Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

to take it for a spin

  My mama wants to play too,

  but she’s late to this game

  A dollar is a dollar, she says,

  things are still the same

  But if you sell me this dollar,

  I’ll owe you three

  Work myself to the bone,

  none left for family and me

  Now, you got my three dollars

  with your dreams already paid for

  Walking into fancy rooms,

  never kicking down a door

  But you own that door,

  that room, that house, and its land

  So I’d have to give you four more dollars

  just to pay for where I stand

  If you could, you’d charge me for the air I breathe,

  the dreams I dream

  Even the love I love, make my own beating heart

  turn on me like some scheme

  Twelve

  I BRING SOME of the fancy food from that cocktail party up to the roof in a small container. Janae is already sitting cross-legged on the blue tarp, but she’s facing the other direction, as if trying to avoid the house across the street. I don’t blame her. So we face Hernando’s bodega instead, where we can see some of the guys on the corner doing what they usually do.

  It feels good to see them there. I’ve never known Hernando’s to not have men sitting outside, young or old. Some people think they’re up to no good, that they’re wasting their time. But I think they’re really there to look out for the block, for the whole hood, like gatekeepers. They know who’s coming in and out; they know the faces of all the people who pass them.

  Even with their big, fancy house on the corner, those Darcy boys couldn’t care less about what’s happening on this block, much less this neighborhood. They bring outsiders to show off their house and talk about how much better they are than the people who are already here.

  “I can’t stand them,” I say out loud.

  Janae sighs long and deep. “You were right,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Me too,” she says.

  A long thread of silence keeps us connected. I know what she’s thinking. She’s replaying all the moments with Ainsley in her mind—what he said to her just now, but also the other times, how he made her feel, how he touched and kissed her. So I have to ask.

  “Did you guys—”

  “No.” She cuts me off. “Z, he was a complete gentleman. I thought he was genuinely interested in me. We talked about everything. And we laughed a lot. He wasn’t like any of the other guys out here.”

  “Huh. Clearly.”

  “He was really, really nice to me.”

  “Well, nice doesn’t cut it, Nae. I’ll take keepin’ it real over nice any day.”

  “He was even nice when he broke it off.”

  “Broke it off? How exactly did he break it off?” I unwrap my napkin of tiny meatballs at the ends of toothpicks and hand one to Janae.

  “He said, ‘I’m just not ready for something serious right now,’ and he didn’t want to stop me from dating anyone else.”

  “He said that?” I ask.

  “Yep. As if I’d even want to date anyone else.”

  I throw the tiny meatball stick back into the container and grab Janae’s before she pops it into her mouth. I stand and walk close to the edge of the roof with the container in hand.

  “Zuri, what are you doing?” Janae asks.

  I ignore her and take one tiny meatball at a time and try to fling them across to the Darcys’ roof. They don’t quite land there, but I step back and try to throw the little things with all my might, one by one. “Take back your stupid, useless, tiny meatballs!” I yell.

  When I turn to her, I catch Janae wiping her eyes. “Are you crying?”

  “No,” she says, and blinks back tears.

  I sigh and go over to sit next to her and pull her in. I lay her head on my lap so I can braid the side of her hair. This always relaxes her. “You didn’t know him that well, Nae.”

  “It’s not that,” she sobs. Now, she lets it all out as my hands rub her scalp. Janae has always been the sensitive one. If I start to tear up just because Papi’s hard on me, Janae will straight up bawl at any hint of disappointing our father. “He was really different, Z. I mean, I met guys at school, and they were all right. But none of them were really interested. You know how many more girls there are than guys at my school? Lots. I didn’t just wanna hook up with anybody. I wanted a real relationship. Nobody’s trying to have a relationship their freshman year of college. And it felt like that was the direction we were going. And . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “Janae, are you serious? Come on! What about your grades, focusing on getting a job right after you graduate? And us? Mama and Papi?” I ask, finishing a braid.

