by Marie Arnold
“Yes, I have,” I promise. They tell me they love me and want me to have everything they never did. Then they speak to my uncle once more, just before saying good night.
“I won’t be any more trouble,” I promise my uncle as we make our way back to my room. I’m glad Rocky is there, and he whispers what I should reply in return. But I kind of wish he didn’t translate the last thing my uncle says to me . . .
“I hope you mean it when you say you will behave, Gabrielle, because while we love you and love having you here . . . if you cause any more problems, we’ll have to send you back.”
Chapter Nine
In the Dark
I LIE IN BED and replay the day over and over in my head. I try to change some of the outcome, but I know it’s pointless, since it’s a memory, not a fantasy. I try to think about where I went wrong. There are so many places that I’m not even sure where to start. I keep hearing my parents’ voices on the phone. They sounded so sad and disappointed in me; it makes my heart heavy. I stare out the window aimlessly.
I hear someone enter my room. Maybe it’s my uncle. Maybe he’s changed his mind and is sending me back to Haiti tonight. I quickly sit up and wrap myself in my comforter. My mouth goes dry. What am I going to say to change his mind? What if I can’t think of anything? What if this is it for me in America?
“Gabrielle,” someone says.
“Kayla?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
I breathe a big sigh of relief; Kayla generally sticks to speaking English, so I won’t need Rocky, which is good, because he’s not here right now.
“Sorry. Thought you’d still be awake with everything that went down today,” she says. Thanks to the light from the lamppost outside, I can make out Kayla’s silhouette as she sits on my bed. She hands me something on a plate. It’s hard to see what it is exactly.
“It’s bread pudding,” she says.
“For me?”
“Duh, you’re the only other person in this room,” she says dramatically. The room is barely lit, but it’s easy to see the annoyance on her face. “Who else would I bring it for?”
“Well, it’s just that you’ve never done anything . . . nice for me.”
“Well, don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to uphold, and I plan to do so,” she says in a stern voice as I start eating the dessert.
“Thank you, Kayla.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all mushy.”
“I won’t.”
I eat while Kayla remains quiet. It’s like she’s trying to gather words to say something, but all the words she’s picked are . . . wrong. So she doesn’t say anything at all. I know that feeling very well.
She sighs. She likes sighing. It’s like her pastime. I think it’s a teenager thing. I wonder if I can major in that in college. I’d major in sighing and minor in “like, whatever.” Teenagers are a handful.
“So . . . yeah, that’s what I wanted to say,” Kayla concludes as she pulls on the sleeve of her pajamas.
“You haven’t said anything—at least nothing I could hear.”
“Argh! Fine, I will say it again . . . a little louder.” She says something, but it’s not louder. I look back at her with a blank stare.
“Kayla, I got my new friend in trouble, my parents are super mad at me, and your parents are close to sending me away. Thank you for the food, but if you came to make fun of me or—”
“I’m sorry.”
“Wait—what?” I ask.
“I came here when I was seven. And it was really hard. Kids used to call me . . .”
“Call you what?” I ask.
“A . . . monkey. They used to say awful things about Haiti and about my family. I was in trouble all the time for standing up for myself. And then some new girl came to the school from another country, and they focused on her. That’s the only way I was able to get any peace.”
“They called you names?”
“All kinds of names. But then the new girl came. So, just wait for the new girl.”
“I don’t want to wait. And I don’t want the new girl to be treated like I was, either,” I reply.
“Yeah, it sucks. Look, the reason I came here was to give you an ‘I’m sorry’ bread pudding.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I don’t get teased now, but as I said, I used to. I should have looked out for you. I could have taken some of the heat off you. I didn’t. And I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” I reply. We sit in silence for a few moments.
“The truth is even if Kim had invited you to her party, you wouldn’t have been able to go.”
“Why not?”
“My parents never let me go to a party.”
“So you’ve never been to a party?”
“A few, but that’s only after years of begging.”
“Tianna said I wasn’t American enough to go to a party. But I thought that since I speak good English . . .”
“Yeah, I get it,” she says.
“Kayla, how do you know when you are American enough?”
She doesn’t reply. We just sit there, in silence, two Haitian girls in the dark.
* * *
The threat of getting sent back to Haiti is like an ugly tattoo I didn’t ask for and can’t rub off. I’m afraid to breathe the wrong way or say the wrong thing. If I got sent back, my mom would cry forever. And my dad would try to pretend like it’s okay, but I know he’d be devastated. How did I let things get so out of hand?
Oh yeah, perfect English . . .
Something tells me Lady Lydia knew that speaking English wasn’t going to be enough to get me to fit in. But I went and wished for it anyway, and now, I still don’t fit in. And I’m in more trouble than I have ever been in my life.
