Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

  But tears are welling up in my eyes as I walk down Fifth Avenue toward the Atlantic Center Mall. It’s already dark, but the street has a bunch of restaurants where the tables and seats are outside on the sidewalk and I can see right into these people’s glasses of wine and plates of fancy pizza.

  I replay the whole night over and over in my head, and how I hated seeing Darius act like that. He was the only black guy up in there, and he was acting like he was on stage. This must be how he is in that all-white school of his. This must be how he thinks he needs to be.

  I reach the Atlantic Center Mall, and I feel like I can finally breathe. Now these are my people. I can’t believe how in just a few blocks, it can feel like two different worlds. I walk over to the G train so I can hop on the L back into my part of Brooklyn, and I scroll through Instagram on my phone while I wait on the platform.

  I pause on a photo of Warren and realize that I forgot to unfollow him. It’s a close-up of a girl’s lips on his neck. I go straight to his page to see a bunch of recent photos from some outdoor party. Of course there’s a lot of white people around. And that’s when I spot a photo with a black girl sitting on his lap. I look away from my phone, thinking that my eyes must be deceiving me.

  “Hold up,” I say out loud, and expand one of the photos. “Oh, hell no!”

  I have to zoom in to make sure that the little face I’ve known all my life, the little face I’ve washed in the morning, rubbed Vaseline on in the winter, and watched cry, smile, and laugh out loud is really in that photo, covered in makeup, and not where it’s supposed to be.

  “May I speak with you for a minute?” a voice just a few inches from me asks.

  I see Darius’s sleek sneakers in front of me and look up. He must’ve followed me all the way over here. A small part of me is happy to see his face.

  Still in shock, I hand Darius my phone with the screen opened up to Warren and Layla’s picture.

  “Wait, is that Layla?” He quickly gives my phone back to me. “That’s Carrie’s backyard.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “What the fuck.”

  “I need to go get her. Now,” I say.

  “Okay” is all he says.

  Darius hails a cab outside the shopping center. In the cab, I call Layla’s phone. No answer. I call Kayla, no answer. I text both of them. Layla, I’m coming to get you!

  I don’t realize that my knee is shaking until Darius puts his hand on it. I quickly push it away.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I don’t say anything.

  We reach Carrie’s house, and there’s way more people trying to get in now, and the music is louder. I jump out of the cab and push past the people in the doorway.

  “Hey!” someone calls out. “She’s back!”

  “Zuri, wait!” I hear Darius yell behind me. But I ignore him. If Warren is the sleazy bastard that Darius says he is, then I need him away from my little sister.

  Darius stops me as I get into the living room. The place is now jam-packed and smoky. And I spot a few more black people, so this must be a legit party now.

  “Let’s check upstairs,” Darius says. He reaches for my hand again, but I don’t take it.

  “So I don’t lose you in the crowd,” he says.

  “I’m fine, really,” I say. “Let’s split up.”

  He nods and disappears upstairs.

  I wander through the living room, to the kitchen, and out to the backyard, showing everyone that picture of Layla and Warren on IG, and asking around if they’ve seen this girl. Some ignore me, the rest shake their heads. Until someone taps me on the shoulder and tells me to check the bathroom downstairs.

  I push back through the crowd, my heart pounding in my chest. The basement stairs are hidden behind a group of kids taking shots. When I get down those stairs, I spot Carrie. “Where is she?” I blurt out.

  She motions for me to follow her into a giant, fancy bathroom, and I immediately run to my little sister, who’s hunched over the toilet.

  “Layla! What happened to you?”

  “Shots of cognac happened to her,” Carrie says.

  “What the fuck!” I yell out.

  Layla shushes me and laughs.

  I check her clothes. She’s wearing a fitted tank top I’ve never seen before and short shorts. She’s still dressed, thank goodness.

  “She’s okay, really,” Carrie says.

  “She’s thirteen!” I yell at her.

  “I’m okay!” Layla yells back.

