Pride(17)

“Hey, man! Yo, Ainsley.” A black guy waves at our blanket. He walks up to Ainsley and gives him a pound. Ainsley awkwardly shakes his hand, of course, while this new boy gives him a straight dap like a normal black dude. Darius acknowledges this new boy with just a head nod.

“This is Janae,” Ainsley says to the boy, “and this is Zuri.”

The new guy nods in Janae’s direction, then looks at me and says, “What up, Zuri? I’m Warren.”

I pause from picking up my purse and give this Warren a second look. There’s a little bass in his voice, a little hood, a little swag, not like these Darcy boys.

He catches me staring at him, but I don’t look away. I want him to know that I’m checking him out, and I want Darius to know too. Our eyes lock for a long minute, and it’s as if everything around us—that band, those voices, that warm summer breeze, sirens, and honking cars in the distance—all come to a full stop.

“Zuri was just leaving,” Darius says, rudely. But Warren and I keep staring at each other.

This isn’t the love at first sight Madrina likes to talk about, but it’s a you-look-so-damn-good-that-my-eyes-are-eating-your-face thing we’ve got going.

Warren steps closer to me while pulling out his phone from his back pocket. “I wanna call you,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind getting to know one of the Benitez sisters too, right, Ains?” He throws a head nod over at Ainsley.

“How you know our name?” I ask.

“I’m from around here, and every dude from Cypress Hills to the Marcy Projects knows about the Benitez sisters with the fat asses.”

“Excuse you?” I quickly say. “Don’t be talking about our asses!”

“Oh! Pardon me, but you know how brothas get down. And none of y’all were checking for dudes from Hope Gardens.”

Now both Janae and I are thoroughly confused. “You’re from the projects?” I ask with a screw face.

“You don’t have to say it like that, though.”

“Hold up. I just mentioned Hope Gardens to this dude over here,” I say, pointing at Darius with my chin. “And he didn’t say anything about knowing anybody from Bushwick, especially the projects.”

Warren laughs. “Darius and I go to the same school, and we’re two out of nine black guys in our whole grade. That’s about it.”

“What school is that?” I ask.

“The Easton School in Manhattan,” Janae answers for me, with her eyebrows raised as if this is something impressive. I’ve never heard of it.

“I got into one of those programs that takes smart kids from the hood and puts them into private schools,” Warren says, rubbing his chin. He says this as if it’s something impressive.

“Private school?” I say. I can’t hide the smile on my face, because I am definitely impressed with this boy. He smiles too. Warren’s smile is golden. Warren is smooth and easy. Warren is Bushwick.

My phone number just rolls out of my mouth. I don’t blink, I don’t think about it, I simply throw each number at him as if they’re dollar bills and he’s a male stripper at a club like in those music videos the twins like to watch.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Janae trying to hold in a laugh. Behind her is Darius and his tight jaw. I want him to see what’s going down; I want him to see how it’s done. This is swag. This is how you step to a girl from Bushwick—a Bushwick native.

“Zuri, weren’t you just leaving?” Darius asks.

“Nah, I’ll stick around,” I say. “Actually, Warren, do you want to get closer to the stage?”

“Let’s do it,” he says, and knocks my shoulder with his.

“Shoot your shot, sis!” Janae says, smiling at me.

Warren stands next to me the whole time Bushwick Riot plays. All around us are the white people doing their strange dances to this punk music, the Whole Foods bags, the colorful blankets, and the kids from around the way who try to carry on as if nothing is changing. But like Madrina said, everything is changing. Old and new are mixing together like oil and water, and I’m stuck here in the middle of it all.





Eight


Boys in the Hood

Ball don’t lie, how it bounces off concrete

With swag, sway, and dip

The way the girls on the sidelines flip

As you run, jump, shuffle your feet

Your dance moves, like sugar so sweet

From here to the moon, boy, take me on this trip If I snatch this ball from you, will you kiss me on the lip Your wink, your smile, your touch like a treat You hold this ball in your hand like it’s your world You run this block, this hood, my heart

And if I wanna be your girl I’ll steal this ball from you, bounce and spin in a whirl It’s been in my court from the start

I run this whole game, make you fall deep, make your head swirl “Why can’t you just rap like everybody else?” Charlise says while balancing my small laptop in her wide hand as she reads my poem. “You got some skills, Z, but if you rapped, you would’ve been had your mixtape by now. And you know Marisol would’ve been selling them on every corner from here to Washington Heights.”

We’re on a bench near the gate at the basketball courts in the P.S. 151 school yard. Two groups of guys are playing, and Charlise is waiting for a hoop to free up so we can shoot some ball. The school yard has been more packed than usual with guys from around the way. Word on the street is that cops were starting to mess with people over at Maria Hernandez Park. So guys stopped going over there and started coming out here to get some peace. That’s something the Darcy boys wouldn’t know anything about.