by Ibi Zoboi
Now he looks at me dead-on. He’s not smiling. His jaw is not moving. So I stop laughing.
“Why? ’Cause of my clothes?”
“Come on, Darius. If a bunch of guys walk into the bodega, you gotta acknowledge them. A nod, a whassup, a dap. Something. Anything. You don’t just stand there and pretend they’re invisible. And if your boy’s name comes out their mouth, you gotta defend him. That’s street code.”
Now his jaw moves at the mention of Warren; he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He blinks and looks every which way.
He inhales deep and says, “Where can I get pencils around here?”
“You mean you don’t have no pencils in that big ol’ house? No office supplies? No things you need, like pencils?”
He inhales. “No.”
“Ay yo, Kayla!” I yell out to my sister across the street. “You got any pencils?”
Kayla immediately runs inside the house.
“Thanks,” Darius says.
“You draw or something?”
“Yeah. But I need a number-two pencil to take a practice test.”
“You’re in summer school?”
“No. SATs.” He’s not looking at me. He cocks his head back as if he’s annoyed that I’m still here with him. “Warren is in summer school. But you know that already, right?”
I raise my eyebrows, because that’s definitely shade thrown at Warren. “Yeah,” I lie. “So you’ve known him since the seventh grade, huh?”
“Yeah” is all he says, then turns away as if he’s done with this small talk.
I could walk away because he’s clearly annoyed with me right now, but if he doesn’t want me here asking him a bunch of questions, then that’s exactly what I’ll do. “SATs, huh? You’re gonna be a senior?”
“Yeah.”
“But isn’t it a little late? I took mine in the spring.”
“You had a perfect score? Or close to it?” he asks, looking toward Kayla as she crosses the street.
“No. It was okay. Enough to get me into Howard.”
“Well, I’m trying to get my best score,” he says.
“’Cause you’re trying to get into Harvard, not Howard, right?”
He starts to say something, but Kayla reaches us and hands Darius a few pencils with a big smile on her face. In no time, Layla is crossing the street behind her, just to be nosy.
“Harvard? No,” he says. “Thanks for the pencils.”
He starts to walk back into his house, but I can’t think of anything more to say. I’m not ready to let him leave yet. I’m still talking. I want to be the one to end this conversation. I want to ask him what schools he’s applying to, but I don’t want to look thirsty, especially with Kayla and Layla standing there looking at me as if I’m about to make some moves on this boy, when it’s the furthest thing from my mind. But he suddenly turns around and walks closer to us.
“Kayla?” he asks while pointing to Layla.
“Guess again,” Layla sings.
Then he points to Kayla. “Okay, Kayla?”
She nods.
“Kayla and Layla,” he says, pointing to the right ones. “Sorry about the other day. It’s just . . . I didn’t feel like dancing.”
The twins are beside themselves. They trip over each other trying to reel Darius into a conversation.
“That’s okay! I mean, you don’t know us like that.”
“But can you dance, though? If not, we’re gonna have to show you.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be another block party.”
“You can dance with Zuri next time.”
I give Layla a death stare, and I roll my eyes at Darius, just to make it clear that I still can’t stand him.
Darius puts his hand up as if to say he’s had enough. He smiles and nods his head to excuse himself. In no time, he’s at his front door, and he walks into his house without looking back.
And my sisters and I are still standing there like three thirst buckets. I shove the plastic bag of snacks into Layla’s hand and grab both their arms to cross the street. They can’t wait to give Marisol and Charlise the lowdown on how Darius apologized to them, but I head straight into my bedroom. I glance out my window at the mini-mansion across the street, and I spot Darius stepping closer to the wide window on the second floor of his house. I step back away from view so he doesn’t see me too. He’s staring down, moving his head about as if looking for someone.
I smile—I can’t help it.
Eleven
IT’S SUMMER VACATION, and Mama never gets up before we do when there’s no school. I’m usually the first one to wake up. Well, the first one after Papi, if he has to go in for an early shift at the hospital. But this morning, Mama barges into our bedroom and turns on the lights.
