A NARROW DOOR at the end of the hallway opens up to a ladder that leads to the roof. This is our happy place, way above it all. It’s also our secret place, because Papi forbids us to go up there for obvious reasons: we might fall to our deaths. So even though he padlocked that door a few years ago, we managed to find a way to unlock it and escape out onto the clouds.
If Madrina’s basement is where the tamboras, los espíritus, and old ancestral memories live, then the roof is where wind chimes, dreams, and possibilities float with the stars, where Janae and I share our secrets and plan to travel all over the world, Haiti and the Dominican Republic being our first stop.
Janae always has a pin in her hair, and it only takes her a second to crack open the lock. We climb the ladder, open the door, and step out into the warm early evening air.
Late June in Brooklyn is like the very beginning of a party—when the music is really good, but you know that it’s about to get way better, so you just do a little two-step before the real turn-up starts. It’s still light outside at eight o’clock in the evening, and from up here on the roof, we can watch the comings and goings of everybody on Bushwick and Jefferson Avenues.
And just like from our bedroom window, we can’t avoid the fancy mini-mansion across the street. All my life, I’ve stared at a gaping hole in the roof, the boarded-up windows, the slow, creeping forest that was starting to suffocate that house. Once, my sisters and I took bets that a tree would grow right in the middle of the floor and it would keep growing and take the house with it. And then we could claim it as our very own tree house—our home in the sky.
But no. It’s a mini-mansion now. The gaping hole is fixed, the forest around it has been cut down into a perfect patch of too-green-for-the-hood lawn, and the new windows are so tall and wide that we can see right into the top and bottom floors of the house, with its shiny hardwood floors, white walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, art that looks like it was made by a kindergartener, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a doctor’s office.
For weeks, there were so many people coming in and out of that house painting, moving furniture, and decorating that we thought it was going to be a museum or, as Janae suggested when I texted her a picture, a bed-and-breakfast.
“I can’t believe they had other people decorate their house,” I say while stepping closer to the edge of the roof. “Like, they have enough money to pay someone else’s salary for something they could’ve done themselves.”
Janae gently pulls me away from the edge. “I’m just wondering why they’d want to move here. I mean, they could’ve done that upstate or something. When I take the bus up to school, you should see all these big houses on top of hills, Z.”
“Really? Did you meet any friends who live in those houses? Were they . . . black?” I ask sarcastically.
“You do know there are black people who have money out there in the world, Z, right?”
“Of course there are. But why come into the hood? I thought everybody was trying to kick us out.”
Janae stands beside me. Our shoulders touch, so I put my arm around her and pull her in. She puts her arm around my waist and leans her head on my shoulder. “Maybe we can ask them,” she says, almost whispering.
“Ask who?”
“Ainsley and Darius. They look good, Z.”
“I don’t think so, Nae,” I say. “They live too close. It’ll be awkward.”
Just as I say this, we spot Ainsley in one of the windows. He’s running his fingers through his thick fro, which, even I have to admit, makes him look really, really good. Janae and I glance at each other, and she smirks. Ainsley doesn’t look up. But we step back so he can’t see us, anyway.
There’s a wide blue tarp hidden beneath an old wooden slat on the roof. Janae and I pull it out and lay it across the sun-warmed tar, away from the edge of the building where only two feet of brick and concrete keep us from open sky. I sit cross-legged on the tarp while Janae pulls her knees up to her chest.
“How come rich people don’t like curtains?” I ask no one in particular.
“They’re showing off,” Janae says, lifting her head from my shoulder.
“You think they’re that rich?”
“No. They probably got a good deal on that house.”
“They definitely got a good deal on that house. So they’re just hood rich.”
“They’re more than just hood rich, Z. But anyway, Ainsley was nice,” Janae says as she spreads her legs out in front of her.
“Janae . . . ,” I warn. “Sistas before mistas!” I ease closer to her and put my head on her shoulder now. After a long minute of taking in the warm air and sounds on our block, I ask, “Does it feel good to finally be home?”
“Yeah, but I can’t wait to go back,” she says.
I pull my head up from off her shoulder and stare at her. “What? You just got here.”
“I know, but Z, I need the space. I need the wide-open space to stretch out my arms. I need the quiet to hear myself think.”
“Oh no, Janae! Mama was right. One year at college, and you decide you don’t wanna be in the hood no more?”
