The Year I Flew Away

by Marie Arnold

  The next day, I wake up with a feeling in my bones, just like Madame Tita. But this isn’t a feeling about the weather. It’s a feeling of change. Something huge is about to happen.

  After my parents tell me the news, I realize I was wrong. It wasn’t a huge change, it was a gigantic change—we are heading to America!

  America is heaven. I’ve never been there before, but all of us kids have heard the rumors. We know that in America, everyone gets electricity, twenty-four hours a day. Also, there are jobs in America, and not just selling stuff in the markets. I heard the country has so much money that the streets are paved with gold coins! That’s right, free money on the street. And no one picks it up because they all have enough money and don’t need more.

  Also, the best part about America—free school!

  Parents don’t have to pay for their kids to go to school. That means I won’t have to stay home if my parents don’t have enough money to send me to class. It means that I can go to school full-time!

  And food is everywhere. I heard of this thing where you go to a restaurant, and the staff just keeps bringing you more and more food. They never stop! It’s called a “buffet.” Can you believe it? The food never ever stops!

  When anyone gets a chance to go to America, the village celebrates, because whoever goes to America sends back money to help the villagers they left behind. So if one family goes, it helps the other twelve families back home. I am so excited, Stephanie and I jump up and run around the village, and it isn’t even raining. But then we get some not-so-good news: my parents could not get the papers they needed, and so I will have to move to America alone!

  “It’s okay, Ba-Ba,” my mom says. “You will stay with Uncle John and his family. And we will come as soon as we can.”

  “But I don’t want to go without you,” I say.

  My dad picks me up and places me on his lap. “Ba-Ba, you will have to be brave. Many families do not travel together when they first go to America. You will need to be strong because it’s what the family needs from you. You can do this. We know you can,” he says as he kisses my fore-head.

  “Daddy, I don’t know Uncle John very much. What if he doesn’t like me? What if my aunt doesn’t like me? Or their kids don’t like me? What if—”

  My mom takes my hand in hers and says, “Ba-Ba, no matter what, you have to promise us this—you will not give them any trouble. You cannot misbehave and get sent back here. It would break our hearts. Do you understand?”

  I know what she means. Every once in a while, a kid goes to America and gets sent back to Haiti for misbehaving. They call those kids timoun pa bon. That means “no-good kid.” No one wants to be sent back, because when you get sent back, the village people are cold and mean to you because you wasted a chance many of them will never get.

  “Promise us. Promise that you will not be sent back for bad behavior,” Dad says as he looks earnestly into my eyes.

  “Yes, I promise. I will behave, and I won’t get sent back.”

  When I think about going to America without my parents, my stomach feels like it’s slipped down to my toes and my heart is running away from my body. But I will be strong for my family. And in the end, I’m happy I made the promise to behave myself. It will be an easy promise to keep; after all, I’m going to heaven. How hard can it be to be happy in heaven?

  Chapter Two

  Lady Lydia

  WHEN THE VILLAGE FOUND OUT that I was going to America, everyone worked together to make sure I was “respectable” looking. I wasn’t sure what that really meant. But from what I can tell, being respectable means cutting my playtime in half. For the next few days, I was shuttled from one appointment to the next. It was awful.

  I had to go see Mrs. Farah, the seamstress, so she could measure me for a new dress. Then I had to go to the street market to find shoes, which took a long time because my mom and the shoe salesman couldn’t agree on a price. I told him that he should just lower his price because my mom was really good at haggling, but he didn’t listen. And in the end, Mom paid exactly what she wanted to pay and not a penny more. I guess that’s her gift.

  I spend most of the day with my mom, getting things ready for my trip. I thought I would get to play later, but it’s later and I’m standing on Mrs. Farah’s porch getting poked by her sewing needles as she measures me again. I can hear the other kids playing now that their chores are done. I want to be out there with them, but I guess I can’t.

  “Stay here. I need more safety pins,” Mrs. Farah says as she disappears into the house.