  “You won’t be if Mama and Papi find out about this.”

  Layla gets up and sits on the edge of the bathtub. “I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to, Zuri.”

  “You wanted Warren to be all over you like that? I saw those pictures, Layla!”

  She shrugs. “I like him,” she mumbles.

  I look over at Carrie. She sighs and says, “Layla, Warren has a bad reputation. So you should be really careful around him.”

  “Now you tell her?” I say.

  “Hey! I’ve been looking out for her this whole time.”

  Layla points to Carrie and blurts out, “I like you!”

  “Did he hurt you?” I ask.

  “I’m fine!” Layla slurs her words.

  “You’re thirteen. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re not supposed to be drinking and changing your clothes and kissing boys who are four years older than you!”

  “That’s because Mama and Papi don’t let me do anything! You get to have a boyfriend. Janae gets to have a boyfriend. And me and Kayla are supposed to just sit in the house all day? I didn’t need you to come save me, Zuri!”

  I sigh and shake my head. “Look. Did Warren take any pictures of you?”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “Naked pictures of you?”

  “No! I wouldn’t let him do that!”

  I exhale.

  Carrie crosses her arms and cocks her head to the side. “I know what happened to Georgia. I wouldn’t let that happen to your sister.”

  “Thank you,” I manage to say.

  I put my arm around my sister and pull her to standing, just as some shouting and yelling make Carrie run out of the bathroom. “Oh god, what now?” she mumbles.

  A white boy pokes his head in and shouts, “Fight!”

  Layla stumbles up the stairs, and I’m right behind her. People are making their way outside the brownstone and onto the street. I spot two boys on the sidewalk; everyone is trying to move out of their way.

  Darius and Warren.

  As I get closer to the fight, I see that Darius is lost in a rage. He’s got Warren by the collar. Warren pulls away and gets ready to throw a punch, but Darius ducks and hits him with an uppercut. They both step back and dance around each other. Darius gets hit in the face and stomach, but Warren manages to dodge all of Darius’s empty punches. No one stops them.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” I yell out, and just about jump on Darius’s back, trying to pull him away from Warren. I hold him with all my might, and only then does some other black guy pull Warren away.

  A few kids help me get Darius back inside the house, because he’s still seething. Carrie brings him a glass of water and a pack of frozen peas for his jaw. She goes back and returns with glasses for me and Layla too.

  I touch her hand and say, “Seriously. Thank you.”

  She smiles and nods.

  All Is Fair in Love and Warren

  I don’t need no knights in shining armor

  Ain’t no horses in the hood

  I killed chivalry myself with a pocketknife

  A mean mug and a bad mood.

  I don’t need you to fight my battles

  ’Cause I’ve already won this war

  Got brothas hollering at me from the corner

  Then curse me out when they get ignored.

  But if you step to that brotha

  Who disrespected me with his eyes

  Pull out your fists and throw an uppercut

  Like you’
re some superhero in disguise.

  I’ll look at you twice, maybe three times or four

  Secretly cheer you from the sidelines

  As you throw another brotha down on the floor.

  You’ve got this whole white audience

  Watching this fight like some sport

  So to whom do I pledge allegiance

  To my heart or to this war?

  Twenty-Six

  MY STOMACH SINKS when I hear sirens coming down the block. It’s not the same as hearing sirens in my hood. In this part of Brooklyn, with its giant oak trees and multimillion-dollar brownstones, police and ambulance sirens mean that something really did go down. A police car pulls up to the curb outside Carrie’s house.

  I just hope no one tells the police that two black boys at this party started all this mess and it ended in a fight.

  Carrie is pacing up and down the living room. She’s on the phone with her mother, who’s on the other side of the world in Paris. Soon two cops are at the door, and I tell Darius to go hide in the bathroom.

  “Why?” he asks as he holds the pack of frozen peas to his jaw.

  “Because . . .” is all I say.

  But Carrie doesn’t let them in. She insists that everything’s okay and the party’s over. The cops mumble something, and in seconds, they’re gone.

