American Street

by Ibi Zoboi

  Donna has picked out my clothes for a birthday party—a new black dress that’s so tight, it looks like another layer of skin. I’m sitting on the edge of Chantal’s bed, waiting for Donna to do my hair, when Pri comes in and stands right in front of my altar. She stares at the magic things for a while without touching them before she asks, “Does it work?”

  “Well,” I say. “Has anyone ever tried to kill you?” I have to speak loudly over the music.

  Pri turns around and closes the bedroom door, muting the music a bit.

  “Kill me? Ain’t nobody rolling up in this house to kill anyone.”

  “I know. We made it so. Me and my mother. Every day we asked the lwas to protect our family in Detroit and their house,” I say, adjusting my bra.

  “Oh, you did some voodoo shit to protect us?” she asks with her arms crossed.

  “It’s not voodoo shit,” I tell her. “Manman told me that ever since Uncle Phillip was killed, she had to find answers to why God took away the one true love in her sister’s life. But only the lwas were able to give her answers. They speak to her, and she listens.”

  Pri comes to sit next to me on the bed. “Fabiola, I know you’re family and all, but keep my father’s name out your mouth,” she says, and kisses two of her fingers and raises them up to the ceiling.

  I nod, even though my mother has been setting up shrines and praying for Pri’s father’s soul on the anniversary of his death each year. And we always say his name in remembrance—Jean-Phillip François.

  Donna barges into the bedroom wearing only her fancy underwear and holding a basket filled with combs, curlers, a curling iron, a flat iron, a blow-dryer, pomades, hair lotions, and makeup. “Ready for your fabulous makeover, Fabiola?”

  “No,” I tell her.

  “Well, you need one,” she says, and starts with my hair anyway.

  By the time she’s done, fake hair flows down my back and my new face looks plastic—my eyebrows are perfectly arched and thicker than I’ve ever seen them, my lips are magically fuller, and my eyelashes look like bangs for my eyes.

  Pri, Aunt Jo, and her friends all cheer and clap when I come down the stairs in borrowed high heels that make my legs wobble, and Donna takes a few pictures of me. Chantal only shakes her head as if she disapproves of the whole makeover. I want to tell Donna not to put them on the internet, but maybe this new self will reach my mother and she will come to smack the makeup from off my face and rip the tight dress from my body.

  Chantal drives us, but she doesn’t come to the party. “Be careful, y’all! And look out for each other,” she says as Pri gives her a time to pick us up.

  “Why don’t you come?” I ask her before getting out of the car.

  “I have a big test this week” is all she says.

  This birthday party is at a nightclub—a plain, short, and wide building. It has one narrow purple door with the letter Q on it drawn in bright-silver paint. The street is crowded with people, and a few come over to say hi and hug my cousins. My cousins’ friends stare at me and start asking too many questions.

  It’s not their bodies inching closer that make me nervous, it’s their words that sound just like the heavy bass music—hard and fast like too-loud conga drums.

  The smell is different here. Not like in Port-au-Prince, where everyone on the street is a mix of sweat, gasoline, and baby powder. Here, it smells like the MINUSTAH troops who hang out at the clubs in Petionville on Saturday nights—alcohol, marijuana, and lust. Some of my friends would go for money and a good time, but I never liked it.

  Pri pulls my arm hard, away from the crowd, and yells, “Y’all better not put a finger on my cousin, or it’s my fucking fist in your face!”

  “Yo, chill, Pri!” a guy standing nearby says. “Ain’t nobody checking for your cousin.”

  “You better not. Nasty ass,” Pri says.

  The guys standing on the sidewalk are all covered with thick, dark coats and baseball caps that shield their eyes. They hold red plastic cups in one hand while the other hand is shoved into a pocket of jeans that hang too low below their waist. They are the vagabon who Manman tells me to stay away from because they lead to nothing but trouble, the vagabon who my friends like to have as boyfriends because they can rap and have their own money and cars. Wyclef is their god and American rap videos are their church. But those Port-au-Prince vagabon are fakers. These Detroit vagabon are the real thing.