  “Why are you wearing that face?” my dad asks as he comes up the steps and onto the porch. I shrug and look away. “I see—no time to hang out with your friends, huh?”

  “No . . .” I grumble.

  He peeks inside and then whispers in my ear, “Well, you’ve been a really good girl. I think the measuring can wait for a few hours.”

  “Really, Dad?”

  “Go ahead. Don’t tell your mom,” he says.

  “Yes!” I shout as I leap up and hug him.

  We hear Mrs. Farah’s footsteps coming toward us. “Go!” Dad whispers. I take off as fast as I can and join my friends.

  Later that night, Stephanie gives me a gift—her favorite seashell. It’s pink with gold edges and can fit inside the palm of my hand.

  “Are you sure you want to give this away, Stephanie?”

  “Yes, that’s what best friends do. I want you to have it.”

  “Thank you.” I smile.

  She starts to cry. “What’s wrong?” I ask her.

  “You’re going to forget me. Everyone that goes to America forgets friends back home.”

  “That’s not true. People from our village who go to America always send back money and gifts.”

  “Yeah, but they can’t send back time. You and I won’t have time together anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s true. How about this: You take my bracelet, the one my mom got me at the market. When you hold it, it’s like you’re spending time with me. And I will hold your seashell and spend time with you. So we won’t ever really be without each other,” I tell her as I take off my beaded bracelet and hand it to her. She takes it from me, and we hug for the last time.

  When I get home, my mom makes a small hole in the shell and puts it on a chain for me. Then I start getting ready for bed, and she begins to hum. It’s her favorite song—a Haitian song about love and family.

  She always hums it, and she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. I tell her that it makes me sad that I won’t hear her hum her song. She promises to call me and sing it if I get lonely. It’s not the same, but I nod and say, “Okay.” After all, I promised to be brave.

  * * *

  Saying goodbye to Stephanie and all my friends and family was hard—but I didn’t cry. Well, I did, but I wiped the tears away quickly before they ran down my face, so that doesn’t count. Before my dad let me go, he hugged me extra, extra tight. And Mom cried. I made her promise not to cry while I was away, and Dad said he’d make sure she laughed more than she cried. And just before I got on the plane, my mom whispered to me, “You are never alone. You carry our love with you. Always.”

  When I step onto the plane, all I want to do is run up and down the aisles. I’ve pictured what the inside of a plane would look like, but this is even better. It has more room than I thought. A lady in uniform shows me to my seat.

  I ask her questions—a lot of them. She speaks Haitian Creole, so she understands me and answers. She also gives me extra peanuts and soda. Best trip ever.

  It takes a long time to reach America, so long that I actually fall asleep. When I wake up, we are about to land. I look out the window at all the lights below. Hello, America, I’m here!

  I step out of the plane and into the airport. It’s a giant, endless room with bright lights and colorful plastic chairs. I’ve never seen this many people gathered in one place. They walk by me with their passports and luggage. They move quickly and don’t e
ven stop to look at all the wonders around them.

  I don’t understand how they could keep walking and not touch everything. I want to touch as many things as I can: the staircases that move all by themselves, the large American flag that’s as big as a house, and the shops with candy and magazines.

  I’m surrounded by the best smells: coffee from the shop on my left and sweet perfume from the shop on my right.

  And all around me, people are speaking different languages. I know they are real languages, but they sound funny and made-up. I’d like to walk over and say hello, but my heart starts to beat really fast, and my stomach starts to do somersaults.

  What if I’m waiting at the wrong spot? What if Uncle John forgets to pick me up and I have to stay here? I won’t be able to tell anyone who I am or where I’m from because my English isn’t very good.

  Just when I think I’m going to stay here forever, I hear someone call out my name.

  “Gabrielle!”

  I turn my head and see Uncle John in the crowd waiting for me. Uncle John looks like he’s gained three hundred pounds! How’d he get so big?

  “Uncle John?” I ask.

