This isn’t the love at first sight Madrina likes to talk about, but it’s a you-look-so-damn-good-that-my-eyes-are-eating-your-face thing we’ve got going.
Warren steps closer to me while pulling out his phone from his back pocket. “I wanna call you,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind getting to know one of the Benitez sisters too, right, Ains?” He throws a head nod over at Ainsley.
“How you know our name?” I ask.
“I’m from around here, and every dude from Cypress Hills to the Marcy Projects knows about the Benitez sisters with the fat asses.”
“Excuse you?” I quickly say. “Don’t be talking about our asses!”
“Oh! Pardon me, but you know how brothas get down. And none of y’all were checking for dudes from Hope Gardens.”
Now both Janae and I are thoroughly confused. “You’re from the projects?” I ask with a screw face.
“You don’t have to say it like that, though.”
“Hold up. I just mentioned Hope Gardens to this dude over here,” I say, pointing at Darius with my chin. “And he didn’t say anything about knowing anybody from Bushwick, especially the projects.”
Warren laughs. “Darius and I go to the same school, and we’re two out of nine black guys in our whole grade. That’s about it.”
“What school is that?” I ask.
“The Easton School in Manhattan,” Janae answers for me, with her eyebrows raised as if this is something impressive. I’ve never heard of it.
“I got into one of those programs that takes smart kids from the hood and puts them into private schools,” Warren says, rubbing his chin. He says this as if it’s something impressive.
“Private school?” I say. I can’t hide the smile on my face, because I am definitely impressed with this boy. He smiles too. Warren’s smile is golden. Warren is smooth and easy. Warren is Bushwick.
My phone number just rolls out of my mouth. I don’t blink, I don’t think about it, I simply throw each number at him as if they’re dollar bills and he’s a male stripper at a club like in those music videos the twins like to watch.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Janae trying to hold in a laugh. Behind her is Darius and his tight jaw. I want him to see what’s going down; I want him to see how it’s done. This is swag. This is how you step to a girl from Bushwick—a Bushwick native.
“Zuri, weren’t you just leaving?” Darius asks.
“Nah, I’ll stick around,” I say. “Actually, Warren, do you want to get closer to the stage?”
“Let’s do it,” he says, and knocks my shoulder with his.
“Shoot your shot, sis!” Janae says, smiling at me.
Warren stands next to me the whole time Bushwick Riot plays. All around us are the white people doing their strange dances to this punk music, the Whole Foods bags, the colorful blankets, and the kids from around the way who try to carry on as if nothing is changing. But like Madrina said, everything is changing. Old and new are mixing together like oil and water, and I’m stuck here in the middle of it all.
Eight
Boys in the Hood
Ball don’t lie, how it bounces off concrete
With swag, sway, and dip
The way the girls on the sidelines flip
As you run, jump, shuffle your feet
Your dance moves, like sugar so sweet
From here to the moon, boy, take me on this trip If I snatch this ball from you, will you kiss me on the lip Your wink, your smile, your touch like a treat You hold this ball in your hand like it’s your world You run this block, this hood, my heart
And if I wanna be your girl I’ll steal this ball from you, bounce and spin in a whirl It’s been in my court from the start
I run this whole game, make you fall deep, make your head swirl “Why can’t you just rap like everybody else?” Charlise says while balancing my small laptop in her wide hand as she reads my poem. “You got some skills, Z, but if you rapped, you would’ve been had your mixtape by now. And you know Marisol would’ve been selling them on every corner from here to Washington Heights.”
We’re on a bench near the gate at the basketball courts in the P.S. 151 school yard. Two groups of guys are playing, and Charlise is waiting for a hoop to free up so we can shoot some ball. The school yard has been more packed than usual with guys from around the way. Word on the street is that cops were starting to mess with people over at Maria Hernandez Park. So guys stopped going over there and started coming out here to get some peace. That’s something the Darcy boys wouldn’t know anything about.
Charlise doesn’t really like balling with me, but it’s much better than just sitting around chatting and chirping like two birds, she says. She doesn’t want us looking like basketball groupies ’cause she’s a baller herself. I don’t tell her that I’m an undercover groupie because I love watching the boys in my hood play ball.
“You want me to be a rapper while you’re a baller so we could be a dynamic duo stereotype?” I say, taking my laptop from her and putting it back into my bag.
“Okay, here we go. Why it gotta be a stereotype, though?” She grabs her ball from beneath the bench and starts passing it between her hands.
“Layla and Kayla still swear that the Darcy parents are ballers and rappers. Well, just the dad . . . the mom is probably just a trophy wife.”
“And they’d move to Bushwick, of all places?”
“That’s what I’m saying. They’re too stuck-up.”
“You’d be stuck-up too, Z, if your pops was making bank.”
“No, I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t think I was better than everybody else. I wouldn’t look down on other people who look like me. Take Warren, for instance. . . .”
“Warren from Palmetto?”
“Uh-huh. Look at this.” I show her his texts in my phone. Since we last saw each other, I’ve already followed Warren on the Gram and Snapchat. And we’ve been texting each other about stuff, like how we almost went to the same elementary school. Nothing too deep, so nothing to gossip about with Charlise. “You would never think that he was smart and went to some private school in Manhattan,” I say.
Charlise laughs, scrolling through his Instagram and tagged photos. “You don’t know the Warren I know. I remember his little scrawny self in the sixth grade right before he got into that program—class clown, always fighting, but yeah, smart as hell. Teachers said he was bored so they had him take this test, he aced it, then they put him in a white school. After that, we never really saw him around the way anymore.”
“So he’s different,” I say, with a half smile. “I thought he was hood. . . .”
“Ay yo, Zuri!” one of the guys from the courts calls out.
I turn to see who it is, and Charlise steals the ball from me. “What up, Colin!” I shout, then wave back to all the other guys who wave at me.
“Colin likes you, you know,” Charlise says. “He’s hood.”
“Come on, Charlise,” I say. “You know what I meant by that. They could be from around here, but they gotta have something going on for themselves. They gotta have goals and aspirations.”
“What if my boy Darius checked all those boxes, and has bank? While Warren will still be trying to get his moms, aunties, and grandmother out the projects when he starts making money. There’ll be none for you,” she says, passing the ball to me.
I bounce the ball, spin, pass it between my legs, and toss it back to her. “Aw, come on! Not you too! I’m not tryin’ to get with some dude just so I could get in his pockets! And I can’t stand him.” As soon as I say this, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s a text from Warren.
Let me take you out tonight.
Now I know what it feels like to smile with my whole body, like Janae does, because Charlise asks if it’s Warren without even seeing the look on my face.
“You’re finally starting to get a little action, Z? It’s about time,” Charlise says for all the guys to hear. She bounces the ball over to Colin and the group of guys at the nearby basket.
“What’s up with me and you, Z?” one of the guys calls out.
“I got a boyfriend,” I say. It’s not true. But it’s not a lie, either. I reply to Warren: No. Let ME take you out tonight.
Nine