She pauses and takes in the dead-serious look on my face before responding in her sweet, calm voice. “Honestly, I don’t. I’m applying for some study-abroad programs. I wanna travel, Z. I wanna see the world. Then I can come back.”
I never knew that’s what she wanted. I can hardly imagine it—my sister on the other side of the world? What if she decides to never come back? “Aw, come on, Nae. You’ve been outta the state. Let’s see,” I say, counting on my fingers. “That time with Mama when we went to the mall in New Jersey, the water park in Pennsylvania . . .” I keep two fingers up, thinking of anywhere else we’ve been and if they count as a whole other state.
“Don’t think too hard, Z, ’cause that’s it. We’ve been to a mall and a water park out of state. That doesn’t count for anything.”
“Dang,” I say, and let my shoulders drop because she’s right. Only once have Mama and Papi taken a bus up to Syracuse for a weekend. It would’ve cost too much for my sisters and me to go, so we stayed behind, and they sent us videos and pictures of the bus ride through woods and small towns and places nothing like Bushwick or Brooklyn. “Read to travel,” Papi always says. Every book is a different hood, a different country, a different world. Reading is how I visit places and people and ideas. And when something rings true or if I still have a question, I outline it with a bright yellow highlighter so that it’s lit up in my mind, like a lightbulb or a torch leading the way to somewhere new. It’s usually enough to make me forget I’ve barely left Bushwick.
“Okay, Z,” she says. “Enough with the pity party. Senior year’s coming up. What’s the master plan? ’Cause you gotta get out of that apartment.”
“Gotta get out of that apartment,” I repeat. “Wow. I can’t believe by this time next year, I’ll be leaving for college. Marisol and the twins are gonna lose their minds ’cause there’ll be two less bodies up in that house!”
“That’s what I said about you before I left.”
“But I didn’t lose my mind. I missed you, Nae-nae.”
“No, no, no. You’re not allowed to miss me. You gotta get your mind right from now, Z. Study for your next SATs, get your college list ready, financial-aid packages, scholarships . . .”
“I know, I know,” I say.
“Seriously, Z. If you don’t do these things, you won’t ever get outta there. Home will always be here, and Bushwick will always be Bushwick.”
“Will it, though?”
She’s quiet for a moment and looks out over the other houses and buildings. “Okay, well, what if you come back home and get started on your career, and then you could actually buy something in Bushwick and afford Hernando’s bodega prices no matter how many ‘organic’ signs he puts up.”
I laugh, and then remember what I’m supposed to be working on this summer. “You think this will make a good topic for my essay to get into Howard?” I ask. “How to save the hood?”
“It depends on how you frame it. What’s your angle, your thesis statement? What are you trying to say?”
I pause for a moment, thinking about my hood and how even though families grew up and changed, things essentially stayed the same, until now.
I uncross my legs, and at the same moment, the door to the mini-mansion opens and out come the Darcys. Each of them has changed into something different. The mother is now wearing a flowery sundress and the father is in a pink button-down with khaki slacks. Ainsley is dressed in a crisp T-shirt and jeans. Darius is dressed exactly like his father.
“Hi, Darius! Hi, Ainsley!” We hear someone yell out from below. It’s Layla, of course, yelling out the window.
The two boys look up. Only Ainsley smiles and waves back. Then he looks up even farther and sees Janae. She freezes, and I can tell that she doesn’t know whether to wave or scoot back so he doesn’t see her. Then she relaxes and stares until Ainsley disappears into the back seat of the SUV, along with Darius, who never once even looked up.
The Darcys drive away and turn down Bushwick Avenue. I wonder where they’re going. They just walked into that fancy house—why would they leave it so soon, even if it’s for a few minutes? I wonder if they’ve been out of the state, out of the country. I wonder about all the places and things and new experiences their money has been able to buy them.
So I start to ask Janae, thinking that she might have the answers, but her eyes are fixed on the setting sun, and I’m sure her dreams are floating with the clouds.
I can see the dim moon in the distance, the orange-blue sky, and can hear the bustling sounds of Bushwick as they wrap around us, and this roof becomes like a cupped hand holding the two of us up.
“Z?” Janae says without looking at me.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I have a chance?”
“With who?” I ask.
“Ainsley,” she says, her voice soft.
“Shit” is all I say.