  He laughs and hugs me. “I know, Gabrielle, I’m a plump apple.”

  Actually, he looks more like a watermelon. But I think that might be rude to say, so I stay quiet.

  “It’s the weather. New York City gets really cold in February. We have to dress in many layers to stay warm,” he explains as he takes my suitcase. He tells me to follow him. We walk toward the double glass doors, and they slide open.

  How do they know when it’s time to part and when it’s time to close?

  I want to ask my uncle, but there’s no time for that, because as soon as the doors slide open, an icy gust of wind picks me up and blows me off my feet.

  “Gabrielle, hold on!” Uncle John says.

  I reach for the door. I’m hanging off the side. My teeth are cubes of ice. My lips are frozen in a smile, and my eyeballs are about to glaze over with frost. My fingers slip, and I am forced to let go of the only thing that’s keeping me in America.

  Oh no!

  Thankfully, my uncle grabs me just as I’m about to get blown back to Haiti. He holds me in place until the sliding doors close again.

  He laughs at me and says, “Welcome to America, Gabrielle!”

  When we finally get into my uncle’s car, my teeth are still chattering. And I feel pain in places I’ve never felt pain before.

  “Your ears are red, and so is your nose. We are going to have to get you a big, warm coat, or you won’t last this winter,” he says.

  “Th-th-thank you,” I reply, unable to feel my lips.

  Uncle John fiddles around with some of the buttons in his car, and suddenly a stream of warm air fills the car. I start to defrost. Thank goodness.

  “I’ve never been this cold—ever!” I tell him.

  “You’ll get used to it. Don’t worry,” Uncle John promises.

  I remind myself that it doesn’t matter how cold it gets—I am going to stay and behave. I can’t believe I made it here. I’m actually in America! I look out the window in amazement. There are streetlights turned on everywhere. I’ve never seen streets with so many lights before. There isn’t one patch of darkness anywhere. The city is alive!

  As my uncle drives, I see things I never thought I’d see in real life: paved roads that run smooth and don’t have a ditch in the middle. There are shiny, fancy cars on either side of me, and all around me are impossibly tall buildings. It looks like a kingdom of glass and light. I don’t see any coins on the ground—maybe everyone got to them first. That’s okay; this is heaven, and I am happy to be here.

  When we get out of the car, I brace myself for the cold. Now that I know what it’s like, I can handle it better. My uncle opens the car doors, and once again the frozen breath of America shouts into my face.

  I was wrong; I’m not better at handling the cold. My face feels like someone is pricking it with a needle. I’m so cold that my bones are frozen over. If someone pushed me down right now, I would crack in a hundred pieces. Uncle John shields me from the wind as much as he can as he walks us over to the entrance of a faded tan building that stretches halfway down the block. It looks like it could touch the sky. We enter the large hallway, and I feel like I’m standing in a palace.

  “How many people live here?” I ask. My voice echoes back to me.

  “Many, many families.”

  “What’s this place called?”

  “This place doesn’t have a name, only a street number. But this area is called Brooklyn,” he says.

  “Wow, that sounds magical.”

  He laughs. “It’s an interesting place, all right. Come, let’s go inside.”

  We walk up a flight of stairs and enter Uncle John’s apartment. It’s smaller than I thought it would be but it’s still pretty nice.

  “Everyone, come and meet Gabrielle,” Uncle announces.

  Aunt Carole is the first to greet me. I have never met her before; I’ve only seen pictures of her. She is tall and chunky, with a nice smile. She has big glasses that take up most of her face. Her skin is the color of my palm.

  “Hello,” I say with a smile.

  “Hello, young lady. We are happy to have you,” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  “There is only one rule here: don’t get into trouble. Is that clear?” Aunt Carole says.

  “Ah, yes. Okay,” I reply. I’m not really sure what kind of trouble she’s talking about, but I agree, because whatever trouble comes my way, I will avoid it. That’s part of the vow I made to Mom and Dad.

