“I had this nice soup called el bisqué at that new farm restaurant. Go get me that el bisqué, Zuri! It was so delicious,” she says.
Slowly I walk out of her apartment, feeling as if I should still be in there with her. And hoping that when I come back, she’ll be all dressed, with her head wrapped and beads and makeup and deep, joyous laughter.
“I kept trying to get her to order something else, but she kept asking for more bowls of the bisque,” Charlise says as she goes through a stack of paper menus. “And I kept saying, ‘Madrina, it’s bisque, not el bisqué. The E is silent.’ She spent like two hundred dollars all by herself.”
The menus are printed on thick, textured paper with fancy gold lettering. I keep staring at the name of this place, Bushwick Farm. It’s not on any sign outside the building. The people who need to know that this is a farm-to-table restaurant already know it’s a farm-to-table restaurant. Charlise says that farm-to-table means that the chicken is supposed to still be clucking when it’s on your plate and the vegetables taste like wet soil. The food is that fresh. The people who come here to eat mostly are white, mostly are rich, and mostly ignore us as if we’re ghosts.
That’s how they treat Charlise as they come into the restaurant. She’s supposed to check to see if they have a reservation, seat them, and hand them their menus. But most of them just walk past her as if she’s not even there. Good. She won’t get in trouble for talking to her friend while she’s supposed to be working.
“She was here by herself? Not even with Colin. Why?” I ask her.
“Madrina said she’s souping it all up before the gringos take over,” Charlise says. “And speaking of soup, which one did she want? The fire-roasted tomato or the lobster one?”
“She didn’t ask for soup, she asked for el bisqué. I mean, bisque.”
“Bisque is soup, DAH-ling!” Charlise raises an eyebrow and holds her pinky up, and I laugh. “You better learn to say them fancy words. You’re gonna be out in the world soon, college girl. And besides, rich boy from across the street knows how to say it.”
A chill runs up my spine. I quickly look away from her so that she doesn’t see my face. She would probably know everything just by looking into my eyes. A few customers walk in, distracting Charlise. She grabs a couple of menus and walks them outside, where they ask to be seated.
In the evenings, they block off a section of the sidewalk and put out wooden folding chairs, tables covered with white cloth, fancy plates, and wineglasses. That whole setup always looks strange to me, because this place used to be an auto-repair shop when I was little. It was closed for a couple of years, and then out of nowhere, it seemed, it became a fancy restaurant. I bet these people don’t even know that car exhaust and engine oil once filled this place. I force myself to think about all these things so Charlise can’t tell that somewhere in the back of my mind is the thought of Darius and our drive from D.C. together.
“So. When was rich boy in here?” I ask.
“About a week ago, with his whole family. At the same time as Madrina, in fact. She was eyeing them the whole time. Then rich boy came over and said hi. Introduced himself and everything.”
“Really? Wait. Which rich boy?” I ask.
“The fine one!” She tries to hold in a laugh.
I give her a look. Then she bursts out laughing, and the bartender looks over at us. He just smiles and shakes his head.
“Okay, it was Ainsley. And they were all nice to me. Too bad Janae is not going out with him anymore. How’s Warren, by the way?”
I shrug. “We’re done.”
“Wait. What?”
“It’s complicated” is all I can manage to say. I want to keep Darius’s secret. And Georgia’s.
“Well, I have some news.” She tries to hide her smile.
“What is it, Charlise?”
She grins wide, revealing all her teeth, as if what she’s about to tell me will shock me.
“Or, who is it?” I grab my phone to check if I missed a photo on Charlise’s instagram.
“Wait, Zuri,” she says. “He’s about to come in.”
I look out the opened glass door to the restaurant and count down. Ten, nine, eight . . . and in walks Colin, with that fake limp of his, and that cheesy grin as if he thinks he’s God’s gift to girls. As soon as he’s close enough to where I’m sitting, I say, “Hey, Colin. Madrina already sent me here for her el bisqué.”
“Oh, that’s cool. You should try some of that bisque too, Z. It’s dope.”
And right before my eyes, he reaches over the podium in front of Charlise and kisses her on the lips. I throw my hands up. “Oh, hell no!”
“See? I told you she’d get all in her feelings,” Colin says.
I take a deep breath and stare at the two lovebirds for a minute. I want to be a supportive friend. I don’t want to seem like a hater. “You know what, Colin? I’m happy for you two. Really.”
Charlise’s face lights up and she smiles bright. “Thank you, Zuri!” Then she turns to Colin. “See? I told you she’d be all right with this.”
Colin wraps his arm around Charlise’s neck, pulls her in, and plants a big fat kiss on her forehead, just as a well-dressed couple walks in. I step aside and watch Charlise shoo Colin away, then attend to the guests. It’s a long minute before I realize that the couple is none other than the Darcy boys’ parents, and I want to run out of there. But Charlise points to me, and they both turn. Darcy dad smiles. Darcy mom doesn’t. Then she smiles a fake smile.
I grab the paper bag with Madrina’s bisque and quickly leave that place, walking really fast down Knickerbocker Avenue and back to my building. As my heart races, I think that maybe I read the Darcys wrong. Maybe the Darcy mom has a bad case of resting bitch face. Maybe they were just in an argument and they went to that restaurant to patch things up. But then again, first impressions are everything. Madrina says to trust my gut. My gut told me that the Darcys were all conceited, and their sons thought that they were better than us. But I kissed one of them. And he apologized to me. Sort of.
As I’m walking back to my building, I get a text from Darius.
Hey, he types again.
I take a breath.
Hey, I respond.
Twenty-Two
Him: Zuri, I’m sorry about everything.
Me: . . .
Him: Sorry about Warren too. I know you liked him.
Me: Don’t apologize for Warren. He’s an asshole. You proved your point.
Him: I wasn’t trying to prove anything.
Me: . . .
Him: You and him still a thing?
Me: We’re nothing. You did see me curse him out, didn’t you?
Him: I couldn’t miss it. It was epic.
Me: . . .
Him: Can we have a do-over?
Me: . . .
Him: Please, Zuri Luz Benitez. ZZ.
Me: . . .
Him: ???
Me: I’ll give you another chance. But you best step up your game.
Him: ???
Madrina left her apartment door unlocked for me.
“Madrina!” I call out as I’m staring at Darius’s texts. “I got your soup! And it’s bisque, not el bisqué. It’s a fancy word for soup.”
She doesn’t say anything and I look up from my phone and towards her bedroom. “Madrina?”
“I heard you, mi amor,” she says with an unusually raspy voice. “Just put it down, okay? Gracias, mija.”
She coughs a couple of times as I start to reply to Darius’s last text. But I don’t send anything. I walk out of Madrina’s apartment with my head in a shimmery pink fog. I read Darius’s texts over and over again as I climb the steps, almost tripping.
Twenty-Three
AGAIN, I’M LYING to my parents and my sisters about being with a boy. I can’t believe I’ve become that girl.
Charlise is covering for me. We’re supposed to be going to the movies. My sisters side-eye me because they know I don’t like movies. I explain that it’s Charlise’s last summer before college and they buy it. They think I’m going to meet boys at the theater, and I don’t argue with them. It’s better than letting them know that I’m meeting the boy across the street who I’m supposed to hate right now.
I feel bad about not telling Janae, though.