by Ibi Zoboi
“The corner of Fulton and Hoyt. Downtown. It’s where I buy my books,” I say. “My father takes me there every once in a while.”
“A bookstore is your favorite place?” He turns his whole body to me now.
“It’s not a bookstore. It’s a book . . . spot. This guy sells books on the corner.”
“Why don’t you go to a bookstore?”
“Well, it is like a bookstore. Come on, Warren. You know this already. You’re smart, and if you didn’t go to that fancy school, you’d be getting your books from the brother on the corner too.”
“You like to read?”
“You’re assuming that I don’t?”
“I never said that. I just didn’t think your favorite spot in all of Brooklyn would be a corner where some guy sells books. Why not . . . the library?”
“I like owning my books.”
He pauses for a second. “I like you,” he says.
I only half smile, hoping that he knows that I’m not falling for his game. But still, I kind of don’t mind it. “You a’ight.”
“Oh, I’m a’ight? I hear you, ZZ.”
As he says this, the block we’re walking on comes to an end, or rather, it opens up into a park, and in the short distance is New York City’s skyline against a dim blue sky and faded yellow sun. We walk through the park, and I quickly realize why this is his favorite spot in Brooklyn. This park, or promenade, is right along the river separating Brooklyn from Manhattan.
Benches are lined against a metal fence, and the gray-blue water immediately draws me in. A warm summer breeze blows, and tiny bumps form on my arms. This is what Madrina calls grains of sugar adding sweetness to my soul; the first sparks of love and attraction, of something so new and tender that if I’m too firm with it, it will burst. I tighten my jaw and cross my arms to harden my stance and make everything about me firm and closed off.
This is not a date. This is not a spark of anything sweet, or tender, or shimmery. This is just me getting to know a boy named Warren from Bushwick. And that breeze is just giving me goose bumps. That’s all.
“Want some ice cream?” he asks.
“Yes,” I respond, without even thinking twice, and he places his hand in the small of my back and pulls me toward an old-fashioned ice-cream cart with a white man wearing a white apron and a chef’s hat. I ask for chocolate. He asks for butter pecan.
We eat our ice-cream cones and walk and have more small talk about the program he went to, how he learned to skim through boring books and still ace the tests, the rich white kids he knows, wrestling scholarships, and the connections he’s already made at Easton. I don’t talk. I listen.
And this thing we’re doing, in this place at the edge of a river with buildings and row houses on one side, and the cityscape on the other, is just chillin’. It’s that warm spot on the couch when my favorite show is on TV. It’s a plate of Mama’s food left out for me on the table and covered with a paper towel for when I get home from school. It’s our front stoop on a Saturday afternoon.
With this boy named Warren, home has extended out to this part of Brooklyn too—no matter how many fancy buildings with doormen, expensive slices of gourmet pizza, and older white people looking at us with puppy-dog eyes there are. Still, we’re just two homies from the hood getting to know each other.
“The Benitez sisters have a reputation, but not that kinda reputation,” Warren says, bringing me back to the moment as we head back home. We walk up Jefferson Avenue from the L train. “Word on the streets is that Papi Benitez carries around a machete just to keep guys away from his daughters.”
“My father does not carry around a machete.” I laugh. “He doesn’t have to. Me and my sisters don’t get down like that.” I accidentally bump into him. I remember that this is what Janae and Ainsley were doing at the park—purposely bumping arms.
We reach the corner of my block, and I have to decide if he crosses that line between my block and my front door. My block is my block and any- and everybody can come chill on our stoop. But bringing a boy to my door is a whole other level. I remember how Darius brought my laptop over, and I didn’t think twice about it then because he was nothing and it was nothing.
But this is something. Warren is something.
We’re already on our stoop, and I take the first step. I don’t look up to see if any of my sisters are looking out the window, or if Madrina is at her window, but I somehow know that she sees me, even if she’s deep in her basement with a client or going over her songs and prayers.
