Pride(2)

I rush to follow my sisters, but Mama steps out of the kitchen and stops me in my tracks by holding a wooden spoon out in front of me.

“Ey, no you don’t,” she says with a hand on her hip. Then she turns toward the door. “Kayla and Layla! Get back in here!”

The twins stomp back into the living room.

“But Mama,” Marisol says. “The new neighbors are here! And they’re black!”

Mama brings down the wooden spoon and raises her eyebrows. Her hair is tucked beneath a colorful satin scarf, and her wide gold hoop earrings almost touch her shoulders. She’s rocking her signature Brooklyn loves Haiti T-shirt and pink velour sweatpants, even though it’ll be hot as hell in that kitchen. A smidgen of bright red lipstick only covers her bottom lip, and the blush on her deep-brown cheeks shows she’s making an effort for Papi. I know exactly what she’s about to say, so I count down in my head. Five, four, three . . .

“Zuri, you should’ve been at the Laundromat by now. All the dryers’ll be full. Marisol, you sorted the darks already? Layla and Kayla, strip your beds and strip ours too, if your father is up. Zuri, sweep the front stoop and the staircase when you get back. I want it all perfect for Janae,” Mama says, in almost one breath. Then she walks right past us and into our bedroom to look out the window.

When Mama kept having baby girls back-to-back, our parents decided to turn the big living room into a bedroom for all five of us. Mama and Papi sleep in the bedroom in the back, near the kitchen and bathroom, and what was supposed to be a dining room is where we all gather on the couch to eat and watch TV.

In less than a minute, Mama returns from our bedroom wearing a big, bright smile. “On second thought, I think y’all should go say hi to our new neighbors! And sweep the front stoop while you’re at it.”

I let my sisters rush out ahead of me just as Papi shuffles out of the back bedroom.

“Janae’s home?” he asks while scratching his pot belly. His thick, curly fro is smashed on one side and one eye is bloodshot. He didn’t get enough sleep. He’s been working nights at the hospital cafeteria again.

Mama shakes her head. “No, but you can go introduce yourself to those nice folks across the street.”

He waves his hand. “I already did. They came to check out the house last week.”

“Papi! Why didn’t you tell us?” I say.

“What’s to tell?” He plops down in his usual spot on the recliner chair and grabs an old Howard Zinn book that he’s read a hundred times. Papi reads as if the world is running out of books. Sometimes he’s more interested in stories and history than people.

“Zuri! You coming?” Kayla yells from downstairs. The whole block is used to our loud mouths by now, but I wonder what the new neighbors will think when we yell each other’s names out from windows, down the block, and even from the corner bodega.

Outside, Marisol and Layla are already across the street, talking with the two boys. Their parents must have gone inside. Kayla grabs my arm, and before I know it, I’m headed across the street too. My little sister is holding my hand like I’m some kid, but by the time we step onto the curb, I pull away from her and cross my arms.

Both of the boys look to be about my age, seventeen or so. They have smooth brown faces that look unreal—the forehead, eyebrows, and cheekbones of models. One of them is a little taller and slimmer than the other, but they definitely look alike. They have to be brothers. The shorter one has a head full of thick hair, and even though he’s shorter than his brother, he still towers over my sisters and me. The tall, slim one has a close-cropped fade and a hard jawline that moves from side to side as if he’s gnashing his teeth. I try hard not to stare, but it doesn’t really matter—my sisters are already holding it down in the thirst department.

“And this is ZZ. Aka Zuri Luz Benitez.” Layla pronounces my whole name while pointing at me.

“Hi, it’s just Zuri,” I say, holding out my hand to the taller boy with the fade. “My friends call me ZZ.”

“Darius.” He takes my hand but only grabs the tips of my fingers and shakes them softly. I quickly pull away, but he keeps staring down at me out from under his thick eyelashes.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” this boy named Darius says as he rubs his chin and fidgets with his collar. He’s still looking at me.

So I roll my eyes at him. But I can still feel him staring even as I turn my whole body away from him and face his brother.

“I’m Ainsley,” the other boy says, giving me a firm shake. “We, uh, just moved in. Obviously!”

“Nice to meet you,” I reply, using the good manners that Mama has drilled into us.

“Totally! I can’t wait to explore Bushwick. Your sister has been telling us all about it,” Ainsley says. He’s smiling way too hard. It’s the kind of smile that’ll get him punched in the face if he bumps into the wrong guys from around the way. But still, he’s nice, like a happy puppy in a handmade sweater that the white people in our hood like to walk around, while Darius seems more like a cranky bodega cat. “And please ignore my baby brother, he’s just grumpy that we had to leave Manhattan.”

“Dude, hey, I am not grumpy. It’s just an . . . adjustment,” Darius says, crossing his arms.

“What a hard adjustment for you,” I say, my curiosity about these boys turning off like a switch. I don’t appreciate anyone throwing shade at my neighborhood, especially from people who say words like “totally” and “dude.” I give Darius my mean Bushwick mug, but it doesn’t seem to register. He just stands there with his upper lip curled as if he’s smelling his own stank attitude.