Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

  “It’s not noisy,” I say. “As a matter of fact, if it gets too quiet, I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “’Cause you’re used to it, right?” Georgia asks.

  I just stare at her and don’t say a word. Georgia is a smart girl, because she immediately knows that she just tried to play me. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” she says.

  Both Darius and Carrie are staring at me as if I’m about to pop off at the mouth or something, so I just say in my very best voice, the one I use to impress my teachers, “I understand. Bushwick is an acquired taste. I’m surprised your family would want to move there.”

  Carrie chuckles. “Why are you suddenly talking like that?”

  “Talking like what?” I ask.

  “Darius, you noticed how she just changed the way she talked, right?”

  “No,” Darius says, shaking his head and looking dead at me. He’s biting into his second chili dog now, and somehow he eats that sloppy food like it’s gourmet.

  “Zuri, you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not. Just be yourself. Admissions counselors really like that. You know, keep it a hundred,” Carrie says with that annoying high-pitched voice of hers.

  I raise both my eyebrows at this girl. “Keep it a hundred?”

  “Yeah, keep it real.” She takes a sip from her soda.

  I let it slide because this isn’t Bushwick and I’m on vacation. Sort of. But still, I entertain her nonsense because I have a few minutes to kill before I have to get back to the station. “So, Carrie, what are you doing in D.C.?” I ask, not because I want her to like me, but because it was her man who invited me over here and she’s eyeing me like I’m the one checking for him.

  “Oh, just hanging out with Darius,” she says, cocking her head to the side and leaning against Darius a little bit.

  But he gently shoves her away.

  “Well, I think that’s my cue. It was nice running into all of you. See you back in Bushwick.” I grab my bag and start to slide out of the booth.

  “Wait!” Darius says, as he finishes chewing his chili dog, wipes his mouth, then his hands, and looks up at me. “My father’s from around here. Well, Maryland. Carrie’s grandparents live down here, too. My grandparents live in Chevy Chase,” Darius says. “We drove down to chill with Georgia for a few days, and I was thinking of driving back up tonight. When are you heading back to Brooklyn?”

  Carrie stares at him as if he’s just broken some unspoken rule.

  “Driving back?” I say, wide-eyed. “By yourself?”

  “Yeah, I’m eighteen,” he says. “I have my license and I’ve been driving since I was sixteen.”

  “Not in Brooklyn, though,” Georgia adds. “It’s easier to learn in Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Do your parents have a car, Zuri?” Carrie butts in.

  This time, I cock my head to the side. She’s a smart girl too, because she reads my answer all over my face. “So that’s how rich people get down? They let you drive on the highway between states when you’re only eighteen? Y’all are lucky.”

  Both Darius and Georgia just stare at me with their matching tight jaws. Carrie is smirking.

  “It’s not luck. It’s a necessity,” Darius says. “And practice for when I go to college next year. I’ll have to drive myself to and from campus when I visit Bushwick. I’m applying to Georgetown.”

  “Yeah, me too. In a few years,” Georgia adds. “Because, obvi!”

  “Yeah, obvi,” I say, while nodding slowly. “You all are really from a different planet.”

  “No, we’re not,” Darius says. “In fact, now we’re from the same block. I can drive you back to Brooklyn. I’ve done it plenty of times. But we should head out now before it gets too late, ’cause I have to drop Georgia off and get my stuff.”

  He doesn’t wait to hear what I say. He doesn’t even check in with Carrie, who’s sitting there with her mouth open as if she can’t believe what just went down. Darius is out of the booth already with his tray. He dumps his paper plate into the trash and starts heading out of the restaurant without looking back.

  “Wait a second,” Carrie says, grabbing her purse and running after him. “We were supposed to go back tomorrow. Why are you rushing, D?”

  Darius pauses at the door, a surprised look on his face. “I thought you’d already booked a train ticket home. You complained about how carsick you were the whole way down.”

  “I didn’t actually buy it!” Carrie says, pushing past him and out onto the sidewalk. Georgia and I quickly follow.

  “Hold up,” I interrupt. “I didn’t agree to drive home with you just yet.” Although if I do catch a ride home with Darius, Janae can get a refund for the bus ticket.