I stop on the second step and I turn to him, a few inches taller. “Well, thank you for walking me to my door.”
He laughs. “You need to raise the bar, Zuri. Of course I’ll walk you to your door. And I suggest you don’t trust any guy who doesn’t.”
“Oh, you’re schooling me on other guys now?”
“I’m just sayin’. But I plan to be around for a while, so get used to this.”
I don’t say anything to that. I don’t protest. I’m soft now, like Mama’s sweet, warm pound cake. And he’s close enough to kiss me, so my heart starts to beat faster like conga drums, and I hope that no one is looking out the window; I hope that I’ll know exactly what to do when his lips touch mine; I hope he steals a kiss quickly, while I’m standing here, waiting, breathing, with my heart pounding.
“So I’ll text you tomorrow, a’ight?” He steps back with his hands in his pockets.
I frown, confused.
He keeps stepping back until he’s completely out of our front gate. “Later, ZZ.”
He holds two fingers up, then puts his hand back into his pocket and turns around. Just like that, he walks away, and I feel like the biggest idiot in all of Bushwick. I want to drag him back to this stoop and have a complete do-over. I’m supposed to be the one to turn away while he’s waiting for a kiss. Not him!
“Bye, Warren!” someone calls out above me. I know it’s Layla without even looking up.
From the corner, Warren turns around and waves to my sister.
“Come back soon, okay?” Layla calls out again.
Clearly, he’s used to getting unwanted attention from girls too young for him, and maybe even girls too old for him. Or from girls, period. So he knows exactly what he’s doing by just walking away like that. And it works.
I just stand there with my arms crossed, not ready to go back upstairs and face my sisters. That’s when I see Darius walking up to his door while looking back at our building and rubbing his chin. He must’ve seen me. He must’ve seen Warren.
I smile to myself, watching Darius fumble for his keys. I’ll be seeing Warren again, for sure. And that’s when I’ll steal the ball and take it to my court. This game is still mine. And Darius will be watching from the sidelines.
Ten
IT’S ALMOST A hundred degrees outside, and Charlise is dressed in a white button-down shirt and black pants as if she’s coming home from a job on Wall Street. But she works a few blocks away at a new restaurant.
“You look like a butler,” I say as she sits on the stoop next to me.
It’s too hot to do anything else. Back in the day, we used to turn on the fire hydrant and run through that cool water as it flew up into the air and flooded our whole street. But Robert and Kyle threatened to call the fire department because it was a waste of water and taxpayer money, they said. Those two white boys who moved in down the block a few years ago have always had a way of making us feel bad for doing the things we love: playing loud music, laughing from our bellies, yelling out our windows, and turning on fire hydrants when it’s hot.
“I’m getting paid good butler money, though,” Charlise says, as she unbuttons her shirt to reveal a black sports bra underneath. Something about the bra and the opened white shirt makes it look inappropriate, but Charlise is known for walking around the hood in just a sports bra, basketball shorts, and her Adidas sandals. She leans back on one of the steps and spreads her legs wide open, as if she’s giving every part of hersel
f some air.
At the same moment, Colin comes out the front door. We don’t look back, but I know it’s him, because I can smell the sweet cologne his aunt makes him wear. Madrina says it’s to attract the right kind of girls—sweet ones who will be good to her beloved nephew.
“Whassup, ladies?” Colin sings.
I don’t say anything to him while Charlise stands up from the stoop to let Colin pass. I want to tell her to button up her shirt because I’m sure Colin is staring a little too hard at her boobs right now.
“What’s going on, Colin?” Charlise says.
“Chillin’. What’s going on with you?” He steps closer to Charlise as if he’s about to grab her hand, and this little exchange makes me raise my eyebrows, because Colin and Charlise used to hate each other when we were younger.
“I started working at this restaurant on Halsey. You should come by sometime,” Charlise says, and I raise my eyebrows even higher.
“Oh, a’ight. What are you, a chef or something?”