“Y’all are not gonna believe this!” she sings as she shuffles in, holding a white envelope.
I prop myself up on my elbow. I’m on the bottom bunk, so there’s no sitting for me. Janae just rolls over, Kayla opens one eye, Marisol is fully awake, and Layla doesn’t move one inch.
Mama sits her big bottom on Janae’s bed and fidgets with the envelope in her hand. I look at her face to see if whatever is in that envelope is good news or bad news. She’s grinning from ear to ear, and her eyes are wide and bright.
Mama gives Janae a kiss. “This is all ’cause of you, sweetheart!”
I roll out of the bed and sit next to Mama. I spot gold fancy lettering on the envelope, but Mama is moving around too much for me to see the full words.
Janae is sitting up now, and Mama hands her the envelope first. All my sisters have gathered around on the floor, because Mama is cheesin’ hard and is clasping her hands as if this envelope is about to change our lives.
But Janae’s face tells a different story. She doesn’t jump out of bed and squeal. She doesn’t clap and run out of the bedroom to tell Papi, like she did when she got her acceptance and scholarship letter to Syracuse. She just smiles and clutches the envelope to her chest.
“What is it?” I finally ask.
Layla tries to take the envelope from her, but Janae holds it tight.
“Is it money?” Marisol asks.
“Is is it a scholarship?” I clarify. “Or a study abroad thing?”
“Is it a love letter?” Layla asks.
Mama takes the envelope from Janae, pulls out the letter, steps into the middle of the room, clears her throat, and begins, “We, the Benitez family, have been invited . . .” She turns up her nose and pokes out her lips as if pretending to be fancy. “To a cocktail party.” She says this in a fake British accent.
All my sisters laugh.
“A cocktail party?” I ask.
“A cocktail party,” Mama repeats with an even worse British accent.
The twins laugh even harder. “Cock! Tail!” Layla shouts, holding her belly and slapping her thigh.
“Wait a minute. Who invited us to a cocktail party?” I ask, because we’ve been invited to parties before—birthdays, weddings, funerals, graduations. But none of them have ever been called a cocktail party.
“You need a cocktail dress for a cocktail party,” Janae says, ignoring my question. She goes over to our shared tiny closet and pulls out dress after dress.
“Do you need a cock and a tail too?” Kayla laughs. She and Layla give each other a high five and I want to throw a shoe at them to make them shut up.
I finally grab the envelope from Marisol and read the whole thing out loud. “Dear Benitez family. You’ve been cordially invited to the new Darcy residence for cocktails, dinner, and lively conversation.”
“I knew they were gonna have a party in that house!” Layla squeals. “Now we get to see it too!”
“Should I bring the chicken or the pork?” Mama says. “Or maybe they like finger foods. How ’bout some tiny pastelitos? Or some fried plantains? I knew those rich folks were gonna come here and bring some good luck with them!”
The next Saturday we arrive at the front door
of the Darcy house. Janae is the one to ring the bell, because according to Madrina, she’s the one who has led us all to this door in the first place.
I’m dressed in a plain denim skirt, flowery top, and a pair of Janae’s sandals. I look like I’ve made the least effort for this party compared to my sisters, who are dressed like they’re heading to prom.
“I’m gonna need some company in case Ainsley’s busy with guests or something,” Janae had said. “Please, Zuri!” By coming here, I took one for the team, for the fam, for my dear sister.
I don’t smile when Mrs. Darcy greets us. Her eyes immediately drop down to our shoes. So I look down too, to see Mama wearing her leopard print platform stilettos that she bought for her fortieth birthday party at a small club in Bed-Stuy. My face gets hot with embarrassment because I knew that this wasn’t the kind of party for those kinds of heels.
Mr. Darcy shows up behind her, and it’s only then that she opens the door wider.
“Welcome, Benitez family!” Mrs. Darcy sings in her strange accent. It’s British, but not quite white people British. It’s kind of bootleg fancy, like a knockoff Louis Vuitton bag. This is the closest I’ve seen her, and she looks more like a big sister to Ainsley and Darius than their mother.