  As Pri pulls me in through the purple door, my eyes lock with one of the vagabon. He pushes his blue cap up and stares right at me, smiling. I stare back at him until I recognize him. The blue-cap boy—the one who came out of the car to help Bad Leg. He’s not a man but a boy, probably my age. I smile a little, too—my small way of saying “thank you.”

  Inside is as dark as it is outside. Bodies are pressed up against one another just like they do on the narrow, crumbled sidewalks of Delmas. The men are in their coats while most of the women are dressed like in the American music videos—short, shiny dresses that look like tinfoil around their thighs, shoes with heels like ice picks, and hair from the tails of horses. Here, there is more smoke, more alcohol, and the conga drum voices blend with the heavy bass music. Pri has to push her way through. Some people stop to give her a hug. Some smile at me and tell me, “Welcome to the D, shorty!”

  Someone hands me a red plastic cup and I take it because I’m thirsty and hungry. But it’s alcohol. Not Prestige beer or Rhum Barbancourt—the strong, bitter, or sweet alcohol made for men who talk politics and play dominoes into all hours of the night. Pri has a red plastic cup, too, and she pours the alcohol down her throat as if it’s cool water on a hot day.

  The music changes. It’s faster now, and I look back at the crowd. Everyone dips and sways to the rhythm. It’s the familiar music my friends like, too. But they don’t dance the same way. Here, everyone knows the words; everyone dances to the beat just right.

  A guy wearing an eye patch steps closer to me and starts dancing. His presence feels like a heavy shadow, a darkness. Then Pri puts both her hands on his chest and pushes him away from me. He laughs, then tries to give her a hug.

  As he talks to Pri, something about the way he stands and moves triggers a memory. If the blue-cap boy is outside the club, then the punching man is standing right in front of me. I’m sure of it because he has the same stance, the same gait. The blue-cap boy called him Dray.

  When I get a better look at his face, my stomach sinks. He’s definitely the one who punched Bad Leg. He looks younger up close, but older than me—maybe Chantal’s age. There is a black patch over his left eye and his face is a series of sharp lines—a tight jaw, a straight nose, and a hard smile. Even if I hadn’t seen him do that to the poor old man, something about the way he grins and that eye patch makes him look like he’s been to the underworld and back.

  I’ve learned to recognize these faces back in Port-au-Prince. There are harmless vagabon who are just as scared as you are when they try to steal your money at knifepoint; and then there are the malfekté, the truly evil, who are not afraid to stick that knife into your belly. He is malfekté, for sure.

  “I’m just fucking with her. You can’t keep her in a cage while she’s here, Pri,” Dray says. His voice sounds as if it’s coming from the depths of dark, broken places. I can feel it in my bones.

  “I don’t like all these guys staring at her like she’s fresh meat,” Pri replies.

  “She is fresh meat. And I’m sure she can take care of herself. Haiti’s rougher than the D and Chi-Town put together.” He licks his lips while staring at me with his one good eye.

  “I can take care of myself,” I say. Maybe too loud.

  The man laughs. “Of course you can take care of yourself,” he says. “You’re gonna have to. And your English is pretty good, shorty. I’m Dray, by the way.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. It’s cold and rough. He squeezes my hand and it’s as if he’s sent shards of glass down my body. I pull away. He shrugs and smiles his fake s
mile as Donna and another boy come over to us—the blue-cap boy. Dray slaps the boy’s hand and then slides his arm around Donna’s waist, squeezing her butt—as if he owns these two people.

  “This is my cousin, Fabiola,” Donna says to the blue-cap boy.

  “Fab what?” he asks, easing closer to me.

  I step back. “Fabiola.”

  “Fabulous?” he asks.

  “Fabiola!” both Pri and I shout.

  “Fabulous,” he says.

  “No. FAH-B-YO-LAH!” I shout over the music.

  “FA-BYOU-LESS,” he says even louder. “I’m Kasim. KAH-SEEM.”

  I laugh because his name sounds like the Creole word for “break me.” So I say, “Broke.”

  “What? Broke?”

  “If you call me Fabulous, I will call you Broke.”

  He laughs. “You got jokes? I’m far from being broke, sweetheart.” He steps closer to me.

  I step away again. “Broke,” I repeat.

  “Fabulous,” he says again, licking his lips while he grabs my hand.

