I just hope no one tells the police that two black boys at this party started all this mess and it ended in a fight.
Carrie is pacing up and down the living room. She’s on the phone with her mother, who’s on the other side of the world in Paris. Soon two cops are at the door, and I tell Darius to go hide in the bathroom.
“Why?” he asks as he holds the pack of frozen peas to his jaw.
“Because . . .” is all I say.
But Carrie doesn’t let them in. She insists that everything’s okay and the party’s over. The cops mumble something, and in seconds, they’re gone.
“Wow. That’s it?” I say as Carrie walks back into the living room.
“What do you mean, that’s it?” Darius says.
I sigh and shake my head at Darius. “You don’t get it,” I whisper.
“Yes, I do,” he says. “That’s it. And that’s all that should happen.”
I shake my head. “Different planet,” I say. “What you think should happen is what actually happens.”
He just narrows his eyes at me. There’s a small scratch across his forehead, and his lip is busted. His face is all wound up, and he winces as he gets up from the couch. I stare at him with almost-new eyes, because he’s not as cocky when he’s in pain.
Layla is sprawled out on another leather couch, and she looks a hot mess too. “I gotta get her home,” I say.
“Try to make her eat,” Carrie says. “And, wait. Lemme give you something.” She rushes back to the kitchen and comes back with a plastic bag and hands it to me. “She’s probably gonna throw up again, so you should be prepared.”
Darius sits in the front seat to give Layla space to stretch out her legs in the back of the cab. She cracks stupid jokes during the whole ride. And she almost throws up on me and all over the back seat, so Carrie’s plastic bag comes in handy.
“She is so wasted. How am I going to get her past my parents?” I ask Darius.
“How ’bout if the cab lets us off around the corner or down the block?” Darius asks while massaging his sore hand. “She can walk it off.”
“You kidding me? My whole neighborhood has eyes.”
I get a text from Janae, letting me know that everybody’s home except for me and Layla. I text her back that Layla’s in trouble, so Marisol came up with some lie about Layla being at some friend’s party and me promising to pick her up. For whatever reason, my parents always believe Marisol.
“She needs water, food, and sleep,” Darius says. “She’ll just have to deal with the consequences later.”
My stomach twists even tighter at the thought of having to explain all this to my parents. They won’t get mad; they’ll be disappointed. They’ll blame themselves. They’ll think back on all the things they’ve done wrong as young parents. Papi will get even stricter with all of us, and he’ll probably cut back on his work hours even more, just so he can keep an eye out on us girls.
“Oh my god,” I mumble, holding my head in my hand.
“It’ll be that bad, huh?” Darius asks. “Okay. How about we bring her to my house?”
“No way! Your parents and my parents will definitely catch us!”
“They’re asleep. No one will notice, promise.” He shrugs. “Look, Layla can chill there for a while until she can at least stand straight. You can sneak back home with her before dawn.”
I shake my head, knowing that at this point, we’ll still get in trouble. It’s just a matter of how much trouble. I text Janae, letting her know that Layla is okay, and beg her not to say a word to our parents. I call Mama and she doesn’t answer, thank goodness.
I lean back against the seat and exhale as the cab drives up to our block.
We reach the side door to the Darcy house. My heart pounds as I look all up and down the block for any of Papi’s friends, or Mama’s friends too. If Mama and Papi come knocking on the Darcys’ door and find Layla drunk, so be it. But if I can save them a heart attack or two, I will.
Darius helps Layla out of the car and walks her to the side door while I cover Layla’s mouth, because now she’s singing some random song. Soon we’re in a lit foyer with hooks along the walls and a metal rack filled with shoes that I notice are Darius’s. He fumbles with his keys again, opening a second door that leads down into the basement.
There’s a black leather couch in the center with a giant flat-screen TV along the wall. Layla quickly plops her body down, groans, and mumbles something.
“This is my room. Please make yourself at home.” Darius leaves and walks up a flight of stairs at the other end of the basement, and I kneel down in front of Layla to rub her forehead. “You’re stupid, you know that?” I say.
She moans. “I’m sorry, Zuri.”
“Warren kept giving you drinks, huh?”
“No. I kept asking for them. And I only had two!”
“Stay away from Warren, please.”
“Why? He likes me. And I like him.”
“I don’t care. Stay away from him.”
“You can’t tell me what to . . . ow!” She rubs her head and squints her eyes.
“See? That’s what you get. If Mama and Papi find out about this, it won’t matter who likes who. The only boyfriends you’ll have are the four walls in our bedroom,” I say, while rubbing her back. “And please don’t throw up on this couch and give Darius a reason to hate me more.”
“I don’t hate you, Zuri,” Darius says as he walks into the room with a lined trash bin and places it in front of the couch. He hands Layla a glass of water, and I glance up at him. He looks away. I look away.
“You got two hours, Layla,” I say as she curls herself up on the couch and closes her eyes. “And then you gotta pull yourself together so we can go home.”
She doesn’t answer. I shake my head, stand up, and nudge her gently. She moans, so I leave her alone.
It hadn’t crossed my mind that I’d have to wait for Layla while she sobers up. I didn’t ever think I’d be in the Darcy house again. Especially after our fight.
I look around his room and realize that it’s not at all what I expected. It’s way more . . . him. A video-game console and controllers sit on a gray rug in front of the couch. Canvases—some blank, some painted on, some drawn on—are all over the basement. Some are propped against the walls, some are hanging, and some are stacked up on a wide wooden table in the far corner of the basement. There are glass jars of paintbrushes in all sizes along the edge of the table. In another corner are a bass guitar and a keyboard.
Darius walks through a door at the other end of the basement, and I can spot a giant bed in that room. He comes out with a plaid blanket that he gently throws over Layla.
“Thank you,” I say. I cross my arms because I don’t know what else to do with myself in this place. Then I ask, “You paint? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I took painting classes at school and I liked it. It calms me a little. But playing music energizes me. Balance.” Then he points to a closed door on the opposite side of the basement. “That’s Ainsley’s room over there.”
“So it’s like you two have a whole basement apartment to yourselves?” I say.
“Yeah, we designed it that way. I mean, that’s why my parents wanted a big house. We lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, so . . .”
“So . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about, because me and my sisters share one room.”
“Zuri.” He sighs, still massaging his hand. “I can’t change anything about my life. . . .”
“Sorry,” I say, knowing exactly what he means by that. I sigh, look down, then look up at him. “You should do something about that. Do you have ice?”
He walks to a dark corner and turns on a light. He opens a small fridge and pulls out an ice tray. He holds an ice cube in his hand.