Pride(19)

In the living room, Mama and Papi are laid out on the couch watching TV. Mama has her feet across Papi’s lap, and he’s giving her a foot massage while she talks back to the characters on her favorite show. Without even looking in my direction, Mama calls out, “Ten o’clock! Text or call if you’re gonna be late!”

I give them each a kiss on the cheek, and in that moment, I feel like I can fly around the world and back if I want to, because this is what will always be here waiting for me: my parents’ love; my loud sisters; my crowded and cluttered apartment; and the lingering scent of home-cooked meals.

And someone different and new, but who still feels like home, is waiting for me outside—a boy from my hood. Bushwick Warren.

I told him to meet me on the corner of Jefferson and Broadway, and he immediately knew that I was trying to keep this little hookup a secret from my sisters—and my parents. He knows where I live and could ring the buzzer if he wanted to. But he’s there at the corner waiting with a bright smile.

“You look good,” Warren says as he stares at my braids and giant gold earrings. “You’re ZZ, all right.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask with a big smile on my face, because he looks extra good with a new pair of fresh sneakers, a crisp tee, and jeans fitted just right.

“I like your style, that’s all,” he says, extending his arm out to me.

“It’s not for you, trust me,” I say, taking his arm even though I really don’t have to, but it’s just there and it’s smooth and strong.

“Why can’t you take a compliment?”

“’Cause this is not a date.” I don’t move away or tense up, because even though I don’t know him like that, Warren feels like all the other guys from my high school or around the way. I never really had a boyfriend, just guys I messed around with—holding hands while walking down the hall at school, play fighting in the park, a one-on-one game of basketball where he smacks my booty and I smack his face for stepping out of line. We’d go out with a group of friends, and if we were ever left alone, it still wouldn’t be a date.

“What is this, then?” Warren asks.

A cab is waiting at the curb, and he opens the door for me. “We’re just chillin’,” I say as I slide into the back seat.

I pretend that this is no big deal, that guys always pick me up in a cab and open the door for me all the time. “I don’t chill,” Warren says as he slides in next to me. “I don’t really have time to chill. So as far as I’m concerned, this is a date.” Then he says to the driver, “Downtown. Court and Montague.”

“Downtown?” I ask. “You got that kinda cash?”

He only side-eyes me and I wish I could take it back, but this is Bushwick Warren and no matter how fancy his school is, he’s still from HG Projects. So I push further. “Warren? Why don’t we just take the bus?”

“Because this is a date,” he says, licking his lips.

I laugh. “This is not a date. And look, I don’t know who you’ve been dealing with over there at the school in Manhattan, but like you said, I’m ZZ and you don’t have to impress me with no fifty-dollar cab ride.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to.”

“I’d rather you spend that money on food, or a good movie.”

“We can do that too.”

I just stare at the side of his face as he looks out through the windshield, still smiling. “Are you slingin’ dope, Warren?”

“What?” His voice cracks, and he turns to me wide-eyed and with his mouth open. “I already gotta deal with this in school, and now that I’m finally getting with one of the Benitez sisters, I have to answer this question with you too.”

“I gotta ask. Come on, Warren. You know ain’t no dude from Bushwick will spend their money on a long-ass cab ride just to impress some girl. So you’re gonna drop like two hundred dollars on this not-date?”

“Number one: you’re not just some girl. Number two: I’m not just some dude from Bushwick. I thought I made that crystal clear. And number three: I work for my bank. You think I’m gonna go to some expensive-ass school and not take advantage of every single opportunity that comes my way? I work at my school’s summer camp, I help coach the middle-school wrestling team, and I tutor on the side.”

I don’t care if he sees me raise my eyebrows and look at him differently now. Sure, I was sold on the whole private-school thing, but now that I know that he works hard for his money, I don’t mind this cab ride at all. “I’m not trying to get into your pockets, though,” I say, just so we’re on the same page.

“I know. Like I said, you’re not just some girl from around the way. Trust me, I can spot a gold digger from afar. But once they find out that I get my money from wrestling and tutoring, they usually kick me to the curb.” He eases his hand toward my thigh and rubs his knuckles against my jeans.

I laugh and slap his hand away. “No they don’t. Girls from around here . . . as long as you look good and can take them to Red Lobster . . .”

“I hope you’re not expecting Red Lobster from me.”

“I wouldn’t mind . . . a MetroCard for the subway, a good movie, some cheddar biscuits, and I’m good.”