American Street

by Ibi Zoboi

  “Yeah. Go on.” His hand moves closer and now it’s brushing against my thigh.

  “They want something called . . . I don’t remember the name. We call it something different in Haiti. But it’s drugs.”

  He laughs, but doesn’t move his hand from off my thigh. “Yo, you sound real crazy. You know how hot the Park is right now? You can’t just roll up in here fresh off the boat, talking about ‘I know this party where you can sell drugs.’ That shit sounds crazy to me.”

  I quickly glance over at the café. Kasim and his coworker must be finished cleaning by now. Time is slipping from me. So I reach over, take Dray’s face with its black eye patch and sharp lines, and kiss him. It’s a shallow but wet kiss, not like how I kiss Kasim, of course. He is frozen in his seat and I feel as if I’ve just inhaled his power.

  I’m back in my spot when I say, “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what it’s like to scratch the walls around you and hope that there is gold on the other side because there is nothing else for you to dig through to make a decent living for yourself. The boys I know back home, they don’t just sit around and wait for charity to drop useless coins into their hands. They find a way to live, to breathe. So I know you, Dray. I know that you have the fire that Kasim doesn’t have. If you have what these girls want at this party, then sell it. If you make money, give me a portion. Twenty percent. I can use it to help my mother. And if you want, I can connect you with some of my Zoe Pound people. They don’t play small games. They are big-time. That’s it. It’s not complicated.”

  Dray licks his lips as if to hold on to the taste of me for a moment longer. Then I follow his eyes to the front of the café. Kasim and his coworker have come out. While his back is turned to pull down the gate, I quickly get out of the car so that he doesn’t see that I’m in the passenger seat. Once I’m out, I exhale long and deep. My head feels light and heavy at the same time. I want to spit out the marijuana from my breath and the taste of Dray from my lips. But I swallow and let them fill my body as if I’ve just eaten his soul. Before Kasim turns to see me, I whisper to myself, “Shit you do for fam.”

  But then I hear the window on the car coming down behind me. When I turn, Dray says, “Five percent.”

  I almost agree, but I remember that I’m still in battle, still in character. “Fifteen,” I say.

  Kasim comes over and gives me a hug. Then he leans into the passenger-side window to talk to Dray. “Give us a ride to my car. I parked in the garage around the corner,” he says.

  He opens the backseat door to let me in. When he slides in next to me, he says, “Damn, Dray. You smoking up the car while I got my girl in here?”

  “Fabulous and I got a deal. She’s cool with that. Ten, right?”

  “Yes, I’m cool with that” is all I say.

  “Ay yo, Ka? That’s wifey right there, son. You got my blessings,” Dray says as he pulls away from the curb. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. He winks at me and smiles.

  “Thanks, bro,” Kasim says, and kisses me on the cheek.

  When we get out of the car, Dray gives Kasim a package—a thick yellow envelope. In Kasim’s car, he tucks the envelope underneath the seat and asks, “What were you talking about with Dray that makes him call you my wifey and shit?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I say.

  My heart is lingering somewhere in the deepest part of Dray’s underworld, and from this point on, I will have to claw my way out.

  After Kasim drops me off, I run up to the bathroom, turn on the shower so no one can hear me, and pull out my phone.

  “I have something you can use,” I tell Detective Stevens.

  “Oh, yeah? I’m listening.”

  “When can I get another phone call with my mother?”

  “Another call might be tricky, but I can help speed up her case. Now what do you have for me?”

  “There’s a party. He will be there.”

  “He’s free to be wherever he wants. We can’t pick him up again on bogus charges. He’s onto us. We need something that’ll stick. We’re getting pressure from the Park residents. We’re putting pressure on DPD. Nothing’s happening. Now, what you got for me?”

  “He’s going to be selling drugs.”

  “He will have drugs on his body?”

  “Yes. If he’s not at the party, then you can’t arrest him, right? But if he is at the party, then he’s there to sell drugs.”

  “Okay. But Fabiola, you gotta be careful.”

  “I am fine. I am strong and brave,” I say.

  “I see. Good job,” Detective Stevens says.

