by Marie Arnold
“Hey, Uncle, can I watch the game with you?” I ask.
“You have chores—are they done?”
“Yes, all of them.”
He looks me over and grumbles, “Yeah, I guess.”
I sit down on the sofa next to him. I’m not sure if this is a good idea.
“Do you want something to drink? I can bring it to you,” I offer.
“No, thank you.”
“Okay. How about a snack?”
“No, I’m fine. Listen, about today . . . the yelling . . .”
“I know. I upset you.”
“No, you didn’t. Those guys did, and I yelled at you, but I should not have. You didn’t do anything wrong. They did. And I did. I should have said something. I would have, years ago, but now . . .”
“It’s okay.”
“You forgive me?”
“Is there money in it for me?” I ask.
He laughs. “Not a dime.”
“Then sorry. My forgiveness is only for sale.”
“I’ll remember that,” he teases.
“Uncle, do you ever miss back home?”
“Every minute of every day.”
“But we came here with a purpose—you and me. To give our families a better future. So that’s what we’re going to do—right?”
He studies me. “That’s right.”
“Hey, it’s still light outside, and it’s warm enough to play soccer. Me, Kayla, and Auntie against you and the twins.”
“You think you can take us?” he asks.
Kayla from the doorway and I reply at the same time, “Um, duh.”
* * *
The second day of my suspension, I go to work with my aunt. Like her husband, she didn’t want me to stay home all day and relax like I was on vacation. I agree, but first I get her to promise to speak English the whole day so that she can practice. That way, I won’t need Rocky to come with us.
My aunt is a home attendant. She looks after this elderly Jewish woman named Esther Adelman. She lives in Manhattan, the fancy part. She owns a two-story house and has the prettiest rugs I’ve ever seen.
“Mrs. Adelman, meet my niece, Gabrielle.”
The woman reaches out to shake my hand. Her grip is fragile, as is the rest of her. She weighs very little. The veins in her hands are big, running along her arms. I’m fascinated with her eyes. They remind me of a flashlight submerged in water. They are dull but so intriguing.
Mrs. Adelman has shiny, curly silver hair and wears dark red–rimmed glasses. There’s a necklace around her neck that gleams when the sun’s light hits it in just the right way. It’s a star.
“I like your necklace,” I tell her.
“Oh, you do?” she asks. “Well, thank you. It’s the Star of David. It’s a symbol of my faith. I’m Jewish.”
“My aunt told me that. But to be honest, I’m not really sure what that means.”
She smiles, and instantly she looks younger. “Come sit. I’ll explain it to you.”
“Gabrielle, don’t bother Mrs. Adelman. Let her rest,” my aunt says as she washes the dishes.
“No, no, it’s fine. I love the young people. My husband and I used to tell stories to the kindergarten class a few blocks from here. Oh, children are so fun. Not as bitter as us old folks.”
“Okay, but if you get tired, let me know, and I’ll help you lie down and take a nap,” Auntie says.
“Yes, yes, I will be fine,” Mrs. Adelman replies. “Now, where was I?”
“Mrs. Adelman, you were telling me about being Jewish,” I say.
“Oh yes, that’s exactly where we were.”
The afternoon goes by really fast. Mrs. Adelman tells me about her faith, shows me pictures of the people at her synagogue, and tells me how she met her late husband, Marty. We trade stories about life in our native countries and all the adventures we went on.
Then she tells me that she is a Holocaust survivor. I’m not sure what that means, and I ask her to explain. She tells her family’s story with tears in her eyes. When my aunt comes into the room, she scolds me for making Mrs. Adelman cry.
“Nonsense. Tears are shed. That’s life. I’m happy to have someone to share my stories with. You bring her back anytime, you hear me?”
My aunt smiles. “Yes, I will do that. Promise.”
My aunt makes food for us, and we have it out on the balcony. It’s so nice to look out at the view of Central Park.
“Auntie, we should have a view like that. Is it expensive?” I ask.
My aunt sees Mrs. Adelman and they exchange a look of amusement. I have no idea what I said that makes them do that.
“You could grow up and get a view like this, Gabrielle. You just have to work hard. That’s all,” Mrs. Adelman says as my aunt preps her medication.
My aunt turns on Mrs. Adelman’s favorite soap opera. She records one episode a day from Monday to Friday. But she saves them until it’s Friday. That way, she can watch all five episodes in one sitting. I groan to myself, because I know that stuff is boring. Or so I thought. The truth is, it’s three hours later, and I’m glued to the TV.
“Did this Max guy really throw his own grandmother down the stairs?” I ask as I watch the screen.
“Yes, all so he can get his hands on her money,” my aunt says during commercials.