  “Wow. That’s it?” I say as Carrie walks back into the living room.

  “What do you mean, that’s it?” Darius says.

  I sigh and shake my head at Darius. “You don’t get it,” I whisper.

  “Yes, I do,” he says. “That’s it. And that’s all that should happen.”

  I shake my head. “Different planet,” I say. “What you think should happen is what actually happens.”

  He just narrows his eyes at me. There’s a small scratch across his forehead, and his lip is busted. His face is all wound up, and he winces as he gets up from the couch. I stare at him with almost-new eyes, because he’s not as cocky when he’s in pain.

  Layla is sprawled out on another leather couch, and she looks a hot mess too. “I gotta get her home,” I say.

  “Try to make her eat,” Carrie says. “And, wait. Lemme give you something.” She rushes back to the kitchen and comes back with a plastic bag and hands it to me. “She’s probably gonna throw up again, so you should be prepared.”

  Darius sits in the front seat to give Layla space to stretch out her legs in the back of the cab. She cracks stupid jokes during the whole ride. And she almost throws up on me and all over the back seat, so Carrie’s plastic bag comes in handy.

  “She is so wasted. How am I going to get her past my parents?” I ask Darius.

  “How ’bout if the cab lets us off around the corner or down the block?” Darius asks while massaging his sore hand. “She can walk it off.”

  “You kidding me? My whole neighborhood has eyes.”

  I get a text from Janae, letting me know that everybody’s home except for me and Layla. I text her back that Layla’s in trouble, so Marisol came up with some lie about Layla being at some friend’s party and me promising to pick her up. For whatever reason, my parents always believe Marisol.

  “She needs water, food, and sleep,” Darius says. “She’ll just have to deal with the consequences later.”

  My stomach twists even tighter at the thought of having to explain all this to my parents. They won’t get mad; they’ll be disappointed. They’ll blame themselves. They’ll think back on all the things they’ve done wrong as young parents. Papi will get even stricter with all of us, and he’ll probably cut back on his work hours even more, just so he can keep an eye out on us girls.

  “Oh my god,” I mumble, holding my head in my hand.

  “It’ll be that bad, huh?” Darius asks. “Okay. How about we bring her to my house?”

  “No way! Your parents and my parents will definitely catch us!”

  “They’re asleep. No one will notice, promise.” He shrugs. “Look, Layla can chill there for a while until she can at least stand straight. You can sneak back home with her before dawn.”

  I shake my head, knowing that at this point, we’ll still get in trouble. It’s just a matter of how much trouble. I text Janae, letting her know that Layla is okay, and beg her not to say a word to our parents. I call Mama and she doesn’t answer, thank goodness.

  I lean back against the seat and exhale as the cab drives up to our block.

  We reach the side door to the Darcy house. My heart pounds as I look all up and down the block for any of Papi’s friends, or Mama’s friends too. If Mama and Papi come knocking on the Darcys’ door and find Layla drunk, so be it. But if I can save them a heart attack or two, I will.

  Darius helps Layla out of the car and walks her to the side door while I cover Layla’s mouth, because now she’s singing some random song. Soon we’re in a lit foyer with hooks along the walls and a metal rack filled with shoes that I notice are Darius’s. He fumbles with his keys again, opening a second door that leads down into the basement.

  There’s a black leather couch in the center with a giant flat-screen TV along the wall. Layla quickly plops her body down, groans, and mumbles something.

  “This is my room. Please make yourself at home.” Darius leaves and walks up a flight of stairs at the other end of the basement, and I kneel down in front of Layla to rub her forehead. “You’re stupid, you know that?” I say.

  She moans. “I’m sorry, Zuri.”

  “Warren kept giving you drinks, huh?”

  “No. I kept asking for them. And I only had two!”

  “Stay away from Warren, please.”

  “Why? He likes me. And I like him.”

  “I don’t care. Stay away from him.”