Mrs. Darcy’s face drops when Mama hands her the aluminum pans. Mama clears her throat. “A preview of my catering business!” she says too loudly. “The top one is pastelitos. I learned how to make them from my husband, Beni. Since I ain’t Dominican and all, I had to learn how to cook that food to keep my man!” She laughs, and her voice echoes throughout the room full of people.
“And the bottom pan has griot—Haitian fried pork. I’m Brooklyn-born and raised, but Haitian all the way. You see my daughters? Look at their figures! That comes from the good cultural foods we feed them. No skinny minnies in my house! You should have some griot,” my mother says, looking down at Mrs. Darcy’s fitted sundress. “Where your people from?” Mama talks a mile minute without even giving Mrs. Darcy a chance to say a word before she strolls into the living room with her heels click-clacking on the hardwood floors. Marisol and the twins follow right behind her.
“London. My people are from London. A neighborhood called Croydon,” Mrs. Darcy says to us, because Papi, Janae, and I are still standing there waiting to be invited in.
We just nod before Mr. Darcy shakes Papi’s hand and gently pulls him inside. In a second, both Janae and I are back in the Darcy house, and we can’t believe how different it looks and feels with soft music playing in the background, the hum of voices, and people. Different kinds of people. There’s a mix of black and not-black, white and not-white, and everything in between. Everyone looks really neat and polished. I look down at my own clothes. My skirt looks old, like it’s from a whole other decade. Then I remember that it’s actually Mama’s from when she was in high school. The stitching from my sandals is coming loose, my toes are crusty, and my knees are ashy. I want to run back home and change. Actually, I want to run back home and stay there.
But Janae and I both spot them at the same time, and my sister grabs my hand and squeezes it. Ainsley and Darius. Darius and Ainsley. Their faces. Their shoes. Their clothes.
No guy in the hood wears bow ties. And suspenders. And dress pants so skinny and fitted, we can actually tell how their legs are bowed: slightly curved around the knees, as if they’re Olympic runners. And they work out. It’s easy to tell that they work out.
Janae leaves me behind as Ainsley takes her hand and walks her to a far corner of the room to introduce her to an older, good-looking black couple.
Now I really don’t want to stay. I turn around to see that the front door is way too far, and I’d have to walk through the Darcy parents, as well as Mama and Papi, to get to it.
“Club soda or cranberry juice?” a person in all black asks.
I shake my head no.
But someone takes one of the clear, bubbly glasses and hands it to me. It’s Darius. We’re both silent as I grab the glass from him, our hands brushing. For a moment, I think he purposely touches my hand, because he smiles a little. I glance away, but when I look back our eyes meet. So I take a sip of the drink, then gulp down the whole thing out of pure nervousness.
“Slow down,” he says. “I know it’s not wine, but you can pretend.” He gives me a smirk as the twins come to stand next to us. Layla is holding a glass of deep red liquid.
“Z, why you so corny? You should have this instead of that,” Layla says, swirling the glass around while holding up her pinky. She takes a long sip and coughs. Kayla pats her back, giggling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Darius step aside to talk to someone else, and I’m both relieved and embarrassed.
“I thought y’all don’t like cranberry juice,” I say to the twins.
“It’s not cranberry juice,” Layla sings with a wide smile. “We’re bad and bougie up in this bitch!”
“Layla!” I whisper-yell through clenched teeth, and try to grab the glass from her.
But she snags it back, and some of it spills onto her dress. I turn slightly sideways to see that Darius has his eyes on us. I grab Layla’s arm to pull her away, but she keeps talking.
“I’m so glad Janae finally learned how to get a rich boyfriend. She better stay in his pockets so we can keep living this good life!” Layla says this loud enough for the people around to hear, possibly including Darius.
I pinch her arm so hard that she can’t even scream. She knows that I mean business. “If you don’t get your act together, I’m gonna tell Mama and Papi about all the times you cut school last year,” I whisper in her ear.
