Pride by Ibi Zoboi

Author:Ibi Zoboi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-07-11T16:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

“HI, I’M SONIA,” a girl says as she reaches for my hand to shake. We walk up the auditorium stairs and into the hallway. I see that she’s about my height and my age. “Thank you for that question. Just about everybody up in here is trying to get a scholarship.”

“Really? Oh,” I say. “I’m Zuri, by the way.”

We head out into the yard.

“Yes, really. You know how many people get in and can’t pay? Some can’t even finish,” Sonia says.

“I hope that doesn’t happen to me,” I say. Fear settles in my belly like one of Mama’s heavy meals.

“Well, you just gotta play your cards right. Get them grades up, and extracurricular activities are your ticket. Where you from, anyway?”

When she says this, I immediately think of my poems. I hope that’s something that’ll set me apart. I’m willing to use any skills I have to get into the school of my dreams. “Bushwick,” I say. I rep hard for my hood wherever I go.

Sonia scrunches up her face.

“It’s in Brooklyn,” I add.

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say Brooklyn?”

“’Cause Brooklyn is not Bushwick” is all I say.

“Oh, that’s really cool. If you’re from Brooklyn, then you probably liked Professor Bello’s lecture.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I thought people from Brooklyn are extra woke or whatever. And besides, Professor Bello is from Brooklyn, or that’s what I read in her bio. Bed-Stuy do or die, or something like that.”

“Really?” I feel my whole soul light up when she says this.

“Yeah, really. You should really try to get to know her. She runs an open mic at Busboys and Poets.”

We were walking toward the exit of the campus, but I stop dead in my tracks. “What did you just say?”

“An open mic at Busboys and Poets . . . it’s a bookstore that’s really close to here, if you want to check it out.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask. The Brooklyn in me is not ready to trust this girl all the way.

“I’m from D.C., so I know all about Howard.”

“Thanks, Sonia,” I say with a genuine smile. If she’s from around here, then she must be keeping it real with me.

“Nice meeting you, Zuri,” she says. “Maybe I’ll see you back here for freshman orientation.”

I smile. “I hope so.”

We wave goodbye to each other, and suddenly, a giant bubble of hope begins to well up inside me. I might just have a chance at this school.

“Busboys and Poets,” I say out loud, and start to make my way off campus. I have just enough time to head over there before I need to catch my bus back to New York.

I walk out onto Georgia Avenue and take in the scenery: the shinier-than-usual cars, the well-dressed people, the wide, clean buildings. This part of D.C. is kind of like Brooklyn, but not Bushwick or Bed-Stuy, where everything looks old, used, and tired. Here, it looks as if people care—as if they’re always expecting company, so everything has to look presentable for strangers.

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