  I hang up the phone. The bathroom is hot and steamy now.

  B is for brave, I think.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THAT NIGHT, I pretend to wake up from a bad dream. I toss about on my mattress, even though my body is still sore from the fight. Then I sit up and breathe heavy. Chantal can’t see me yet, but I get myself ready for the role. I’m a good actress.

  “Chantal!” I whisper-yell. “Chantal, wake up!”

  She groans.

  “Chantal, you can’t go to that party!”

  “What?” she whispers.

  “You can’t go to that party. Something bad will happen.”

  She sits up. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s in Papa Legba’s song. The doors have to open just right. You can’t try to knock down closed doors.”

  She leans over her bed and throws something at the opposite wall. It makes a loud bang. “Pri. Donna. Wake up. Come over here.” She whisper-yells, too.

  Nothing.

  She turns on her lamp, reaches for her phone, and dials a number. I can’t believe she’s calling them from next door, but someone answers.

  “Come in here. Wake Pri up,” Chantal says.

  No one comes into the room. Then Chantal calls again. We hear shuffling next door.

  “If that was Dray calling, Donna would’ve been downstairs already,” Chantal says.

  Pri and Donna shuffle into the room and they both plop down on Chantal’s bed, yawning and rubbing their eyes.

  “Tell ’em what you just told me, Fab.”

  “You can’t go to that party.”

  “Because . . . ,” Chantal says.

  “Bad Leg . . . he’s Papa Legba, and he says to beware.”

  “Wait a minute,” Pri says. Her voice is like sand. “Was this in a dream, or did you hear him say that shit?”

  “Both,” I lie.

  Pri gets up to look out the window. “Oh, shit. Turn off the lights. Turn off the lights!”

  Donna turns them off and runs to the window along with Chantal.

  “Is that nigga looking straight at us?” Pri says.

  I ease up from the mattress, clenching my jaw from the soreness in my back and arms.

  “He’s there?” I ask. “He’s still there?”

  “What’s up, Bad Leg?” Pri says into the closed window. Then she turns to me. “What? You want us to go down there and ask him if we should go to that party?”

  “She already told you he said not to,” Donna says. “Right, Fab?”

  I nod.

  “You’re into that voodoo now, too?” Pri asks, and goes over to turn on the light.

  “Pri,” I say, “this is not the ‘voodoo’ you see in movies. This is the stuff my mother practiced back in Haiti. She is a mambo, a priestess. This is how we pray. We see the magic in everything, in all people. And this Bad Leg has been singing songs and no one listens to him. I listen. And the more I listen, the more they make sense.”

  Donna comes over to me and sits on the mattress. She touches my cheek and it hurts. “Ezili-Danto,” she whispers. “I get it.”

  I hold her hand there and press it hard against my face so I can feel the pain. Donna knows, and I remember. “Ezili-Danto,” I whisper back.

  “I’m not going,” Donna says. “If Fab doesn’t think it’s a good idea, then I’m not getting mixed up with no bad juju.”

&nbs
p; “Bad juju? The fuck?” Pri says.

  Chantal is quiet. She goes back to her bed. “All right. Fine. We’ll think of something else. That place will be swarming with cops anyway.”

  I watch as Chantal slips back under her covers. She knows and remembers. She believes what I am saying.

  The twins are back in their room, Chantal is snoring, and it’s dark and quiet again. This time it’s not Papa Legba’s words that are swirling around in my head. It’s Chantal’s: That place will be swarming with cops anyway.

  This party will be in Grosse Pointe Park, where Detective Stevens works. She asked for proof that Dray is selling drugs in Grosse Pointe. She will get her evidence.

  I thank Papa Legba, and Ezili-Danto, and God, and all my other spirit guides who have yet to reveal themselves to me, and I fall into a deep sleep.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  KASIM PARKS HIS car in front of a big blue-and-white house with the words HITSVILLE, U.S.A. across the top. It’s the Motown museum. He’s been playing those songs on the drive here, singing the words out loud as if he wrote them himself for me. Everything is about love and his heart and his girl and his world. I dance and laugh and I am a balloon going up and up into the wide blue sky.