  “You know what, forget it,” Carrie says. “I’ll figure something else out.” She pulls out her phone and starts texting. “Whitney and Sam are going to Dodge City tonight anyway. I can hang with them.”

  Darius doesn’t even try to stop her. “Cool, tell them I say hi,” he says.

  “Tell them yourself,” Carrie replies, her voice icy cold. “I’m gonna get a cab.” She flips her hair again and shakes her little narrow behind as she walks away.

  I laugh under my breath.

  Darius steps closer to me, putting his hands in his jean pockets. “Zuri, really. I can take you home. I’m a good driver—don’t listen to Carrie.” His voice is low.

  “He really is!” Georgia chimes in.

  I look up at Darius, then down at my phone, and see that I’m now running late for my bus. If I say no to Darius and then miss my ride, my parents will never let me out of the house again. I can say goodbye to Howard forever.

  “I mean, I guess,” I say, slowly. “But I get to deejay.”

  “Deal,” Darius says, and his smile is wider than I’ve ever seen it. My stomach drops and I realize what I just agreed to. Four hours alone, in a car, with Darius Darcy. What would Warren say to that?

  A cab pulls up to the curb and honks at Carrie.

  Georgia runs over to give Carrie a hug goodbye, and Darius waves politely to her. “I’ll text you,” he calls out.

  “Bye, Carrie!” I shout. “See you back in Brooklyn!” I wave extra hard while grinning wide.

  We wait until Carrie is out of sight and then begin walking down U Street toward the car.

  “Are they going out?” I ask Georgia quietly.

  “Carrie? No way,” she says. Then she calls out to Darius, who is a few steps ahead of us. “Hey, bro! Zuri thought Carrie was your girlfriend!”

  “Not in a million years,” he says.

  And in that moment, something stirs deep in my belly. I’m not supposed to care. But part of me is relieved that Darius isn’t into someone so shallow and insecure.

  “Is that a smile on your face?” Georgia asks, and I realize this girl is growing on me. I could see us being friends. Maybe.

  “Yeah, ’cause you’re kinda cool, Georgia,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to meet my sisters.”

  “Oh my god!” she squeals. “I can’t wait either. We’ll have to hang out before I head back to boarding school.”

  “Boarding school?” I ask, just as Darius holds open the shiny black front passenger door for me. It’s a nice car, and it’s not the one I usually see parked in front of their house back in Bushwick, but I don’t ask any questions. For some reason, the polite gesture makes me nervous. Darius closes the door gently.

  “Yeah,” Georgia says as she slides into the back seat. “And now you get to meet my grandmother!”

  “Wait, what?” I say, turning to Darius as he gets into the driver’s seat.

  “Uh, yeah, did I forget to mention that?” Darius says, and gives me a shy smile. He starts the car.

  “Your grandmother? Seriously?” Suddenly I’m not sure this free ride is worth it. I need to call my parents and tell them about the change of plans, but maybe there’s still time for Darius to drive me to the bus, and I won’t need to tell them anything.

  �
�She’s harmless! I promise,” Georgia says. “I’ve been living with her all summer.”

  “Really?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. I check the time and see that it’s already almost seven. It’s too late.

  “Yeah, harmless,” Darius promises.

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” I mumble. But I click my seat belt closed.

  As we drive out to the D.C. suburbs, I’m still stuck on the fact that I’m sitting in the front seat of a car that belongs to a boy I can’t stand. And we’re headed to his grandmother’s house, of all places. Plus he’s driving me two hundred miles back home. So I’m basically trusting Darius with my life right now. And an hour ago, I didn’t even want to look at his face.

  Seventeen

  THE BIG HOUSES here in Chevy Chase, Maryland, are pushed back away from the street, if you can even call it a street. It’s more like a perfectly paved path to any- and everywhere. There are no potholes, no bumps, no double-parked cars—hardly any cars. Just wide-open smooth, curving road. And Darius drives as if he owns that path; as if this whole ride is his life and things are just as easy for him as this road.