  “Just because I like somebody doesn’t mean I forget everything else in my life. People have relationships, Z.”

  “Yeah, but it’s such a distraction. And if it doesn’t work out, then it was a waste of time.”

  She gets up from my lap and looks at me. “So, you being with Warren is a waste of time?”

  “No. We’re just chillin’ like I do with Charlise. Like we are now?”

  “You know damn well that it’s not the same.”

  “Lie down. I’m not done with your hair yet,” I say, trying to change the subject.

  “Zuri!”

  “All right!” I sigh. “It’s just that . . . I don’t get you, Janae! Why do you have to fall so hard? And so fast? Ainsley was not right for you and I told you that. I knew this would happen.”

  We’re quiet for a long moment before she asks, “How do you know? How do you know if the guy you meet won’t be the one you spend the rest of your life with?”

  I sigh again. “I don’t think Mama knew that she’d still be with Papi way after high school. Maybe they took it one day at a time. Like going up a flight of stairs or something. You take each step, and at some point, you land. You don’t have to climb anymore. Or it stops getting so hard.”

  “We were still climbing, though.”

  “No, you were still climbing. He was on a nice tour of the neighborhood. You were all the way up those stairs, and he was still at the bottom snapping pictures and shit.”

  She shakes her head and sighs. “It didn’t feel that way. I swear, even if it was just a couple of weeks, it felt as if we were both climbing while holding hands. He was so excited for me to meet his family, Z. He introduced me to his grandparents. He kissed me right in front of them. And then, out of nowhere, he did an about-face.”

  “I know exactly what happened. He met your family.”

  She purses her lips and furrows her brows, and I can tell that she’s about to cry again. I let her. I don’t look at her when she wipes her tears from her cheeks. I don’t judge her. I know her too well for that.

  But I’m judging Ainsley Darcy.

  Janae cries herself to sleep that night, and I can’t stand to hear it. Part of me hopes that she won’t spend the rest of her life crying over boys, or men, who break her heart. One day, she’ll have to toughen up. She’ll have to be the hard candy shell to her own gooey sweetness.

  I lie in my bed, wide awake, listening to the faint sound of drums coming from Madrina’s basement. Tonight is one of her bembé ceremonies to celebrate some of her godchildren. An orisha will be called down tonight, and it will probably be Ochún. I slip out of my bed and tiptoe barefoot to the front door. I turn the lock open as silently as I can and make my way down to the basement.

  Madrina grins at me as I walk down the crooked wooden stairs. It’s cool and damp down here—the heat of summer held at bay. The room is crowded tonight with men and women from the neighborhood—some with their heads wrapped with white fabric like Madrina. They all smile when they see me. I recognize them from some of Madrina’s consultations, and I know all their business. I find a spot in the corner to listen to the musicians build up the tempo so the spirits
can get called down.

  Bobbito is the master drummer for the ceremony. He sits on a folding chair with the huge bembé drum between his legs. He’s bald, but he still wears a yellow bandanna on his head where sweat gathers along the edge. Next to him is the second drummer, Manny, a shorter man with a mustache so thick, his lips are invisible. Manny wears his yellow bandanna around his neck, and he’s always in a white tank top, no matter how cold it is outside. And Wayne is Papi’s good friend from way back in elementary school. These drummers have known me since I was a baby. And when I come down from upstairs, they always call me to dance to the drums. They call me the daughter of Ochún.

  “Come sit near me. Don’t hide,” Madrina calls out to me.

  She pulls a wooden stool close to her. She’s pushed her consultation table into a corner, and on it are a half dozen yellow candles with their bright dancing flames. Her face glows a rich golden brown against her colorful beads and white head scarf.

  Madrina can probably read it all over my face that I need to talk. “I’m worried about Janae, Madrina,” I say as I sit down. “That boy broke her heart.”

  “Ah, sí. But what about your heart, Zuri Luz?” she says.

  Madrina takes a cigar and lights it from one of the candles. She brings it to her red lips and pulls deep. When she lets out the smoke, it swirls and dances over all the candles as if performing for Ochún too.