“I’m a hostess. And I hope you like asparagus.”
“Yeah, whatever. Tell me when, and it’s a date.”
This time I look at them both with my mouth wide open. There goes that word again: date. “Colin, you’re not gonna like any of that food,” I say, but that’s not really what I want to say. I want to tell him to stop flirting with my friend as if he forgot he used to chase her around with water balloons right after she’d gotten her hair done just so he could see her get mad.
“I’m open. I’ll eat anything,” Colin says, licking his lips and looking at Charlise up and down.
I roll my eyes hard as Charlise starts to laugh. “Colin, you’re such a cornball!” I say.
“Not as corny as your boys across the street, though,” he says, pointing his thumb back at the Darcy house.
“Word,” I say.
“Word,” Charlise repeats. Then she says, “Okay, then. I’ll text you and let you know when you can stop by. I’ll have a special meal waiting for you. Do you know what a prix fixe is?”
I turn and pop my eyes out at her, but Charlise just stares at Colin, smiling.
And when he leaves our front stoop and walks down the block with a little bop to his step while looking back at Charlise, I say, “I know you’re not that thirsty.”
“Actually, I am.”
“Charlise. Are you serious?”
“No. Not really, but why can’t I just mess around with him? He does it to a bunch of other girls.”
“’Cause you’re not a dude, Charlise. You’ll get a bad reputation,” I say.
“See? That’s the problem. If we treat guys the way they treat us, then we’ll get a bad reputation? That’s messed up.”
“Well, do you care about your reputation?”
She pauses, looks up at the bright blue afternoon sky, rubs her chin, and says, “My reputation for playing ball? Yep. My reputation for playing guys? Nope.”
I want to say the same thing, that I don’t care about my reputation. But I do, because I already have one. All my sisters do. We have to be careful about who we fall for, especially me and Janae. Just because guys from around the way like us—even if we don’t give them no play, it’s still easy for them to talk shit about us. Papi is watching us, but so is the rest of the neighborhood.
I glance at the house across the street and fold my arms across my chest, as if I just opened up my shirt to reveal my sports bra too.
“Yeah” is all I say, knowing that I would make myself into a soft cushion for my dear sister to fall onto if that boy Ainsley pushes her too hard. I will never let anyone break her heart. Then I wonder, who would be my cushion? Who would try to push me? And who would I fall for?
Pride Comes before the Fall
(Haikus)
If I fall in love
Will I sink to the bottom
And swallow water
Make my belly full
With hopes of tender kisses
Round like the moonlight
High over Bushwick
Playing Cupid with our hearts
I am the archer
Later in the afternoon, I have to pass some of Colin’s boys when I go into Hernando’s. They know not to holla at me the same way they do to the others girls around the way. But I know they look. I can feel their eyes on my butt when I pass. I usually stick my middle finger up behind my back, and they laugh and say, “Yeah, that’s Beni’s daughter, all right.”
Without fail, every time I come into Hernando’s, he sings my name at the top of his lungs. “Zuri-loooze! Qué pasa, muchacha?”
“Whassup, Hernando?” I say, rolling my eyes, because I swear he owes me like a hundred dollars from years of not giving back the right change.
I’m only here for a bottle of ice-cold juice, something sweet and chewy, and something salty and crunchy. And five of each so I don’t have to share with my sisters who have all gathered on the stoop with Charlise for a game of cards. As I put all the snacks onto the counter, my phone buzzes. It’s a group text from my sisters:
He’s coming into the store!
I immediately know who they’re talking about. So I text back.
So?
Darius looks surprised to see me in there, and he quickly looks away. He’s so obvious, it’s not even funny. We haven’t talked since the Bushwick Riot concert at the park.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, and stands in front of the counter next to me.
“Eyyy! Rich boy!” Hernando says.
Darius purses his lips and looks down.