“Well, as sexy as Max is, he can take all my money just as long as I get some alone time with him.” Mrs. Adelman laughs. My aunt laughs too. I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that.
My aunt tells me to help tidy up the house and vacuum the living room. I do as she says. When we are done, it’s time to go, but Mrs. Adelman insists that we stay for one more episode.
“This is my second viewing, and I’m telling you, you can’t miss this next one,” Mrs. Adelman says.
“We can guess what will happen. Tina and Max go down the aisle,” I reply.
“Or do they?” Mrs. Adelman says. My aunt and I look at each other.
“Someone spoiled their wedding?” I ask.
“And you’ll never guess who!” Mrs. Adelman says. That’s all it takes for us to be glued for yet another hour.
Someone enters the house; I can tell it’s Mrs. Adelman’s daughter. There are pictures of her all over the place. She’s pale, thin, and dressed in a skirt and jacket.
“Oh, I’m glad you’re here, dear Ruth,” Mrs. Adelman says.
“Hello, Mom,” Ruth replies, and kisses her mother on the cheek.
“And this young lady is Gabrielle,” Mrs. Adelman says.
“Why is she here? We’re not running a daycare,” Ruth says.
“She’s only here for the day, and we were just leaving,” my aunt says.
My aunt signals for me to grab our things so we can go. The fun and easy feeling in the room is gone, thanks to Mrs. Adelman’s daughter.
“We were having a nice time, dear,” Mrs. Adelman explains.
“She’s on the clock. We’re not paying her to sit and laugh with you.”
“I never charge your mother after my shift is over. We just talk,” my aunt says in a strained voice.
“Yes, well . . . I’m here now. You can go.”
My aunt takes our stuff, and we head for the door. Ruth calls to my aunt once again. Argh! We were so close to escaping.
“Oh, by the way. I notice the toilet paper is being used rather quickly. I’d appreciate it if you were to bring your own in the future. You do understand, don’t you?”
My aunt is about three seconds away from losing it, I can tell. And part of me wants to tell the lady off. But then I remember what my uncle said about putting up with things for the good of the family.
“Auntie, let’s go before we miss our train,” I plead.
My aunt takes a deep breath and says good night to Mrs. Adelman.
“Oh, and I have been meaning to speak to your agency,” Ruth says. “They always send me people with poor English, and, well, I was hoping we’d moved on from that. Does your agency have anyone who was born her
e? Anyone who won’t need their hands held the whole time. I mean, really. I just don’t have time for it.”
My aunt is grinding her teeth so badly that I can hear it. Mrs. Adelman puts her head down. I don’t think she likes what her daughter is saying.
“If you don’t want me to work here—” my aunt begins.
“Then call the agency,” I add quickly. “I’m sure if they have anyone else, they will send them. But I hope you will call for my aunt again, because it’s been a pleasure to spend time with your mother.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. My mom does seem to enjoy your aunt’s company. We’ll see,” Ruth says dismissively. I rush my aunt out of the building, fearing her gaze alone will set the entire place on fire.
* * *
I sit next to my aunt on the train and give her some time to compose herself. We ride in silence for a moment, and then she laughs. But it’s not a happy laugh. It’s more . . . dark and sad.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“No. No, I’m not.”
“What can I do?”
“Be good in school. Get a good job—own your own business. When you work for other people . . .”
“Is this the first time she’s been that way with you?”
“Ha! Ruth is a pest. She buzzes and makes you dizzy. She’s mean with her words, and very sneaky. She always try to replace me. But I care for her mom so much . . .”
“I didn’t realize your job was so stressful,” I admit.
“I’ve worked for people who think I will steal, so they follow me around in the house. The lady before Mrs. Adelman sold her husband’s watch and said I took it. She told the agency to let me go.”
“What? That’s awful! How did they find out the truth?”
“Her husband see pawn shop receipt.”
“Bet you felt better when she had to say she was sorry.”
My aunt smiles and shakes her head sadly. “You’re so young . . .”
“She didn’t apologize?” I ask.
“No such thing. And the agency fired me anyway.”
“They should have stood up for you.”
“The world has some good people in it, like Mrs. Adelman. But there are always others that . . . they just think of us as criminals, or worse, they just don’t see us at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think I would be say I am stealing if I walked in there with a pretty white dress and pretty white skin to match.”
“Your former client just thought she could blame you because—”
“Gabrielle, soon you will be a woman. And what a black woman needs to know—regardless of where you were born—is this: in America, your color walks in the door before you do. Always.”
“Argh! How do you do it? How do you not go crazy?” I ask.
She beams from the inside as she looks up at the map on the door of the train. “I’ll show you how I deal. But it’s a secret. Just you and me, okay?”