Even Kayla’s mouth drops open when I say this.
Another lady in black comes over and holds an empty tray out in front of me, and I grab Layla’s glass and place it on the tray.
“What was that?” I ask her.
“Red wine,” she says, and walks away.
Layla is holding her arm and covering the spot where I pinched her. Tears are welling up in her eyes while I give her the death stare. Well, it’s more than a death stare—it’s an I’m-about-to-hit-you-so-hard-you’re-gonna-end-up-six-feet-under stare.
“And these are my twins!” Mama’s voice sings from behind me, and Layla quickly fixes her face. “They’re headed to the ninth grade. They’re my pride and joy, and they’re also giving me my premature gray hairs.”
The twins quickly change their tune, because while I’ll only pinch and stare at them, Mama will straight up call them out and embarrass them in front of all these people. Like how they just embarrassed me.
I look around the room for Darius, to see if there’s any hint that he might’ve heard what Layla just said about Janae being a gold digger. I know that it’s not true, but Darius is dumb enough to believe what comes out of my sister’s big mouth. I spot him standing next to Ainsley, and they’re both looking in our direction while Janae talks to Carrie. I quickly turn away, but I can still see them out of the corner of my eye. Ainsley’s eyes are glued to us. Darius is whispering something into his ear, and Ainsley’s face changes.
I recognize that look. It’s that same look people used to give us when Mama would get on a crowded train with a double stroller holding the twins, me, Marisol, and Janae with our messy hair, runny noses, and each with a bag of chips to keep us occupied while Mama quieted down the babies. It’s the look that assumes that Mama is a single mother, that she’s on government assistance, that she beats us when she’s tired, that we all have different fathers, that we live in the projects, and that we’re ghetto. Everybody used to look at us like that—white, black, other mothers with kids who thought they were being responsible by only having two or three. I’d look back at them with defiance and a little pride; a look that says that I love my family and we may be messy and loud, but we’re all together and we love each other. That’s when I perfected my Bushwick mean mug.
Janae eases toward Ainsley. But his whole vibe has changed. I can tell that Janae is waiting
for Ainsley to respond to something she just said. But he looks around as if this conversation is the last place he wants to be right now. So I walk over to my sister, worried that something is about to go down. And at the same moment, Ainsley says, “Please excuse me, Janae.” He walks away, heading toward the kitchen, escaping.
“Ainsley? Where you going?” Janae asks.
“Hey, Nae-Nae, wait,” I start to say, but I’m ignored as my sister brushes past me and goes running after him.
“Darius, what did you just say to your brother?” I say.
Darius just shrugs and says, “Clearly something that needed to be said.”
“What—”
“You’re a smart girl, Zuri. You’ll figure it out.” And with that, Darius walks away.
My stomach drops as I watch Janae say something to Ainsley with a confused smile. He says something without a smile. Her smile diminishes, but there’s still hope in her eyes as she speaks. Ainsley shakes his head, shrugs, and places his hands on Janae’s shoulders. He looks like he’s both comforting her and holding her away from him at the same time. Janae’s smile completely disappears. Ainsley mouths, “I’m sorry,” before he slips into the crowd. And that’s my cue to go over to her.
“Janae,” I whisper while gently taking my sister’s arm. Her eyes are welling up with tears. “What just happened? What did he say?”
“Zuri, let go. Please.” Her voice is rough. She pulls away from me and pushes through the fancy people.
I swear on Madrina’s orishas, if Ainsley has hurt her in any way . . . I turn to the Darcy boys and part of me wants to go over there and tell them off to their faces. But that’s exactly what they would expect. I curse under my breath and follow my sister, my heart pounding in my ears.
Pretty Rich Boy
Hey rich boy, how much for that dollar?
I need to buy a dream
I’ve gathered the clouds and stars
to form a cheerleading team
Shouting “Shoot your shot!” from the sidelines
thinking that if I win
They all have a turn at this wheel