  I hear the sound of tiny feet stomping toward us. It’s my twin cousins, James and Jack. They are two years old, and they look exactly alike. They enter the room holding a big red ball that’s way too big for them.

  “Play!” one of them says to me.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know which is which,” I admit.

  “The one with the birthmark on his forehead is James. And the one without is Jack,” Uncle John says.

  “Hi, James!” I call out.

  “Play!” he replies. His brother joins in.

  “Sorry, boys. It’s too late for playtime. And Gabrielle needs to unpack,” Uncle John says.

  “I’ll play with you later, okay?” I tell them. Their eyes light up, and they run over to their mother.

  “Kayla, come say hello to your cousin,” my aunt calls out.

  Kayla enters the room. She has on jeans and a sweater with someone’s face on it. I can’t make out who it is, but I think I saw the same picture in one of the shops in the airport. She’s wearing makeup and has really big hair.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Um . . . hello,” I reply.

  I start to talk and she quickly stops me. “Just stay out of my way, and I will stay out of yours.” And then she heads back down the hallway.

  “She’s really nice—but she’s also a teenager,” Uncle John says.

  “Come, I will show you where you will be sleeping,” Aunt Carole says as she takes my hand. My room is more like a closet. But it does have a window seat, and I think that’s just the best thing ever. I have a perfect view of all the people coming and going in the building.

  I unpack my stuff and look around the room. Everything in here feels new. And everything outside my window feels extra new.

  I sit down on the bed and feel a pain in my heart. I think it’s because even though I like the new stuff, I miss the old stuff. I miss the sounds I used to hear outside my window, like traveling merchants calling out to the villagers to let us know what they were selling that day.

  My favorite traveling merchant sold fruit. He’d call out to us in a voice so deep and wide that it reminded me of the ocean. We’d hear him and race to the front of the village to buy Spanish limes, pineapples, and bananas. But now I’m in America and the ocean doesn’t talk. The new sound coming from my window is the sound of car horns. And that reminds me of . . . car h
orns.

  In Haiti when I open my window at night, I smell a warm breeze and flowers. Maybe this new place will have the same kind of flowers. I turn toward the window and open it—just a little. I take a deep breath and inhale a new scent. I don’t smell flowers or warmth. I smell cold. I start to cough and quickly close the window.

  I open the door to my room and walk down the short hallway. I need to find something that feels like the old stuff I’m used to. Then I will feel better and maybe I won’t miss home so much. I go into the kitchen, hoping to find something familiar.

  On the shelves in the kitchen I see food in boxes—a lot of boxes. I see a box with a picture of rice on it. They have rice in a box! I look around some more, and it looks like everything in America comes in a box. I like that. But it still doesn’t help me. I need to find something old, something that I’m used to seeing back home.

  I’m just about to give up when something on the shelves catches my eye—it’s something that every Haitian has in their home. It’s something every kid I know hates and all the moms love—lwil maskriti.

  I stand on the tips of my toes and get the bottle down from the shelf. The label says “castor oil.” I guess that’s what they call it in America. I open it and smell it. Yup, it’s exactly what my mom uses—I know because it smells awful. It smells like a sweaty sock swallowed bad cheese.

  In Haiti, if I had a cold, my mom would take out a bowl and fill it with castor oil. Then she’d pour alcohol on top, strike a match, and set it on fire. It was cool to see the small flames spread across the bowl, like fire dancing across a black, shiny pond. She does that to warm up the oil before she puts it on my chest. But once the flames died down, all the fun was over.

  My mom would go back and forth across my chest. It felt like I was the dough and my mom was the rolling pin. She’d put the oil all over my body. She’d even put it on my bare feet. When she was finally done, I felt like I was vibrating on the inside.

  But the next morning, when I woke up, I’d always feel better. So I guess that’s good, but that doesn’t mean I like castor oil. If there were one thing I wish I could shoot out into space, it would be castor oil. That was before, but right now, castor oil is my favorite thing; it’s the only thing that isn’t new.