  I’m too focused on his lips and smile and eyes to listen to his lessons on Motown and a man named Berry Gordy who started it all. Then we drive around a place called Lafayette Park that he says used to be called Black Bottom. Two tall and wide buildings stand as if guarding the place. Then we drive through a place called Indian Village, where I finally get to see the beautiful American mansions.

  “That’s my house right there,” Kasim says as he slows the car down in front of what looks like a castle.

  “So why are you not stopping the car so we can get out?” I ask.

  He laughs. “I’m just messing with you. You’re supposed to tell me which one is your house.”

  I look around. They are all different sizes and shapes with wide lawns and gates. I point to a big white house at the end of the block. There’s a tall black gate surrounding it, and maybe whoever lives there is a superstar. “That’s my house.”

  “A’ight. I like your house better. When can I move in?”

  “No. Not until we’re married.” I laugh.

  “Oh, you’re one of them chicks? Gotta make it legit. I feel you.”

  “Where’s my ring?”

  He starts searching his coat pockets, the glove compartment, and all over the car. “We gonna have to go to the pawn shop right quick.”

  I laugh.

  We drive out of that fancy place and back to the west side, where he parks in front of a short yellow building called a Coney Island.

  “I can’t believe your cousins haven’t taken you here,” he says when he opens the door.

  I soon realize that this is like a pizza shop or a McDonald’s for Greek food. He orders baklava for me, and I am so hungry that I steal a piece from the bag when he’s not looking. He turns around and catches me chewing and I laugh, spitting the piece of baklava out onto the floor.

  “Gimme that.” He laughs, grabbing the bag from me. “I see I can’t trust you around food.”

  We take our meals to go and drive to his neighborhood, Conant Gardens, and to his block, Norwood Street.

  “Make sure you tell your cousins where you are,” Kasim reminds me when we reach the street lined with wide lawns and brick houses. “I don’t want them coming over here to beat me up.”

  I’m at a boy’s house. I’m at Kasim’s house. And there aren’t any adults here. Kasim’s mother is out with her friends, he says, and my mother would have a heart attack. A text from Pri warns me to keep my legs closed and my pants up. Donna sends hearts and kisses. Chantal only suggests that I be home before midnight.

  Kasim takes out our dinner from the big paper bags. “Now, don’t you go picking out nothing from off that hot dog. You leave it right there in that bun along with the chili, mustard, and onions. You about to take a bite out of Detroit right here!” He unwraps all the food and sets everything on plates for us. He takes his first bite from the hot dog and eats as if he’s never had food in his life.

  I’m too slow with my hot dog. So he picks it up and helps me take bite after bite. He wipes the corner of my mouth with his knuckles. I smile and chew and giggle and cover my face.

  “It’s good, right? You like it?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I like you,” he says.

  “I know,” I say with food in my mouth. Again, he wipes the corner of my mouth.

  His house is bigger than Matant Jo’s. His block is nicer, too, with lots of big houses and even bigger driveways for the nicer cars. Some houses are empty, too, but the windows are boarded up and their dry grass is low and still kept neat.

  “What kind of job does your mother have?” I ask while I’m eating French fries.

  “She works for the city. Medical billing. She’s responsible for the money hospitals make,” Kasim says.

  “Does she make a lot of money?” I ask.

  “No. But it’s honest money, that’s for sure.”

  Guilt settles in my stomach. I can’t say that for my aunt or cousins. And now, even me.

  A big, L-shaped couch takes up most of the living room, along with a big TV, but smaller than the one we have at home. We watch a funny TV show, and then another show. Kasim keeps his arm around me the whole time, and slowly, he pulls me in for a kiss.

  This is not our first kiss, of course, but it feels brand-new. Maybe it’s because I have my boots off and my feet are curled up under me on the couch, and his arm is around my whole body. I sniff the bare skin of his neck—a mix of soap, sweat, and hot dog. I kiss it. He shrinks away from me.

  “Don’t do that,” he whispers.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “No. Do that, but don’t do that,” he says.

  So I kiss his neck again. Then he kisses mine, and I don’t shrink. I melt.