  “Let go of me, Broke,” I say, pulling away from him.

  He lets go. “You got some fire in you, Fabulous.”

  I roll my eyes and turn away. If he has anything to do with Dray, then I don’t want anything to do him. I don’t need a vagabon’s attention right now. I’m still wearing my coat even though everyone has taken theirs off and it’s as hot as Haiti in here. My dress is too tight and too short and I don’t want Dray’s piercing eyes on me, not even the blue-cap boy’s, Kasim. So I pull up the thick collar and cross my arms. I even begin to wish Chantal was here—at least there would be someone to sit next to me. But she has to study. I want to study, too, so I promise myself to stay behind with Chantal the next time my wild twin cousins decide to go to a party.

  Pri and Donna seem to know the whole world here. Donna does all the talking, and Pri dances while a small crowd begins to form around her. She moves her feet about so fast, she looks as if she’s tap-dancing. She dips and kicks and spins on her toes and crouches down to the floor with one leg behind her other leg. I have to stand up now to see her. A boy comes into the circle and does the same thing Pri is doing, except with stronger kicks and faster spins.

  I finally take my coat off and hang it over the chair, so I can try to do one of those moves. But I almost break an ankle. Someone next to me laughs. I turn to see Kasim leaning against a nearby wall. I roll my eyes and let out a long, tired sigh.

  “You’re trying to do the Detroit Jit, Fabulous? I can show you,” he says, and starts to walk over to me.

  He does something funny with his feet and pretends to trip. I turn away to hide my smile.

  “Hey! I saw that smile. Finally!”

  I shake my head and put on a serious face again.

  “Are all Haitian girls built like you?”

  “What? Built like me?”

  “I mean, you know, strong and Ford tough.”

  I shake my head and walk away from him. He gasps.

  “Damn, shorty! That dress!”

  I keep walking and pushing my way through the crowd.

  He follows me and I stop when I see Donna and Dray in a corner at the other end of the club. He has his arm around her neck and her head is pressed up against his pit where all his sweat rubs against the top of her hair. It looks like he is choking her.

  “Why is your friend doing that to my cousin?” I ask Kasim, pointing with my chin.

  “Who? Dray and Donna? We call them D&D. Dungeons and Dragons. He’s the dungeon and she’s the dragon. Dray is putting her in a headlock to tame that dragon.”

  “What? Donna? A dragon?”

  “I guess you don’t know your cousins very well,” Kasim says. He moves closer to me as Pri’s circle disperses and people start to crowd back onto the dance floor. “Don’t worry. We won’t be like them. You’ll just be your Fabulous self, and I’ll keep being Broke Kasim. We could be Fabulous and Broke.”

  I laugh and cover my mouth, and he pulls my hand away. I let him see me smile. “Your name . . . it means ‘broke’ in Creole.”

  He smiles back and he keeps holding my hand. “Oh, really? I can’t have that. Then call me ‘filthy rich’ in Creole instead.” He licks his lips. “You look real nice in that dress, though.”

  A song I know comes on and my body obeys the familiar rhythm. We dance, but I don’t dare look into his face. Instead, I keep my eyes on Donna as Dray gives her a drink. A slower song comes on—not one that will force me to lay my head on Kasim’s shoulder, but one that makes him pull me in at the waist and press my body against his. I push him away because my heart is beating too fast. I look around as if my mother’s eyes are in the walls here. But it’s Pri who is staring at us. She doesn’t smile or nod in approval. She simply watches Kasim. Kasim follows my gaze and laughs.

  “You gonna let your cousin cock block?” he asks with his dimpled smile.

  I step away from him. “Cock block? Excuse me, but there will be no cock over here, okay!”

  I leave him to his cock and walk back to my seat next to the food. Pri laughs from afar as Broke Kasim stands there with his mouth open, catching flies, as Manman would say. I don’t move even as everyone surrounds the birthday girl to wish her a happy eighteenth.

  The night goes on and Kasim is always a few feet away, watching my every move while talking to friends and even other girls. I watch him, too, from the corner of my eye. Even though I told him to get away from me, there is something pulling me closer to him. I lose track of my cousins and realize the room is almost empty.

  “They’re already outside,” Kasim says, coming over to me with my coat.

