But he reaches over and eases his hand into my hand as we drive past Bad Leg, and my stomach settles, my thoughts calm. And we stay like that for the whole ride down Joy Road, until we reach the highway. Then he drives into downtown, toward Broadway Street, where we reach a wide, brightly lit tall building that’s just for cars. We park Dray’s car, then walk in the same direction as the other people coming out of nice cars and wearing fancy coats and high-heel shoes. I look over at Kasim and down at my own clothes, and begin to feel very underdressed for whatever this surprise date will be.
We get in line for a theater called the Detroit Opera House. A poster near the entrance has a photo of a lean, muscular dancing black couple and the name ALVIN AILEY. It’s a dance performance. Within seconds, everything from the past few weeks that has caused me so much worry melts away like ice in the sun.
“I’m guessing you like dance, seeing how you was trying to do the Detroit Jit back at that party,” Kasim says, easing closer to me as the line moves.
I nod because I’m speechless. I’ve seen live dancers before, at folklore festivals in Port-au-Prince and Les Cayes. And at parties where Haitians dance to compas as if they’re on Dancing with the Stars. But never anyone like the ones on that poster, with legs and arms as long as the sky stretches. And never with such people for an audience—all black people with their faces smiling bright, the sounds of their voices all around us like music. It’s as if I’m mingling with the bourgeois businesspeople and entertainers from Petionville. I keep my eyes on one beautiful couple where the woman’s hair sits high and round on top of her head like Jesus’s halo. She and her man hold hands and kiss and talk and kiss some more.
My eyes are so fixed on them that I jump when Kasim puts his arm around me. Then I realize that we are not as beautiful, I am not as beautiful as that woman. I remember what I have on—jeans, a plain sweatshirt, sneakers, and Pri’s oversized coat. I gasp and cross my arms across my chest.
“Kasim, I can’t go in there like this,” I whisper. “You didn’t tell me that I had to dress up.”
He looks down at me. “You look good. You got on your Jordans, some nice tight jeans. If anybody look at you funny, you tell ’em you reppin’ the west side.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. This is a nice event and I could’ve worn something nice. You have on good clothes.”
“That’s ’cause I was trying to impress you, not them. I wanna show you that I could be bougie, too. Remember? Do some bougie shit with my bougie girl.”
“Kasim!” I look away from him because I want to go home and change.
“Hey.” He turns me around and gets really close to my face. “All that matters is that you’re bougie on the inside. You could be from poor-ass Haiti or live in a trailer park, but as long as you have a bougie heart, you can aim for the finer things in life.”
He makes his face look very serious, as if he’s a professor. His glasses slide to the tip of his nose and he looks out at me from the top of the frames. I laugh and lean into him. He pulls me in and wraps his arms around me. He holds me tighter and kisses the top of my head. I sniff his shirt, then lift my head to take in the bare skin of his neck. It’s a mix of sweetness and too-strong cologne. I only move because we’re at the front of the line and we have to go inside. When he hands over the two tickets to the usher, I see that they cost over one hundred dollars each.
I forget every single thing in the world, every heartache, every tear, every pain as I watch that performance. The dancers, the music, the lights, the people in the theater are all so beautiful that I want to wear them on my skin for the rest of my life. And Manman. If only I can wrap everything that I’m experiencing and place it in a box as a gift for her. I would put into the box the dancers and music and the whole theater as if they are perfectly wrapped clothes and jewelry. I must bring her here when she comes.
“How much were the tickets?” I ask Kasim as we’re walking back to the car.
“Excuse me, that’s not a polite question, Ms. Fabulous.”
“I don’t want you to spend so much money on me. You have your mother, that shitty car, and don’t you want to go back to school? That’s what you said.”
He laughs a little. “I think it’s so cute the way you say ‘shitty.’”
“Kasim?”
“All right.” He stops in front of Dray’s car. “I’m not a baller, Fabulous. But you’re different from a lot of these other girls out here. I mean, they might make fun of how you talk and all, but you’re more bougie than a whole lot of these girls. And by bougie, I mean classy shit. Like going to the theater instead of the movies. My uncle taught me that. To be honest, I got the tickets from him.”
I pull the coat’s hood up over my head because the wind is getting colder and stronger. The headlights from other people’s cars are like the lights on the stage, making everything bright and then dark over and over again. “Your uncle seems like a nice man.”
“Yeah. Well, Q is not my real uncle. He’s Dray’s uncle, but it’s like he’s everybody’s uncle. Shit. He might even be your uncle.”