Pride(26)

I’m dressed in a plain denim skirt, flowery top, and a pair of Janae’s sandals. I look like I’ve made the least effort for this party compared to my sisters, who are dressed like they’re heading to prom.

“I’m gonna need some company in case Ainsley’s busy with guests or something,” Janae had said. “Please, Zuri!” By coming here, I took one for the team, for the fam, for my dear sister.

I don’t smile when Mrs. Darcy greets us. Her eyes immediately drop down to our shoes. So I look down too, to see Mama wearing her leopard print platform stilettos that she bought for her fortieth birthday party at a small club in Bed-Stuy. My face gets hot with embarrassment because I knew that this wasn’t the kind of party for those kinds of heels.

Mr. Darcy shows up behind her, and it’s only then that she opens the door wider.

“Welcome, Benitez family!” Mrs. Darcy sings in her strange accent. It’s British, but not quite white people British. It’s kind of bootleg fancy, like a knockoff Louis Vuitton bag. This is the closest I’ve seen her, and she looks more like a big sister to Ainsley and Darius than their mother.

Mrs. Darcy’s face drops when Mama hands her the aluminum pans. Mama clears her throat. “A preview of my catering business!” she says too loudly. “The top one is pastelitos. I learned how to make them from my husband, Beni. Since I ain’t Dominican and all, I had to learn how to cook that food to keep my man!” She laughs, and her voice echoes throughout the room full of people.

“And the bottom pan has griot—Haitian fried pork. I’m Brooklyn-born and raised, but Haitian all the way. You see my daughters? Look at their figures! That comes from the good cultural foods we feed them. No skinny minnies in my house! You should have some griot,” my mother says, looking down at Mrs. Darcy’s fitted sundress. “Where your people from?” Mama talks a mile minute without even giving Mrs. Darcy a chance to say a word before she strolls into the living room with her heels click-clacking on the hardwood floors. Marisol and the twins follow right behind her.

“London. My people are from London. A neighborhood called Croydon,” Mrs. Darcy says to us, because Papi, Janae, and I are still standing there waiting to be invited in.

We just nod before Mr. Darcy shakes Papi’s hand and gently pulls him inside. In a second, both Janae and I are back in the Darcy house, and we can’t believe how different it looks and feels with soft music playing in the background, the hum of voices, and people. Different kinds of people. There’s a mix of black and not-black, white and not-white, and everything in between. Everyone looks really neat and polished. I look down at my own clothes. My skirt looks old, like it’s from a whole other decade. Then I remember that it’s actually Mama’s from when she was in high school. The stitching from my sandals is coming loose, my toes are crusty, and my knees are ashy. I want to run back home and change. Actually, I want to run back home and stay there.

But Janae and I both spot them at the same time, and my sister grabs my hand and squeezes it. Ainsley and Darius. Darius and Ainsley. Their faces. Their shoes. Their clothes.

No guy in the hood wears bow ties. And suspenders. And dress pants so skinny and fitted, we can actually tell how their legs are bowed: slightly curved around the knees, as if they’re Olympic runners. And they work out. It’s easy to tell that they work out.

Janae leaves me behind as Ainsley takes her hand and walks her to a far corner of the room to introduce her to an older, good-looking black couple.

Now I really don’t want to stay. I turn around to see that the front door is way too far, and I’d have to walk through the Darcy parents, as well as Mama and Papi, to get to it.

“Club soda or cranberry juice?” a person in all black asks.

I shake my head no.

But someone takes one of the clear, bubbly glasses and hands it to me. It’s Darius. We’re both silent as I grab the glass from him, our hands brushing. For a moment, I think he purposely touches my hand, because he smiles a little. I glance away, but when I look back our eyes meet. So I take a sip of the drink, then gulp down the whole thing out of pure nervousness.

“Slow down,” he says. “I know it’s not wine, but you can pretend.” He gives me a smirk as the twins come to stand next to us. Layla is holding a glass of deep red liquid.

“Z, why you so corny? You should have this instead of that,” Layla says, swirling the glass around while holding up her pinky. She takes a long sip and coughs. Kayla pats her back, giggling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Darius step aside to talk to someone else, and I’m both relieved and embarrassed.

“I thought y’all don’t like cranberry juice,” I say to the twins.

“It’s not cranberry juice,” Layla sings with a wide smile. “We’re bad and bougie up in this bitch!”

“Layla!” I whisper-yell through clenched teeth, and try to grab the glass from her.

But she snags it back, and some of it spills onto her dress. I turn slightly sideways to see that Darius has his eyes on us. I grab Layla’s arm to pull her away, but she keeps talking.

“I’m so glad Janae finally learned how to get a rich boyfriend. She better stay in his pockets so we can keep living this good life!” Layla says this loud enough for the people around to hear, possibly including Darius.

I pinch her arm so hard that she can’t even scream. She knows that I mean business. “If you don’t get your act together, I’m gonna tell Mama and Papi about all the times you cut school last year,” I whisper in her ear.