It’s the next day, and I usually would be getting ready for school, but for the next three days, I will have to stay home. Rocky has found a cozy spot in the corner. That way, he’s always there in case I need him to translate in the middle of the night. My uncle wakes me up at six in the morning. He tells me that there is no way I am staying at home. So he’s taking me to work with him to help out. I wake Rocky up. He yawns and mumbles something about beauty sleep. Before we head out with my uncle for the day, I write a quick note to Carmen telling her how sorry I am she got in trouble. Rocky tells me her parents aren’t happy with me.
“Yeah, no one’s happy with me lately,” I mutter.
“Are you happy with you?” Rocky asks.
“Well, if there’s a ‘Gabrielle is a good girl’ parade coming to town, I’d be the only one in attendance. And even I would be late.”
“Hey, at least you didn’t make any more wishes,” Rocky says.
“Yeah, there’s that, I guess,” I reply as I hand him the note for Carmen. “How is she?”
“Carmen’s okay. She can’t wait for you two to hang out again when you get back to school. But only if you promise no more fights.”
“Yes, there will be no more fights. I don’t really have anything to fight for.”
“I know you’re down, but try to find something today to make you smile—other than the fact that you get to hang out with me.”
I smile. “That is the one bright spot, Rocky.”
My uncle knocks on the door and says, “Gabrielle, it’s time to go.”
I can tell by his tone that he’s not done being mad. I quickly get the rest of my stuff and prepare for what I’m sure will be a long, boring day.
The three of us take the train to one of my uncle’s three jobs. Today he’s working for the cleaning company. He tells me that every week they have a new place to clean, and this week, the company is doing additional cleanup for Shea Stadium.
We walk through a series of faded gray and blue walls under the stadium. We enter an office area, where my uncle says to stand outside and wait for him. He goes inside the office and I take a look around, careful not to go too far and make my uncle even more upset with me than he already is.
When he comes out, he says, “My boss is okay with you helping me out today. Just do what I say and don’t wander off. Okay?”
“Okay. How can I help?” I ask.
“We are cleaning the top section. There are chemicals, and I don’t want you to touch them. But you can put on these gloves and start picking up the trash in the seats, okay?”
“I’m on it!” I reply.
We get up to the top section of the stadium, and my eyes are popping out of my head. My uncle watches me and smiles. “I know. It’s really big, huh?” he says.
“It’s more than big, Uncle—it’s gigantic. Our whole village can fit in here. Actually, I think all of Haiti could fit here! This is amazing.”
“Yes, the first time I saw it, I stared for a long time. My favorite thing was playing soccer when I was a kid. I could just imagine what it would be like to play soccer out on that field. It would be magic!”
“Mom told me you and she used to play soccer all the time when you were kids. She said that everyone in the village thought you’d be a professional soccer player by now.”
He doesn’t say anything, just looks far off into the distance, like he’s watching a movie that only he can see. Whatever the screen is showing him, it’s making him sad and melancholy.
“Uncle? Are you all right?”
“Huh?” he asks as I pull him away from the feature playing in his head. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get to work.”
And for the next hour, we clean row after row of seats. He’s working hard and fast. He’s done this for so long, it’s like he’s cleaning with his eyes closed. There are other teams of cleaners joining us; they each take their own sections.
“Bending up and down like this is hard. My back hurts,” I admit.
“You can rest for a while,” he says as he gets back to cleaning yet another row.
“Do you ever run out into the field? Just to see what it’s like?”
“That would be against the rules, Gabrielle.”
“And you never go against the rules. I know.”
He laughs. It fills the section we’re in. “Your mom and I got into more than enough trouble when we were kids. She fell in love with a pet chicken and stole him right off someone’s porch. Your grandmother almost went to jail for stealing a chicken she didn’t even know she had. Your mother hid him under her bed.”
“Did they find the chicken?” I ask.
“Eventually. Then there was the time when your mom and I thought we’d skip school and go to the beach with our friends.”
“What happened?”
“We got caught. Your grandmother came down to the beach to look for us. We were in so much trouble; we knew she’d kill us. And I mean, seriously end our lives. My sister and I saw your grandmother marching toward us as we got out of the water.”
“What did you do?”
“We ran back in the water. Your grandmother can’t swim, so we made a plan. We were going to swim to America!”
“That’s really, really far away. And you’d probably die.”
“Death by sea was much kinder than at your grandmother’s hand.” He laughs.
“When you got home, was she mad at you two?”
“She beat our behinds real good.”
“Wow, sorry.”
“It’s okay. We were stubborn. We swore we knew everything. The truth is, our mom—your grandmother—worked hard so that my sister and I could have a better life.”
I look around at him bending over to clean one of a million seats, and he reads my expression. “You’re wondering if my life is better? And your mom’s life?”
“Well, yeah.”
“It is better. I know that cleaning isn’t a glamorous job, but it helps me put food on the table for my family. I feel proud to do that. The only reason I came to America was that I had a mother who wouldn’t give up on me. She borrowed, begged, and stole. All so your mom and I could have a chance. And that’s what it’s about—giving your loved ones a chance at something better.”
“And this is better?”
