The music changes to something different, with a faster beat, and instead of stepping away from Ainsley, Layla grabs Kayla and they surround him.
“Oh, no,” I say. “Where is Papi when we need him?”
“They’re just having fun,” Charlise says.
Ainsley goes along with the whole thing as if he’s been accosted by thirteen-year-olds before. He knows all the dance moves, even though he’s a little off beat, and this makes him look kind of cute. I’m mad at myself for even thinking that.
I spot Darius watching them too. He’s not bopping his head, smiling, or even looking at all the kids around him. He just stands there on the sidewalk, with his arms crossed, acting like he’s too good for all this.
“That’s the younger brother, over there in the white shirt. Darius,” I say to Charlise. “I can’t stand him.”
“Didn’t he just move here?” she says.
“Yeah, but look
at him!”
“I see what you mean. He has no swag whatsoever. Neither of them do. But at least that Ainsley is trying. Come on! Introduce me!”
Then, suddenly, Layla walks over and starts dancing with Darius. I can see from all the way over here that his nose is flared, his lips are turned up, and his brows are furrowed, as if my little sister disgusts him. Layla doesn’t notice a thing.
“Do you see his face, Charlise? That whole family might as well be white.” I start to get up from the stoop.
“Z! Leave them alone. They’re just having fun!”
I ignore Charlise and quickly walk down the stoop, stomp through the crowd of dancing kids, and head straight for Layla. I yank her arm and pull her aside.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Zuri?” Layla shouts.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Darius, before turning to my sister. “You need to slow down. He don’t want you all up on him like that.”
“We’re just dancing,” she says, rubbing her arm.
“No, you’re just dancing, while he’s over here looking at you like you’re a pile of crap.”
“Excuse me?” Darius says, eyebrows raised.
“You’re excused,” I say, side-eyeing him.
In a huff, Layla pulls away from me and heads back to her friends. But I’m not done with this boy, so I give him a death stare. Darius cocks his head back and looks at me as if I’m the one who did something wrong.
“I’m sorry. Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks.
“I’m talking to you, Darius Darcy! I saw how you were looking at my sister.”
“She came up to me.” His voice is deeper than I remember, and he has a little bit of an accent I can’t place. It’s definitely not Bushwickese or anything close to a Brooklyn twang. “And don’t talk to me that way. I’m not one of your boys from the hood.”
I throw my hands up and look every which way to see if anyone else is hearing this.
“Oh, trust me.” I laugh. “I know for damn sure you’re not one of my boys. And it doesn’t matter if she’s my sister or not. You’ve met her! If you would’ve looked at us, you would’ve known that. But I guess money doesn’t buy manners, right?”