“I’m not going to cry.” I blink several times and swallow hard to make sure.
“Were you trying to get Mr. Nolan to help you? Waste of time,” she says.
“I got a D on my paper,” I tell her.
“A D? Did you write it in English? I mean, good English?”
“Of course I did! I know how to write in English!” I rush past her and into the hallway. Other students are making their way out, too, and I try to spot Donna or Pri in the crowd.
“Look, I always get As on my papers. I can take a look at yours, if you want.”
At first I don’t want Imani’s help—I want to write essays perfectly by myself. But then I realize that writing papers for Mr. Nolan is just another American system I need to game, as Pri would say. I never see Pri doing any schoolwork, but somehow she doesn’t fail her classes. And Donna doesn’t even carry a book bag. She takes a purse to school and I wonder what sort of magic she does to fit any books into it. Maybe Imani knows the answers. She always has a giant, heavy book bag as if she’s selling goods at the market.
I stop and Imani almost bumps into me. “Yes,” I say. “Please. I don’t understand what Mr. Nolan wants. He says I’m a good writer, but I’m still doing something wrong.”
“All right, let’s go somewhere and I’ll take a look at it. You can pay me back by getting me something to eat.”
I don’t question why Imani always wants to make sure I’m okay, and offers to help me with my schoolwork. I’m only thankful; this is one door Papa Legba has opened for me—friendship. Imani has big opinions about the world, and maybe she clings to me because I listen. I am amused by everything she says—McDonald’s food is really plastic, downtown Detroit will be all white in ten years, the government watches us through our cell phones. I only laugh when she tries to prove it by showing me an article or video on the internet. Maybe she and Kasim can be friends, too, because he likes to talk about the same things.
I text Kasim for the address to the café. He always asks me to come see him, but I never wanted to have Chantal take me over. Now that I have a friend, I get to taste a slice of this Detroit freedom. But I still let Chantal know where I am and that Kasim will take me back home.
Imani and I walk to the corner of our school’s block to catch the bus that goes down Vernor Highway. Once on the bus, I start to walk to the back, but Imani pulls my arm toward a seat next to her.
“Always sit close to the bus driver,” she whispers.
I think of the small tap-tap trucks in Port-au-Prince where Manman told me to sit near the back so I can jump out in case anything happens.
“He’s your boyfriend, Fabiola?” Imani asks after I tell her that we’re going to see Kasim at his job.
I shake my head. But the smile on my face tells a different answer.
“Don’t lie to me. I’m trying to help you out. Now, since you’ll be meeting up with your boyfriend after school and all, this is the forty-nine bus and it goes down Vernor until you get to Twenty-First. Then you’re on Bagley. We’re gonna get off on Bagley and Walsh and walk to Michigan Avenue. Got it?”
I take note of this bus and the places it passes. The streets are even wider here, and there don’t seem to be enough cars and enough people to fill up all the space. The sky stretches long and wide, and maybe this bus can go to the very edge of the world—or at least to my mother in New Jersey. I jump when Imani calls my name, and I don’t notice that fifteen minutes have gone by. Maybe she was talking all this time, but my mind was on the wide, endless roads.
When we’re off the bus, we walk a few blocks to Kasim’s café and stand outside. We watch through the wide window as Kasim serves coffee behind the counter.
“He is so cute. I’ve seen him around. He comes to the school with Donna’s boyfriend.”
I stop smiling. “Do you know Donna’s boyfriend?”
“Dray? Who doesn’t know Dray? He makes my skin itch. I don’t know what your cousin sees in him. He looks good and all, but he still be looking at girls even when he comes to pick Donna up. And the guys at school can’t even say hi to Donna when he’s around. Dray was checkin’ for her way back when we were in middle school. And he’d bring a different friend each time so they could hook up with her friends. All these girls would hang around Dray’s car like he’s a celebrity. Not me.”
“Did Kasim . . . what did you say . . . hook up with a girl?”
“Nobody really liked Kasim ’cause he wasn’t a baller. You could tell by his clothes and sneakers that Dray wasn’t even trying to hook him up with dough, talkin’ about everybody has to earn that shit. Looks like Kasim is doing just fine without Dray’s dough.”
“Dough?”
“Cash. Money. Dang, Fabiola! Do I have to translate everything? What are your cousins teaching you?”
We both laugh until the door to the café opens and Kasim’s smile reaches me and warms my whole body.