  He stands up and pulls me up with him. He takes my hand and walks to a room next to the living room. He turns on the light and nothing but blue, black, and gray fills the space. The walls are a deep blue, the covers on his bed are a plaid mix of blues. His carpet is gray and his furniture is black.

  Before I get a chance to look around, Kasim’s arms are around me and his lips are touching mine. Soon, our bodies are so close that we are one person.

  And then, I am the color pink. If hot red is for anger and rage, then pink is the color of a soft burning—hot enough to light up the dark corners of sadness and grief, but cool enough to be tender, innocent, open. I let myself sink into Kasim as he pulls me toward his bed. He is soft and gentle. I am like syrup again. And all the walls around me, everything that has blocked my joy these past few months, oozes, trickles, and melts away.

  Only skin, muscle, and bone separate my heart from Kasim’s heart. I’m so close to him that I can feel it beating against my own chest. Both his arms are wrapped around me, and his leg is stretched out across my bare thighs. It’s as if he has swallowed me whole with his body. It’s a place so warm and so bright that I swear we must be glowing from beneath his covers. He nestles his face in the crook of my neck and inhales deep.

  “Is this real?” he whispers.

  I take his hand and breathe into it. “You feel that?” I ask.

  Then he presses his body against mine and pulls me in. “You feel that?”

  “Yeah,” I breathe.

  Time melts around us. And maybe this bed and his sheets and his room dissolve into nothing. It’s just us here. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists.

  Until my phone rings.

  It’s Chantal calling. Midnight. I don’t pick up.

  Slowly, we gather the world around us and ease back into the present.

  I put my clothes on and he changes into something different. Before we leave his room, we hug and hold each other for what feels like forever.

  He kisses my forehead.

  “I’ll take a bea
tdown from your cousins for bringing you home late,” he says. “It was worth it.”

  “I am your back,” I say.

  “Don’t you mean you have my back?”

  “No. I am your back.”

  “For real, Fab?”

  “Yes. It’s real,” I say.

  KASIM’S STORY

  Dray used to call me a mama’s boy. My moms used to roll up to my school and plant a fat wet kiss on my cheek for everybody to see. She said it was to let all those teachers know that I was loved. But I caught hell for it from my boys.

  Mama still kissed me on the cheek and rubbed my bald head when I was in high school. Now, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t spoiled or nothing. She just liked to show me off in public. But in the house, you best believe she had me scrubbing pots, cleaning toilets, putting up shelves, and shit. Those were the times I wished I’d gone down to Memphis to live with my pops. There were times when I wanted to straight up hop on a Greyhound and leave Detroit for good when I had to deal with all the bullshit out here on these streets.

  I did some dumb shit just so niggas would stop calling me a mama’s boy. Shit that would break my mother’s heart. But that’s what I had to do just to be able to walk down my own block without being somebody’s bitch. That was back in junior high. But by high school, I had to be able to walk through somebody else’s hood and hold my head up. Truth is, I didn’t. I don’t like rolling with a bunch of niggas. You end up doing even dumber shit and paying the price for it.

  But Dray’s been lookin’ out since I was in kindergarten and he was in third grade. Once my pops left, it was just me and my moms. So that’s when Uncle Q stepped in. If she had to work late, Q let me stay over and me and Dray would play video games all night. At first, my moms didn’t trust Q, but after a while, she had no choice. He was the only man to come through for her. They never went out or nothing, but Q was like, whatever you need. And I needed a friend. That’s all. Just one good friend. Not a crew, not no gang. Just Dray. And if Q is like a father to Dray, then Q is my father, too. Never mind my real father who begged me to come down to Memphis ’cause he need somebody to pass on that big ole house to. Maybe when I get married. And have some little half-Haitian revolutionary babies. Hell yeah. I ain’t never felt like this before. I mean, I told girls I loved them and shit. That’s what I do. I love girls. Since I don’t like rolling with a crew of niggas, I stay up underneath a girl all the time. That shit is soft and warm and safe, feel me? But you . . . Damn, girl. I’ll finish college for you. I’ll get a nice government job for you. I’ll save up and buy a house for you.