  “This isn’t about me. Madrina, Janae was crying over some boy she just met.”

  “Who? The investor’s son across the street? That’s not just some boy, Zuri. He is a rich and charming boy. And very handsome, don’t you think? All the fine things that are meant to seduce women.” She inhales and exhales the sweet dancing smoke. “Do you think you are so different?”

  I roll my eyes hard at that one. “Please, Madrina. Ain’t nobody seducing me. And if someone is trying to get with me like that, then he can go ’head with his stank self.” But my mind drifts to Warren and to Darius.

  Madrina looks at me dead-on with a smirk. Bobbito is drumming a solo, and more people are trickling in. These things don’t start until a little bit after midnight and some of these people work in the morning, including Madrina, who sometimes takes clients as soon as the bembé is over.

  “Dance with us tonight, Zuri.” Madrina squeezes my hand and I nod. Dancing in a bembé is something I’ve done since I was a little girl. The drumming sounds good, and so does Madrina’s singing. I love feeling the beat of the drums in my body and letting go of everything as I dance.

  I’m not dressed for this, but Madrina always has a wide, flowing white skirt for any newcomers to these ceremonies. So I pull one over my pajamas and it reaches my ankles. I dance barefoot so that I’m closer to the ground, closer to los antepasados, as Madrina says. There’s also a pile of fabric for anyone to use to wrap their heads. Madrina says it’s where the orishas enter. Tonight, it’s Ochún who’s supposed to fill our heads with thoughts and dreams of beautiful sparkling things, pretty faces, soft touches, warm hugs, tender kisses, and deep connections. So I wrap my head with plain white fabric because I want this Ochún out.

  Bobbito, Manny, and Wayne find a groove; then in comes Madrina’s bellowing song about Ochún, the Santería river goddess of love. And I begin to move like the water.

  Dance of the River Goddess

  if oceans are the wombs of the world

  then I am the interconnecting

  umbilical cord with deep love flowing

  like the swirling hems of dresses

  in dances for you goddess

  and instead of sea salt I’m sprinkled

  with golden dust to shimmer like the sun

  because it loves me back even while beating

  on my wrapped head like a tambora

  and I am born hot and thirsty

  panting at the edge of a river

  wanting to submerge my head deep

  within the bottom of the clear cool water

  “Wépa!” Madrina sings.

  I’m grinning from ear to ear now, because I didn’t realize just how much I love dancing to drumbeat rhythms that pull at my core. I take the hem of my wide skirt with both hands and move it about like a wave. And with my swirling and flowing skirt and dancing body, I form a river. The drumming ebbs and flows, comes to a crescendo before stopping completely; then I am stagnant water again. Like all those tears I hold in and never let flow.

  Everyone claps, and some even throw dollar bills at me. An offering.

  “I hope this won’t be your last dance, Zuri, daughter of Ochún,” Madrina says, clasping her hands and smiling brightly at me.

  Something brand-new stirs inside and all around me, as if I’ve been turned inside out. I immediately know that this was more than just a dance, and maybe Madrina was right all along. Maybe there is something real in these spirits.

  There’s a quiet humming of praise for Madrina. “Gracias, Madrina, gracias!”

  I leave the basement. With my dollars bills in hand and Madrina’s skirt still around my waist, I race up the stairs, past my apartment, and quietly slip up to the roof. My lungs are still reaching for the night air as the orishas embrace me.

  Thirteen

  WARREN BRINGS FLOWERS to my door. Papi isn’t here to see him, and Mama and my sisters are visiting with neighbors down the block. Part of me wants to rush him away from here so I don’t have to answer to my parents, but I know I need to introduce him to Mama and Papi at some point.

  I take my favorite spot on the steps after he hands me the colorful bouquet I recognize from the Key Food on Broadway. So I side-eye him to let him know that game recognizes game. He can’t play a playa.

  “What? You don’t like them?” he asks, trying to hold in a laugh.

