KASIM PARKS HIS car in front of a big blue-and-white house with the words HITSVILLE, U.S.A. across the top. It’s the Motown museum. He’s been playing those songs on the drive here, singing the words out loud as if he wrote them himself for me. Everything is about love and his heart and his girl and his world. I dance and laugh and I am a balloon going up and up into the wide blue sky.
I’m too focused on his lips and smile and eyes to listen to his lessons on Motown and a man named Berry Gordy who started it all. Then we drive around a place called Lafayette Park that he says used to be called Black Bottom. Two tall and wide buildings stand as if guarding the place. Then we drive through a place called Indian Village, where I finally get to see the beautiful American mansions.
“That’s my house right there,” Kasim says as he slows the car down in front of what looks like a castle.
“So why are you not stopping the car so we can get out?” I ask.
He laughs. “I’m just messing with you. You’re supposed to tell me which one is your house.”
I look around. They are all different sizes and shapes with wide lawns and gates. I point to a big white house at the end of the block. There’s a tall black gate surrounding it, and maybe whoever lives there is a superstar. “That’s my house.”
“A’ight. I like your house better. When can I move in?”
“No. Not until we’re married.” I laugh.
“Oh, you’re one of them chicks? Gotta make it legit. I feel you.”
“Where’s my ring?”
He starts searching his coat pockets, the glove compartment, and all over the car. “We gonna have to go to the pawn shop right quick.”
I laugh.
We drive out of that fancy place and back to the west side, where he parks in front of a short yellow building called a Coney Island.
“I can’t believe your cousins haven’t taken you here,” he says when he opens the door.
I soon realize that this is like a pizza shop or a McDonald’s for Greek food. He orders baklava for me, and I am so hungry that I steal a piece from the bag when he’s not looking. He turns around and catches me chewing and I laugh, spitting the piece of baklava out onto the floor.
“Gimme that.” He laughs, grabbing the bag from me. “I see I can’t trust you around food.”
We take our meals to go and drive to his neighborhood, Conant Gardens, and to his block, Norwood Street.
“Make sure you tell your cousins where you are,” Kasim reminds me when we reach the street lined with wide lawns and brick houses. “I don’t want them coming over here to beat me up.”
I’m at a boy’s house. I’m at Kasim’s house. And there aren’t any adults here. Kasim’s mother is out with her friends, he says, and my mother would have a heart attack. A text from Pri warns me to keep my legs closed and my pants up. Donna sends hearts and kisses. Chantal only suggests that I be home before midnight.
Kasim takes out our dinner from the big paper bags. “Now, don’t you go picking out nothing from off that hot dog. You leave it right there in that bun along with the chili, mustard, and onions. You about to take a bite out of Detroit right here!” He unwraps all the food and sets everything on plates for us. He takes his first bite from the hot dog and eats as if he’s never had food in his life.
I’m too slow with my hot dog. So he picks it up and helps me take bite after bite. He wipes the corner of my mouth with his knuckles. I smile and chew and giggle and cover my face.
“It’s good, right? You like it?” he asks.
I nod.
“I like you,” he says.
“I know,” I say with food in my mouth. Again, he wipes the corner of my mouth.
His house is bigger than Matant Jo’s. His block is nicer, too, with lots of big houses and even bigger driveways for the nicer cars. Some houses are empty, too, but the windows are boarded up and their dry grass is low and still kept neat.
“What kind of job does your mother have?” I ask while I’m eating French fries.
“She works for the city. Medical billing. She’s responsible for the money hospitals make,” Kasim says.
“Does she make a lot of money?” I ask.
“No. But it’s honest money, that’s for sure.”
Guilt settles in my stomach. I can’t say that for my aunt or cousins. And now, even me.
A big, L-shaped couch takes up most of the living room, along with a big TV, but smaller than the one we have at home. We watch a funny TV show, and then another show. Kasim keeps his arm around me the whole time, and slowly, he pulls me in for a kiss.
This is not our first kiss, of course, but it feels brand-new. Maybe it’s because I have my boots off and my feet are curled up under me on the couch, and his arm is around my whole body. I sniff the bare skin of his neck—a mix of soap, sweat, and hot dog. I kiss it. He shrinks away from me.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say.