  Outside, I spot Pri in front of the club, yelling at Dray. Donna is a few feet away, crouched down with her hair hanging to the ground.

  I run to help. I pull her hair back and check her forehead. “Donna? What’s wrong?”

  “Here. Give her some water.” Kasim holds out a plastic cup as I try to get Donna to sit up.

  “She should’ve left your ass a long time ago!” Pri shouts, and her voice echoes down the dark street. Most of the partygoers are still in front of the club even though it’s like a refrigerator out here. Everybody stares at us, but no one seems to care that Donna is sick.

  A small group of adults comes over and starts to ease us away from the building.

  “Donna,” Dray says, trying to make her stand up. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Hell no, you ain’t taking her home!” Pri shouts.

  “I wanna go with him,” Donna mumbles. She holds her head up and finally opens her eyes to take Dray’s arm, but she still stumbles forward on the sidewalk.

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about, D,” Pri says. “You like the way he treats you? You’re not going into the car with him, Donna! He kept giving you drinks when you were about to pass out.”

  “She asked for them!” Dray says, yanking open the passenger door of his white car.

  Donna drops her body into the seat.

  “She’s getting real tired of y’all trying to control her life,” Dray says as he slams the car door. “Pri, just ’cause y’all twins don’t mean y’all joined at the motherfuckin’ hips.”

  Pri inhales and clenches her fists. She bangs on the hood of a nearby car.

  At the same moment, I notice Chantal’s car pulling up to the curb. She quickly comes over to Dray’s car. “What’s going on?” she yells. Her voice is different again, harder, as if she’s had to do this plenty of times before.

  “Calm the fuck down, Chantal. I’m gonna take her home,” Dray says. “I don’t need to be dealing with this shit.”

  “I’ll ride in the back,” Kasim says as he goes over to Dray’s car.

  As if the boy already has my heart tied to his littlest finger, I say, “I’ll go, too. I will make sure she’s okay.”

  I don’t even glance at my cousins to see if they would stop me. In the blink of an eye, I’m in the warm backseat of Dray’s car with K
asim next to me. It smells like a mix of freshly chopped wood and wild leaves—marijuana. I cover my nose and keep my eyes on my cousin, even as Kasim keeps looking over at me, smiling, and inching his hand closer and closer to my leg.

  When we reach Aunt Jo’s house, Chantal and Pri are already standing in front, and the car is parked at the curb. The singing man is on the corner again. I can’t make out the words to his song, but I lean toward Dray in the driver’s seat. “Don’t hit him again,” I say.

  He turns to me and so does Donna. “Who? Bad Leg? Nobody gives a fuck about him.”

  Just as he says this, Bad Leg’s voice reaches my bones—it’s as smooth as a river, and it ebbs and flows and ripples at just the right moments. I can’t pull away from his song as I get out of that car. Pri has come over to help Donna, and she curses Dray one last time.

  As we all enter the house and Dray and Kasim zoom off into the night, Bad Leg finishes his song with these words:

  Love me to the moon and back.

  Come on, babe, just cut me some slack.

  Baby, why you always on the attack?

  Put up your dukes, ha!

  Show me them nukes, yeah!

  And launch me to the moon and back.

  Cher Manman,

  I see you clearer now because I light my candle and pour the libation, rattle the asson, and ring the bell to call all my guides, the lwas. You’ve told me that they are here for me. All I have to do is call on them so they can help me. I believe you, Manman. Even without you being here to hold ceremonies with drummers and singers and a village of followers, I will practice all that you’ve taught me.

  There, within the flame of the tea candle again, you are on your bed crying into a piece of brown paper. It’s too rough on your cheeks and nose, so you use the white sheet instead. You’re careful not to let anyone see you cry. How did you get there, Manman? What did you do? Is it because you are a mambo—a Vodou priestess who held ceremonies in the courtyard of a Christian NGO building? Are they punishing you for that, Manman? Are they punishing me? I’ve searched my memory for all the sinful things I’ve done. I let Marco touch me the night before we left. Was the lwa of love and fertility, Ezili, mad at me for that? Is that why she summoned her lover, Papa Legba, to block you from entering the gates to this freedom, to this sister of yours, to your nieces, and to me?