  “I just thought the flowers from the Key Food on Broadway were for the people on their way to Wyckoff Hospital,” I say.

  “Well, obviously I wasn’t on my way to the hospital. Aren’t you gonna smell them?” Warren asks. He’s kind of dressed up with a button-down shirt, but not a Darius and Ainsley kind of dressed up. He looks smooth with a little bit of edge—crisp shirt, jeans, and almost-new sneakers. His fresh haircut makes the dimple on his cheek stand out.

  I sniff the flowers and shake my head.

  “You ever had a guy give you flowers before?” he asks. His phone keeps buzzing in his pocket, and he pulls it out to silence it. I see the name Alana before he shuts it off.

  I give him a look. “Don’t pat yourself on the back just yet, Warren. Flowers are cool, but we’re still just chillin’.”

  He laughs. “A’ight, ZZ. Now, let’s get off this block and chill somewhere else.”

  “How ’bout we stay right here,” I say while looking up and down the block for any sign of Mama.

  “Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?” he asks.

  “I’ll get in trouble if we keep going out and you never meet my parents.”

  “Oh. So we’re going out now?”

  “I mean, literally going out. Like, leaving the neighborhood. My parents wanna know who I be rollin’ with. And since you’re from around here, maybe they already know your parents.”

  He laughs. “I doubt it. My mother and your mother were definitely not in the same circles.”

  “How about your father?” I ask.

  “He’s not from around here.”

  “Lemme guess. Locked up? Second family? Or maybe your mother was the side chick.”

  “Oh, I see you’ve already put me into a box and wrapped me in newspaper. And I’m the latest headline: ‘Black Teen Boy from the Projects with Absentee Father Makes It into New York City’s Top Private School,’” he says.

  I nod. “Sounds about right.”

  We both laugh because we understand this secret language. We can swap stories of epic fights and neighborhood rivalries, the best ballers, and the longest-lasting couples. Last time we hung out, he showed me his EBT card and said that he’s never done that before with any girl—shared that part of h
imself where people will make all kinds of assumptions about what life he had and what future is waiting for him.

  “So,” Warren says, pointing his chin across the street. “I heard your sister and Ainsley are getting serious.”

  I shake my head really hard. “Nope! Not anymore.”

  He laughs. “I knew it. Them dudes . . .”

  “Them dudes, what? I hope you’re not saying that he’s too good for my sister.”

  “Too good for Janae Benitez? Hell, no! Quite the opposite.”

  I spot Mr. Darcy in the window, and then he quickly moves away.

  “Let’s walk and talk,” I say, taking my flowers with me. I decide that Warren can meet my parents another time.

  “After you,” he says.

  We get up from the stoop and head down Jefferson toward Broadway.

  “Why didn’t you say anything to me before about Ainsley?” I punch him lightly on the arm.

  “Would you have believed me if I said, ‘Yo, Z. He’s gonna try to play your sister.’ I saw her face that day. Her nose was wide open.”

  “You can say that again. And hell yeah I would’ve believed you. I already had my suspicions. Especially with Darius.”

  “Yo. Don’t get me started on him.”

  “Please, start. ’Cause my fist got his name on it.”

  Warren stops walking and laughs really hard. “You’re not getting ready to deck nobody. You’re not a fighter, Z. You’re a lover.”

  So I ball up my fist and punch him really hard on his muscular arm. “That’s what you get for underestimating me.”

  But Warren doesn’t even flinch. He keeps laughing. “The way you punch, I think I’ma have to fight your battles for you.”

  We continue to walk and I shove him again, but he doesn’t even move. “Puh-lease! I don’t need anybody fighting my battles! And you don’t punch, you wrestle. Darius needs somebody to deck him in that tight jaw of his.”

  “Damn. What you got against Darius Darcy? I mean, did he break your heart too?”

  “Hell, no! I am nothing like my sister in that department. I just don’t like . . . his face.”

  “You’re in the minority with that one. Trust me.”