  I try not to let him see me checking out how he holds the steering wheel with one hand, how he leans back in his seat with all the confidence in the world, even though he’s had his license for only two years. But he catches me looking at him, and I turn back to the car’s window.

  “You like lobster, Zuri?” Georgia asks from the back seat. She’s been asking me a billion questions about food, clothes, music, and places. Most of the things she brings up I’ve never heard of or experienced. So far, I know that they’ve gone skiing in somewhere called Aspen, go to somebody named Martha’s Vineyard every summer (except for this one, because of the move), and how they are still hoping to take a trip to some place called the Maldives. And I can tell Georgia is not showing off or anything, she seriously thinks I know what she’s talking about when she brings up these places.

  “Sure,” I say. It’s a lie. I’ve been to Red Lobster, but never had the lobster because it’s the most expensive thing on the menu, and with seven of us going out to eat for a graduation or a big birthday, no one is selfish enough to order lobster. I don’t say this out loud, of course.

  “Darius loves lobster. That’s why Grandma is making it special for him,” she continues. “And he has the nerve to eat two chili dogs before dinner. I swear he’s her favorite, ’cause I asked for vegetarian lasagna yesterday, and she was like, no. But Darius gets lobster! Not even Ainsley gets that kind of treatment.”

  “Oh, so you’re a grandma’s boy?” I ask, side-eyeing him.

  “Hardly. Georgia is exaggerating,” Darius says as he pulls up to the biggest house I have ever seen.

  If the Darcy house is a mini-mansion, then this house is a straight-up castle. There are tall white columns at the front entrance, and the windows are so wide that they might as well be walls. I try hard not to look as if I’ve never seen nice things before. I blink and look away from the house, down at my hands, my jeans, my book bag on the floor—anything to not look so sheltered.

  The driveway curves around to the front of the house, and I keep it cool even as my phone keeps buzzing. It’s seven thirty, and my bus left half an hour ago. My parents want to make sure that I’m on the bus, and my sisters are asking for pictures, especially of the cute boys on the Howard campus. I should snap one of Darius and send it to them. I have no idea how to tell my family that I’m not on the bus, that I’m with Darius, in his car, about to step into his grandmother’s ginormous house. I would never hear the end of it.

  Georgia jumps out of the car just as Darius shuts off the engine by pushing a button. He doesn’t move from the front seat. I don’t either.

  “Are you sure you can get me home tonight?” I ask.

  “I told you,” he says, turning to me. “I got you.”

  I shift away when he says this. Back home, when we say we’ve “got somebody’s back,” we’ll look out for them. But “I got you” is something else. It means that you’re willing to fall back and know that the person will catch you. So I say, “You don’t know me like that.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he asks.

  “You said you got me. I don’t know you well enough to trust you like that.”

  “You do trust me to take you home, right?”

  “Home is a four-hour drive away. You just got your license. So I’m a little hesitant.”

  “I didn’t just get my license. Okay. If you’re still hesitant, I can drive the forty minutes back to Union Station for you to catch your bus,” he says, checking his phone. “There’ll be another one by nine o’clock tonight, so you’ll be good. I just wish you would’ve made up your mind earlier.”

  “Hold up, you practically begged me to come here.”

  “I did not beg you. I asked. And you said yes. So why are changing your mind now? We’re already here.”

  “Fine,” I say, and open the car’s door to step out into the clean, crisp air. I quickly slam it shut, just as a woman steps out of the house.

  “Carrie? Is that you?” she says.

  I freeze where I stand. Partly because she thinks I’m Carrie, even though we look nothing alike, and partly because she doesn’t look like anybody’s grandma.

  This grandma walks toward the car wearing high heels, fitted dress pants, an apron, and hair so perfect that I’m sure it’s a wig. And she almost looks younger than my own mother!

  “Uh, Grandma, this is, uh . . . ,” Darius starts to say as he comes out of the car.

  “Oh, you’re not Carrie,” his grandmother interrupts, stopping dead in her tracks and looking me up and down as if she’s disappointed.

  So I introduce myself, extending my hand out to shake hers. But she doesn’t take it and instead turns to Darius.

