“Easton, Packer, Brooklyn Friends, Poly Prep, Tech, Beacon . . .”
“Oh. Those are private schools?”
“They’re just schools,” she says, and looks me up and down.
“Bushwick High,” I say.
“Cool,” she says with a genuine smile.
Her smile lets me know that she’s not too stuck-up. I can’t blame her for giving me these short answers, because she doesn’t know me like that. But we may know somebody in common. “Darius is really popular, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding really hard. “That’s an understatement.”
“Really? Like, how?”
“I mean, look at him.”
And I do. He’s not much taller than everyone else, but something about the way he stands and looks around at everybody makes him seem taller. He holds his head up high, nods during a conversation as if that person is saying the most important thing in the world, laughs on cue—throwing his head back and all—and folds his arms and puts his hand back into his pockets at just the right times. He doesn’t dance, even as the other kids around him dance. When another song comes on, he just bops his head to the bass. I don’t know if he sees me. And at this point, I don’t feel like I’m even in the room anymore.
I grab a red plastic cup from a nearby table, pour myself some cranberry juice, and start dancing alone like the girl near the fireplace. I let my body ride the bass, and I mouth the lyrics to myself. I sip and dance, and dance and sip, without a care in the world. But I can’t front for too long because Darius walks over. He starts dancing too. He’s actually dancing, and I have to stop for a minute to watch him raise his arms and sway to the beat just right. He mouths the lyrics too, and holds his head as if the bass has taken over him. Soon he has a crowd around him again, cheering him on. And I’m ignored, like I’m some side chick he brought with him to show off to his friends.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Darius says, off-key.
“Hey, hey, hey!” everyone sings. But it’s all wrong. It’s out of tune and off beat.
Nothing about this whole scenario seems legit. Something about the way Darius is moving, the way people are acting around him, and the way he’s smiling, lets me know that he’s being phony. And that’s not the Darius I want to be around—I want the real him, the one I know.
So I put down my cup and tug at his arm. “Sorry to interrupt the Darius Show, but can I talk to you for a second?” I walk out of the house and back down the front steps onto the sidewalk. He follows me with a tight look on his face, but he won’t come down the steps all the way. He sits on the stoop instead, still with the red cup in his hand, and with his shifting jaw. “What’s this about, Zuri?” he asks.
“No, what was that all about, Darius?” I ask.
He puts his hands up and shrugs. “We’re at a party. I’m partying. And you?”
“That’s what you call partying? You’re putting on a show in there, Darius!”
He chuckles. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this!” I try to mock him. I laugh like him and put my hands in my invisible pockets, and cock my head back, and rub my nonexistent hard jawline. I pretend to dance like I have no rhythm at all. “Hey, you guys! You should come see my big house in the ghetto,” I say with a fake deep voice.
“Well, you’re not a very good actor, ’cause that’s not how I look or sound.”
“Well, that’s how I see you.”
“Oh, okay, then. This must be how you want me to party!” He gets up from the stoop, claps his hands in front of my face, snaps his fingers over and over again, rolls his neck and his eyes with his hand on his hip, and says with a fake high voice, “Yeah, bitches and niggas! I’m here to parrrrtay!”
“What? Oh, no, you did not just go there!” I shout. “You’re gonna stand here and say the n-word in front of these white people’s houses, Darius? Typical. I was right about you. You’ve never heard those words come out my mouth like that. Especially in a place like this.” And I purposely snap my fingers, rolling my eyes and neck.
Darius shakes his head, just as Carrie peeks out from the front door. “Hey, Darius. Is everything okay?” she asks, without even looking at me.
“Yeah,” Darius says with way more bass in his voice than I’ve ever heard. And he’s still looking dead at me. “I’m good.”
I stare at Carrie, but she avoids my eyes. After a long second, she finally goes back inside.
“I wouldn’t say those words around my friends,” Darius says quietly, almost whispering.
“And I do. But not those kinda friends,” I say, but not as quietly.
“What are you saying, Zuri?”
“I’m saying that you were a little extra in there.”
“Extra? I’m just being myself!” He’s louder now, and his voice cracks.
“Well, that was not the you I’ve gotten to know these past few days.”
He chuckles. “The operative words here are ‘past few days.’ You don’t really know me, Zuri.”
“And you don’t really know me. ’Cause if you did, you wouldn’t bring me someplace like this.” And I start to walk away. I’m not sure where I’m going, but there’s a busy intersection at the end of the block.
“Zuri, wait,” Darius says. “What do you mean ‘especially in a place like this’? This is somebody’s house, not friggin’ . . . Lincoln Center. I brought you here for a reason.”
“And what’s that, Darius?” I turn around, cross my arms, and look him in the face, because I know this boy is about to come out the side of his neck with some nonsense. And I am not afraid to tell him about himself.
“To expand your world, Zuri! To party with different kinds of kids. That’s what I’m doing. Partying!”
“Partying? I know how to party, Darius. And I don’t need to be around different kinds of kids to party. And you said this was a date, but you left me over here high and dry. That’s not what dates do, Darius!”
He steps closer to me, and I don’t move back.
“Not everything is about your little corner in the hood. These are kids I go to school with, and I wanted you to meet them. And yes, this was supposed to be a date.” He lowers his voice on the last thing he says.
“A date?” I whisper. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. ’Cause dates are for when two people get to know each other better. And I damn sure have gotten to know you better.”
He puts his hands up as if he’s surrendering. “I’m being myself, Zuri. What do you want? This is me when I’m around people I know, people I’m comfortable with.”
“You must not have been comfortable with me, ’cause that’s not how you were acting before.” I cross my arms and shake my head. “I want to go home.”
“What?”
“This isn’t for me. I don’t feel right in here.”
He takes my hand. “Zuri. Come on. Don’t be this way.”
I pull my hand away again and shake my head. “I was right about you, Darius. We’re just too different. This can’t work,” I whisper.
I walk away. I can feel that Darius doesn’t follow me. I make it down to the end of the tree-lined block where the street sign says that it’s Fifth Avenue. Everything around is so damn different, clean, and bright, so I close my eyes and try to shut it out. I need to be back in my neighborhood. I need be on my block, in my apartment, and in my bedroom with my sisters.
I know my place. I know where I come from. I know where I belong.
Twenty-Five
PAPI ALWAYS TELLS me to never let the streets know when you’re upset. Don’t let any strangers see you cry. Hold your head up and look as if you’re ready to destroy the world if you have to. Even though part of me wishes I was curled up in my bed and crying right now, I gotta hold it in, because this isn’t my hood and I don’t really know where I’m going and I can’t be looking weak out here.