Part of me wishes that Darius would speak up if he doesn’t like something, or else the guys around here will tear him to pieces. He can’t let it all show up on his face so that they don’t misinterpret his expressions. Our neighborhood is loud, and the people are even louder with their thoughts and opinions.
A smooth, old-school R&B groove is playing in the background, and it makes this whole situation weird, as if this is a music video and Darius is the star and I’m just an extra. He’s that well put-together. Again, he’s wearing a button-down shirt and too-tight khaki shorts. I can tell that they’re not the ones from the day we went to the park. These are cargo khaki shorts, and I want to kick myself for noticing that detail. I mean, doesn’t he have chillin’ clothes?
“Would you like a picture?” he asks with a half smile.
And I jump on the inside, not realizing that I was staring that hard. “No,” I quickly say, feeling stupid for letting him catch me like that.
“Do you have any pencils?” he asks Hernando.
“Pencils?” Hernando says. He grabs a pen tied to a string and hands it to Darius.
Darius sighs and shakes his head.
“You need, like, one pencil?” I ask.
“Do you sell a box or a pack of pencils?” Darius asks Hernando again, while ignoring me.
“Nah, you gotta go on Broadway for that. The ninety-nine-cent store,” Hernando says, stroking Tomijeri as he strolls onto the counter with his fat, furry body.
Darius steps back as if Tomijeri is some sort of alien creature.
“What? You’re afraid of bodega cats?” I ask, smirking.
“Maybe I’m allergic to cat dander and I’d like to buy a banana or something. Don’t you think that’s grounds for a lawsuit?”
Both Hernando and I laugh out loud, and Darius immediately drops his head and shoves his hands into his pockets. He stands there for a long minute until three of the corner dudes come in and my heart skips a beat. All their eyes are on Darius as they walk in and even as they pass him, and one purposely bumps into him.
“Sup, Z?” one of guys says. It’s Jay, who I’ve known forever. He doesn’t take his eyes off Darius.
“What up, Jay? What you been up to this summer?” I ask, just to ease the tension. His other boys are getting drinks out of the coolers in the back.
From the corner of my eye, I can tell that Darius doesn’t know what to do. He’s looking at th
e stuff on the wall behind the counter as if he can’t decide on something. But there’s nothing but batteries, lighters, cigarettes, condoms, and such. Hernando is on his phone now, with Tomijeri curled up under his hand. Jay and his boys are talking shit, and they’re extra loud. I know exactly what they’re doing. So I tap Darius’s arm and motion for him to leave with me.
“Ay yo, Z?” Jay calls out again. “I heard you were chillin’ with my boy Warren the other day.”
“That’s none of your business, Jay!” I grab the plastic bag of snacks and make my way out of the store, hoping that Darius is behind me.
“What you mean that’s none of my business? That’s my boy.”
“Bye, Jay!” is all I say.
“Should I let Warren know that you chillin’ with this dude right here?” Jay says. I can tell by how close his voice is that he’s following us out of the store.
I turn to see Darius right behind me, so I ask, “Darius, don’t you go to school with Warren?”
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is much deeper than usual.
Then I poke my head around Darius and say, “Mind your business, Jay.”
The guys fall back, and I’m relieved. They know not to mess with me, but I’m worried that if Darius is ever by himself in that bodega, they will definitely start some shit with him.
We’re at the corner waiting for the light to change, and Darius is standing beside me, thank goodness. I try to see his face from the corner of my eye. “Were you gonna let them mess with you?” I ask.
“Mess with me?”
“Yeah. They were gonna start shit and you were just gonna stand there, right?”
He doesn’t say a word as we cross the street and walk back toward our homes.
“You can’t walk around here thinking that you’re better than everybody else. These guys will put you in your place.”
“Is that a warning?” he asks.
“No. That’s good advice.” We reach the corner of his house, and I can tell that my sisters are pretending not to be watching us.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I can handle myself just fine.”
I laugh. “From what I can tell, you don’t know anything about street code.”