“Yes, because in America, you start out a cleaning guy, but nothing says you have to end up that way. That is why in a few months, I will start night school.”
“You’re going to school?”
“Yes. I will start taking classes, and your aunt too. It’s not easy, but we will find a way to do it. Find a way to better ourselves.”
Okay, so the day isn’t as boring as I thought it was going to be. My uncle tells me more stories about him and my mom. Stories that I’ve never heard before. And as I help him clean up, I can see the younger version of him—wild, happy, and full of excitement.
When my uncle asks if I want a lunch break now, I gladly say yes. We go down to where the offices are located. We sit in the small lunch area off to the side and unpack the lunch my aunt made for us.
A few moments later, two men in suits walk past us.
As they are headed out the main exit, the first man, who’s wearing a red tie, looks over at us and says, “Every day, more and more Haitians come here. They’re everywhere now.”
His friend says, “Yeah, I notice that too. And who knows what diseases they bring here with them? They need to go back where they came from.” He shakes his head. His friend nods in agreement.
I look at my uncle. I know he’ll be as angry as I am at what those two men said. But instead of being upset, he just smiles at the men and waves goodbye as they go.
* * *
Whatever fun my uncle and I were having goes away with lunch. He’s working fast and working hard, but it doesn’t feel like he’s in a hurry to get it done—it feels like he’s trying to keep his mind busy so he won’t have to think about what happened with the two men. I’ve never heard anyone say something so hurtful and wrong. I don’t understand how grownups can talk that way.
I get that kids can say awful things, but grownups are supposed to be better, right? Why were they being so mean to my uncle? Wait, were they just trying to be mean, or do they really think that about us?
“Should I talk to him?” I ask Rocky, who fits perfectly in the front pocket of my overalls.
“Huh?”
“Rocky, are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure. I just got some stuff on my mind. You know—rabbit stuff.”
“Okay . . .”
“And yes, you should talk to your uncle. Those guys were pretty mean. I’ll help.” Rocky signals he’s ready to translate.
“Uncle?”
“Yeah,” he responds as he continues to work.
“You heard what those men said, right?” I ask.
“Gabrielle, finish up so we can go home.”
“Okay, I can work and talk,” I reply as I start picking up the surrounding trash. “Do they think that about us? I don’t get it. I thought it was just Tianna. Can it be that everyone in America thinks badly of us? What did we do to them? Why, Uncle? I don’t understand.”
“You need to finish up. I want to go home.”
“But what about those men? What about what they said?”
“What about it!” he roars, filling the stadium. The other cleaners look up at us. Uncle takes a deep breath and goes back to working.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just think it’s awful what they said about you. I wanted to do something—anything—to defend you.”
“You want to do something for me? Stop getting in trouble. Go to school. Get an education, so you don’t have to end up working for jerks like that. That’s what we have been trying to tell you. America doesn’t always love people who look like you and me. America can be just as bitter as she is sweet. You have to learn to swallow both—bitter and sweet. That’s just the way things are.” Rocky translates for my uncle.
“Why are those guys so mean?”
“Just forget about it and work. Aren’t you hungry? We can go home and get dinner as soon as this is done.”
I look at him, and I realize he’s not at all like
I thought he was. I thought he was this big, tall man, who worked hard and kept his family safe. But he’s not. He’s just the new kid on the block, trying to handle bullies, just like me.
“Stop it,” he snaps.
“What?”
“Stop looking at me like that. How dare you judge me, you spoiled little child! You think being brave is confronting everyone; well, you’re wrong. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is keep your mouth shut.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You think I don’t know what those idiots think of me? You think I don’t know how they see me? I ignore it because I need this job to support my family. So stop judging me!”
I look at my uncle. He can’t make eye contact. I think back to the question I asked Kayla . . .
“How do you know when you’re American enough?”
The answer is simple: we will never be treated or looked on as Americans—no matter how long we’ve been here.
Chapter Ten
Shout!
MY UNCLE ISN’T MAD at me anymore. I think it’s worse; I think he might be ashamed to look at me. When we make eye contact at the dinner table, he looks away. I don’t want him to feel bad. It’s not his fault he works with people who are rude. I wish he stood up for himself, but that’s not something I can force him to do. I just want him to know that I don’t care what they say about him. I know that he’s a hard worker and a good person.
When dinner is over, he doesn’t hang around and play with the twins like he normally does. Instead, he goes to the living room and watches TV. He’s watching soccer and tries really hard to focus on the game. I guess I really messed up by bringing up what those guys said.
“What happened with you and my dad today at work? Why is he so moody?” Kayla asks as we clear the dishes. I tell her what happened, and she says, “When he’s moody, my mom gets moody too. I can’t handle both of them having an attitude. So, fix it.”
“How?”
“Start by going in to watch TV with him,” she suggests.
“And then what?”
“I don’t know; make it up as you go,” she says, practically shoving me into the living room, then listening in the doorway.