I peck him back on the lips. “We’re good.”
“Good. Let’s go dance.”
We get out the car, and Seven yells about us sneaking off and threatens to tell Daddy. Layla pulls him back inside as he says, “And if she push out a little Chris in nine months, we gon’ have a problem, partna!”
Ridiculous. Re-damn-diculous.
The music is still bumping inside. I try not to laugh as Chris really does turn the Nae-Nae into a No-No. Maya and Ryan join us on the dance floor, and they give me these “What the hell?” looks at Chris’s moves. I shrug and go with it.
Toward the end of a song, Chris leans down to my ear and says, “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into the crowd. I don’t think anything of it until about a minute later when his voice comes over the speakers, and he’s next to the DJ in the booth.
“Hey, everybody,” he says. “My girl and I had a fight earlier.”
Oh, Lord. He’s telling all of our business. I look at my Chucks and shield my face.
“And I wanted to do this song, our song, to show you how much I love you and care about you, Fresh Princess.”
A bunch of girls go, “Awww!” His boys whoop and cheer. I’m thinking, please don’t let him sing. Please. But there’s this familiar boomp . . . boomp, boomp, boomp.
“Now this is a story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down,” Chris raps. “And I’d like to take a minute, just sit right there, I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel-Air.”
I smile way too hard. Our song. I rap along with him, and mostly everyone joins in. Even the teachers. At the end, I cheer louder than anybody.
Chris comes back down, and we laugh and hug and kiss. Then we dance and take silly selfies, flooding dashboards and timelines around the world. When prom is over, we let Maya, Ryan, Jess, and some of our other friends ride with us to IHOP. Everybody has somebody on their lap. At IHOP, we eat way too many pancakes and dance to songs on the jukebox. I don’t think about Khalil or Natasha.
It’s one of the best nights of my life.
EIGHTEEN
On Sunday, my parents take me and my brothers on a trip.
It seems like a normal visit to Uncle Carlos’s house until we pass his neighborhood. A little over five minutes later, a brick sign surrounded by colorful shrubs welcomes us to Brook Falls.
Single-story brick houses line freshly paved streets. Black kids, white kids, and everything in between play on the sidewalks and in yards. Open garage doors show all of the junk inside, and bikes and scooters lay abandoned in yards. Nobody’s worried about their stuff getting stolen in the middle of the day.
It reminds me of Uncle Carlos’s neighborhood yet it’s different. For one, there’s no gate around it, so they’re not keeping anyone out or in, but obviously people feel safe. The houses are smaller, more homey looking. And straight up? There are more people who look like us compared to Uncle Carlos’s neighborhood.
Daddy pulls into the driveway of a brown-brick house at the end of a cul-de-sac. Bushes and small trees decorate the yard, and a cobblestone walkway leads up to the front door.
“C’mon, y’all,” Daddy says.
We hop out, stretching and yawning. Those forty-five-minute drives aren’t a joke. A chubby black man waves at us from the driveway next door. We wave back and follow my parents up the walkway. Through the glass of the front door, the house appears empty.
“Whose house is this?” Seven asks.
Daddy unlocks the door. “Hopefully ours.”
When we go inside, we’re standing in the living room. There’s a strong stench of paint and polished hardwood floors. Two halls, one on each side, lead away from the living room. The kitchen is right off from the living room with white cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances.
“We wanted you guys to see it,” Momma says. “Look around.”
I can’t lie, I’m afraid to move. “This is our house?”
“Like I said, we hope so,” Daddy replies. “We’re waiting for the mortgage to be approved.”
“Can we afford it?” Seven asks.
Momma raises an eyebrow. “Yes, we can.”
“But like down payments and stuff—”
“Seven!” I hiss. He’s always in somebody’s business.
“We got everything taken care of,” Daddy says. “We’ll rent the house in the Garden out, so that’s gon’ help with the monthly payments. Plus . . .” He looks at Momma with this sly grin that’s kinda adorable, I gotta admit.
“I got the nurse manager job at Markham,” she says, smiling. “I start in two weeks.”
“For real?” I say, and Seven goes, “Whoa,” while Sekani shouts, “Momma’s rich!”
“Boy, ain’t nobody rich,” Daddy says. “Calm down.”
“But this helps,” says Momma. “A lot.”
“Daddy, you’re okay with us living out here with the fake people?” Sekani asks.
“Where you get that from, Sekani?” Momma says.
“Well, that’s what he always says. That people out here are fake, and that Garden Heights is real.”
“Yeah, he does say that,” says Seven.
I nod. “All. The. Time.”
Momma folds her arms. “Care to explain, Maverick?”
“I don’t say it that much—”
“Yeah, you do,” the rest of us say.
“A’ight, I say it a lot. I may not have been one hundred percent right on all of this—”
Momma coughs, but there’s a “Ha” hidden in it.
Daddy glares at her. “But I realize being real ain’t got anything to do with where you live. The realest thing I can do is protect my family, and that means leaving Garden Heights.”
“What else?” Momma questions, like he’s being grilled in front of the class.
“And that living in the suburbs don’t make you any less black than living in the hood.”
“Thank you,” she says with a satisfied smile.
“Now are y’all gon’ look around or what?” Daddy asks.
Seven hesitates to move, and since he’s hesitant, Sekani is too. But shoot, I want first dibs on a room. “Where are the bedrooms?”
Momma points to the hall on the left. I guess Seven and Sekani realize why I asked. The three of us exchange looks.
We rush for the hall. Sekani gets there first, and it’s not my best moment, but I sling his scrawny butt back.
“Mommy, she threw me!” he whines.
I beat Seven to the first room. It’s bigger than my current room but not as big as I want. Seven reaches the second one, looks around, and I guess he doesn’t like it. That leaves the third room as the biggest one, and it’s at the end of the hall.
Seven and I race for it, and it’s like Harry Potter versus Cedric Diggory trying to get to the Goblet of Fire. I grab Seven’s shirt, stretching it until I have a good enough grip to pull him back and get ahead of him. I beat him to the room and open the door.
And it’s smaller than the first one.
“I call dibs!” Sekani shouts. He shimmies in the doorway of the first room, the biggest of the three.
Seven and I rock, paper, scissor it for the second-biggest room. Seven always goes with rock or paper, so I easily win.
Daddy leaves to get lunch, and Momma shows us the rest of the house. My brothers and I have to share a bathroom again. Sekani’s finally learned aim etiquette and the art of flushing, so it’s fine, I guess. The master suite is on the other hallway. There’s a laundry room, an unfinished basement, and a two-car garage. Momma says we’ll get a basketball hoop on wheels. We can keep it in the garage, roll it in front of the house, and play in the cul-de-sac sometimes. A wooden fence surrounds the backyard, and there’s plenty of space for Daddy’s garden and Brickz.
“Brickz can come out here, right?” I ask.
“Of course. We aren’t gonna leave him.”
Daddy brings burgers and fries, and we eat on the kitchen floor. It’s super quiet out here. Dogs bark sometimes, but wall-rattling music and gunshots? Not happening.
“So, we’re gonna close in the next few weeks or so,” Momma says, “but since it’s the end of the school year, we’ll wait until you guys are out for summer to move.”