“I was going to get Janae,” I say, pacing around the basement. After Janae told me she was going out with Ainsley this weekend, I came straight down here for Madrina’s advice.
The smoke from Madrina’s cigars, sage, and candles forms iridescent clouds all around the room. The tables are covered in statues of saints, colorful candles, black dolls in fancy dresses, crystal bowls of candy, bottles of perfume, and the shimmery gold and yellow colors that flavor the whole place. When it’s fully decorated, the basement looks like a giant birthday cake for some pretty girl’s quincea?era. Madrina laughs. No matter how big or small the joke or not-joke, she laughs that same hearty laugh. “So both of you were in that house? Bueno. You two don’t waste no time.”
“Madrina! It’s not like that. I’m trying to keep Janae away from that house. From Ainsley.”
“What’s the big deal, mija? She likes a boy. That’s it. She’s a big girl, you know.”
I shake my head. “They’re arrogant. That’s what’s the big deal. You should see their house, Madrina.”
I stand in front of a small table covered in only yellow and gold things. Yellow is Ochún’s color. I remember asking Madrina when she was trying to teach me this tradition why the color of love isn’t pink, or red. Think of the golden sun, she said. It makes everything on earth fall in love—how the ocean kisses land, how land nestles trees, how swaying trees always whisper sweet nothings into our ears.
“So which one is Ainsley? The cute one, or the cute one?” She laughs and I shake my head.
I sigh big and loud. “Those boys don’t belong here. And they changed everything about this block by renovating that house. Papi says the property values will go up, and the taxes too. Is that true, Madrina? You’ll have to pay more taxes because of that nice house?”
“Zuri, mi amor! Don’t you worry your little head about taxes and property values. You’re seventeen. That’s not your job. Your job is to fall in love!”
“I didn’t come here for love advice!” I say.
“Yes, you did. You want to know that your beloved sister is not falling for a playa.” She winks at me, letting me know that she’s using slang correctly.
“I already know everything I need to know, Madrina.” I unfold my arms and take a seat on the empty chair near her small table.
Madrina has a crystal ball on that table, as well as tarot cards, small bones from god knows what, coins from god knows where, shells, stones, pieces of folded paper, and a small collection of cigars. But that’s all for show. Most times, she just sits there pulling from a plain ol’ cigarette and talking to her clients about any-and everything. She’ll drop hints here and there about who has a crush on them, who they should marry, who they should divorce, or if there’s a side chick or side family in the picture. And she’s always on point. She says that the spirits guide her thoughts, but I think she just has good intuition.
Madrina takes out a lighter from her bra. She lights a stick of incense and puts it between her teeth. The smoke dances across her face, then travels up around her head as if it’s saying a prayer over her thoughts and memories.
I’m seated directly across from her, and the Nag Champa scent tickles my nose, but I don’t tell her this. “Okay, fine,” I start. “This is what’s gonna happen: Janae is gonna go out with that guy. They’re gonna spend all summer together and Janae’s never gonna spend a minute with me, and—”
Madrina puts her hand up to stop me from finishing my list of future complaints.
“I keep hearing Janae’s name. Why you so worried about your big sister? It’s her life.”
I exhale and let myself sink into the chair a little bit. Madrina has disarmed me. “I don’t want Janae to change,” I say real quiet.
Madrina closes her eyes and starts humming. She extends her wide, cool hands over the table. I take them. She rubs my hands. She holds them for a long minute. Then she opens her eyes and grins. Her face is smooth for her age, but the wrinkles on her neck are like ripples in the ocean; the tiny brown spots above the neckline of her white dress are like small, muted suns.
“No, mija. You’re gonna change.”
“Me?” I tense up. “But Janae . . .”
She squeezes my hands and I relax again. I close my eyes. She inhales deep, and she begins.
“Listen, Zuri Luz. Let your big sister be. Let things change.”
“Maybe,” I reply. But my heart isn’t ready to let my big sister drift away.
That night, our doorbell buzzes. Well, not our doorbell, but the one downstairs, because ours broke years ago. The downstairs bell buzzes loud enough for us to hear. We’re always having visitors who want either Papi or Mama for a game of dominos or to return Tupperware.
“Zuri!” Mama calls out nice and loud from the downstairs. According to Janae, it’s the third time she’s called my name, and I’m already deep in my book by the time I hear her.
She calls me again. “Zuri! Come down here! You have a visitor.”
My stomach sinks, and I hear all my sisters’ footsteps rush to either the front window or the door to our apartment. I hear the twins and Marisol shushing each other. I don’t get visitors, and Charlise always texts or calls before she comes over. And plus she’d just come upstairs. Mama never calls me down because I have a visitor. So by the time I get to the bottom of the first flight of stairs, I know who it is.
Mama is smiling way too hard. And she winks at me before going back to the apartment. I don’t even look at Darius as he’s standing there in the doorway. I look at his sneakers and bare ankles.
With my eyes still cast down, he hands something to me. It’s my laptop.
“Oh, shit,” I say, and grab it from him. I didn’t even realize I had left it at his house.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“Thank you.” I clutch my laptop to my chest.
My chin tilts up, and our eyes meet. I realize how close we’re standing. The street outside goes quiet, as if the neighborhood is holding its breath.
He just stands there, and I don’t know if he expects me to say something else, or if he’s waiting for me to invite him in. I search his eyes for some sort of clue, but he looks sideways, and I don’t know what else to do, so I just step back and close the door in his face.
Seven
WE’RE ALMOST AT the park when I hear Janae say, “A couple blocks down Knickerbocker was where Carmine Galante was murdered.” It’s the only bit of Bushwick history she shares with the Darcy brothers during our whole walk to the park. She insisted that I tag along with her and Ainsley on their date, but I had no idea what I was in for—or that Darius was coming too.
When he stepped out of his mini-mansion behind Ainsley, he said he wanted “a tour of the hood.”
But I am not a tour guide. And I’m especially not his tour guide.
Janae and Ainsley are being all cutesy as they walk, mostly talking about nonsense like the best campus frat parties and their white schoolmates who wear shorts and hoodies in the dead of winter. “Z, who was he again?” she calls out. I’m about ten steps ahead of her.
“A Bonanno crime family boss,” I say. Janae was never into Papi’s stories about old Bushwick. I was the one who took notes and wrote poems about them.
“A what?” Darius says. He’s only a few steps behind me.
“The Italian mob. They ran this whole area way back in the day—drugs, gambling, blackmailing . . . you name it.”
“Cool. Sounds like you know your shit.”
“I do,” I say, and keep walking.
Both Ainsley and Darius look around as if they’ve never seen buildings like these before—lined up next to each other with colorful signs and words like taquería, botánica, and Iglesia Pentecostal. Once we cross Myrtle Avenue, Bushwick starts to not look like Bushwick anymore.