  “What happened to Carrie? I thought she was coming over for dinner.” She sounds like the newscasters on TV—her words are perfect, her voice is the just the right tone of bougie, and her smile looks plastic. She walks up to Darius and plants a kiss on his cheek.

  Darius steps back and looks away. His grandmother looks at me again.

  I smile big and bright so she knows that my mama raised me right, and I try again. “I’m Zuri. Zuri Benitez,” I say.

  She cocks her head to the side as if my name isn’t enough for her. So I wait for Darius to make the introduction she needs to hear. But it’s Georgia who comes to my rescue.

  “Zuri, this is our paternal grandmother, Mrs. Catherine Darcy. Grandma, she lives across the street from us in Bushwick!”

  “And you dragged her all the way down here?” she says with her mascaraed and eye-shadowed eyes wide open.

  “Dragged?” I say out loud. “Actually . . .”

  “She was visiting Howard, and I . . . ,” Darius starts to say.

  “Howard?” Mrs. Darcy repeats.

  “Yes. Howard,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. Where can I catch the nearest bus back to Union Station?”

  “Zuri, no,” Darius says. “Grandma, I invited Zuri ’cause she lives right across the street from our new house. I’m going to go back tonight, so I can give her a ride. We ran into her at Busboys and Poets.”

  “Oh, is that place still open?” Mrs. Darcy asks, and she just turns back around and walks into her big house with her heels clicking against the concrete.

  If I thought the whole Darcy family was bougie, then this queen here is on a whole other level. I give Darius such a mean mug that he has to apologize with his whole body. He shrugs and gives me puppy eyes.

  But again, Georgia is the first to actually say sorry. “Zuri, don’t let our grandmother scare you. Once you get to know her, she’s really nice.”

  And with that, I’m walking in front of Darius toward the other, bigger Darcy mansion, through their fancy door, and into what looks like a straight-up museum. I feel underdressed with my cheap sneakers and worn jeans. But still, as much money as they have, I decide
that this grandmother of theirs is still shady. Money can’t buy manners.

  I don’t look around. I don’t admire all the fancy art on the walls. I don’t stare too long at the framed photos or the shiny wooden furniture. I don’t even sit down on the giant leather couch that wraps around the whole living room where a wide chandelier hangs from the middle of the high ceiling. I pull my book bag up over my shoulder and keep a straight face.

  “So you just wanted to show off how rich your family is?” I ask Darius as he stands across the room messing with his phone. I ignore mine, ’cause I still have no idea what I’m going to tell my parents about not being on the bus by now.

  He chuckles, puts his phone back into his pocket, and looks up at me. “There’s still time to get back to the bus station if you want. I don’t want to keep you here against your will, Zuri Benitez.”

  “Zuri. Just Zuri, Darius Darcy.” I walk around the room, looking out the wide front window at all the green grass and tall trees in this place. I sigh, tap my foot, stare at my nails, anything to show Darius that I’m not impressed. Then I say, “I’m not some basic chick from the hood who thinks all that glitters is gold. I watch TV. I’ve seen fancy things before.”

  “These are not fancy things,” he says. “These are . . . my grandparents’ things. And my family has worked hard for them. I didn’t bring you here to show off. I’m driving back to New York after dinner, and I wouldn’t mind some company. In fact, I wouldn’t mind your company.”

  Before I can think of a comeback, his grandmother’s heels come clicking down the long hallway. “Darius, aren’t you going to help me set up?” she asks before she even makes it into the living room, or whatever this giant room is called.

  “I was just keeping Zuri company.”

  “Oh, you can wait here in the parlor, uh . . . how is it that you pronounce your name, darling?”

  “Zuri. Zoo. Ri.”

  She fixes her mouth as if she’s bitten into a lemon. “Oh, that’s nice. Darling, I’m gonna steal my grandson for a bit. The washroom is just down the hall.”

  “I’m sorry. The what?”

  “Washroom,” she says. Then she shakes her head. “The bathroom. Wash your hands before dinner, sweetheart.” She changes her voice with those last few words, as if she has a little bit of old-school hood hidden behind that hard face of hers.