  “You can’t tell me what to . . . ow!” She rubs her head and squints her eyes.

  “See? That’s what you get. If Mama and Papi find out about this, it won’t matter who likes who. The only boyfriends you’ll have are the four walls in our bedroom,” I say, while rubbing her back. “And please don’t throw up on this couch and give Darius a reason to hate me more.”

  “I don’t hate you, Zuri,” Darius says as he walks into the room with a lined trash bin and places it in front of the couch. He hands Layla a glass of water, and I glance up at him. He looks away. I look away.

  “You got two hours, Layla,” I say as she curls herself up on the couch and closes her eyes. “And then you gotta pull yourself together so we can go home.”

  She doesn’t answer. I shake my head, stand up, and nudge her gently. She moans, so I leave her alone.

  It hadn’t crossed my mind that I’d have to wait for Layla while she sobers up. I didn’t ever think I’d be in the Darcy house again. Especially after our fight.

  I look around his room and realize that it’s not at all what I expected. It’s way more . . . him. A video-game console and controllers sit on a gray rug in front of the couch. Canvases—some blank, some painted on, some drawn on—are all over the basement. Some are propped against the walls, some are hanging, and some are stacked up on a wide wooden table in the far corner of the basement. There are glass jars of paintbrushes in all sizes along the edge of the table. In another corner are a bass guitar and a keyboard.

  Darius walks through a door at the other end of the basement, and I can spot a giant bed in that room. He comes out with a plaid blanket that he gently throws over Layla.

  “Thank you,” I say. I cross my arms because I don’t know what else to do with myself in this place. Then I ask, “You paint? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I took painting classes at school and I liked it. It calms me a little. But playing music energizes me. Balance.” Then he points to a closed door on the opposite side of the basement. “That’s Ainsley’s room over there.”

  “So it’s like you two have a whole basement apartment to yourselves?” I say.

  “Yeah, we designed it that way. I mean, that’s why my parents wanted a big house. We lived in a small two-bedroom ap
artment in Manhattan, so . . .”

  “So . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about, because me and my sisters share one room.”

  “Zuri.” He sighs, still massaging his hand. “I can’t change anything about my life. . . .”

  “Sorry,” I say, knowing exactly what he means by that. I sigh, look down, then look up at him. “You should do something about that. Do you have ice?”

  He walks to a dark corner and turns on a light. He opens a small fridge and pulls out an ice tray. He holds an ice cube in his hand.

  I laugh and shake my head. “Lemme help you with that. You got some sort of towel?”

  He motions for me to follow him into his bedroom. I hesitate a little bit, but my legs have already agreed, because I walk in to see how beautiful his room is. High windows line the walls. There are hanging plants everywhere, and a giant fish tank sits along the wall. His bed is pushed up against the far wall, and it’s actually neat, with the covers pulled up and everything. The sound of running water from the fish tank makes the whole room feel peaceful. Shelves are mounted on every available surface, with books stacked up to the ceiling.

  “So you’re an artist, a musician, a green thumb, a fish lover, and a reader?” I ask. “That’s sure a lot of stuff for someone who once told me they like empty spaces.”

  “What can I say? It’s my little oasis,” he says, plopping down on his bed.

  “Your oasis in the hood, huh? It’s just so different from the rest of the house.”

  “Well, I’m different from the rest of the house,” he says. He motions for me to come sit next to him, but I don’t.

  I spot a giant floor pillow in the corner, pick it up, and place it a little close to his bed, but not too close. “Different? Coulda fooled me.”

  “I did fool you, didn’t I?” he says, pulling open a dresser, grabbing a T-shirt, and wrapping it around the ice. He holds it to his hand. “Sit on the bed. I don’t want my guest sitting on the floor.”

  So we switch spots, and his bed is the softest thing I’ve ever sat on in my life. But I don’t let myself get too comfortable. I spot a picture of him as a little boy on his dresser—scrawny, wearing glasses, and with a thick book in his hand.