“Yeah, sure!” I reply.
“Let’s go!” she says, taking my hand and guiding us off the train once the doors open.
“Wait, this isn’t our stop,” I remind her.
“We have some time. It’s your uncle’s day to pick up the twins. Come on!”
Before I can say anything, she hurries me along. We walk out of the train station and end up in the last place I ever thought she’d take me—Coney Island!
We enter a wonderland of roller coasters, street performers, and circus sideshows. I’ve always wanted to come here, but the family has never had time. The bright lights and energetic crowd make this place even better than I thought.
“You come here when you’re stressed out?” I ask.
“I come here to scream. It’s better here than screaming at my clients. Gabrielle, I was really upset back there. I almost threw Ruth out the window. Thank you for saving me from getting mad. I can’t afford to lose my job.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you want to shout until our voices open up the sky?” she asks.
“Yes!”
I look around to see which ride we should go on first. Coney Island is known for its super-scary and super-fast roller coaster—the Cyclone. I know that’s way too fast and crazy for my aunt, so I try to pick something else.
“How about the carousel?” I ask.
“No, Grandma! We came to scream and shout. We came to get out our stress, and there’s only one way to do that,” she says as she winks and signals toward the ride across from us—the Cyclone.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
We get on the ride and strap ourselves in. The announcer asks if we are ready, and the crowd of passengers cheers. The roller coaster takes off, and my aunt and I hold hands as we rise to the top. The ride pauses, giving us a chance to brace ourselves. We look at each other, our eyes widen, and the car descends at top speed. We scream like wild, crazy lunatics. It’s beautiful.
Chapter Eleven
Pure
ON THE THIRD AND FINAL DAY of my suspension, I babysit the twins. They drive me crazy and make me chase them all around the apartment. Thankfully, it’s finally time for their favorite show, Muppet Babies. They sing along with the theme music and yell at me if I dare block the screen. What’s even better is that there is a double episode, meaning I have more quiet time.
I go to my room but keep the door open in case the twins need me. I look in the mirror and the person looking back at me is very . . . Haitian. I have big, thick braids, brightly colored clothes, and last year’s sneakers. How do I fix that? I want to be American. I want to look like they look.
I pull out the white plastic bag I hid in the back of my drawer. Inside is a box with a picture of a black girl with long, smooth, straight hair. American hair. I sound American—now it’s time I started to look American.
I hear a knock at the door. I run to get it before the twins get cranky. It’s Carmen. I let her in and hug her tightly. I feel like I haven’t seen her in forever.
“How did you get away?” I ask.
“My sister is hanging out with her friends, so she couldn’t wait to drop me off here. But I promised that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so no witch hunting tonight. Okay?”
“Deal,” I reply.
She says hello to the twins. They don’t respond.
“Are they even alive?” Carmen teases.
“Hang on,” I reply. I step in front of the TV screen, and right away they scream and cry.
“Okay, so they are alive,” Carmen says.
“Come, I want to show you something.”
Carmen enters my room, and I show her the box.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Your family said you could perm your hair?”
“They never said I couldn’t perm it.”
“Seriously, just once, can’t we eat pizza and look at cute boys in a magazine? Why does every meeting with you require an alibi and bail money? Can we pretend to be responsible for one night?”
“I’m being responsible by not making a second wish. The first wish made me lose something really important, so I won’t wish again—even though I’m really tempted.”
“So you’re gonna perm your hair?”
“No, you’re gonna do it, Carmen.”
“What? Oh no! No way!”
“Why? You told me your oldest sister owns a hair studio. You’ve watched her work for years. You know how to do it. And I also remember you telling me that you have done perms for people.”
“No, not people, a doll. Okay? That’s not the same thing.”
“Okay, fine. Then let’s have your oldest sister do it.”
“She won’t touch you without a parent present.”
“Then we are out of options,” I reply, throwing my hands up in the air.
“No, we have another option—you stop being so crazy.”
“What’s crazy about changing my hair?”
“Your hair is fine.”
“That’s easy for you to say—your hair
is like silk. It flows, it bounces, and you can run your fingers through your hair like on TV. That’s a very American thing!”
“I like your hair. I liked your accent. I like you! Why isn’t that enough?”
“Because it’s not!”
Carmen shakes her head sadly and just looks at me. I turn away, not wanting her to see me cry. She puts a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s not always easy for me, either. Sometimes people say mean things to my dad when he’s working. They drive by his construction site, and when they see he’s Mexican, they ask for the boss. They never think my dad is the boss. And even after he tells him, they still don’t believe him.
“I was on a bus once, and some guy stepped on my mom’s foot. She complained, and he told her to go back to her country, like we didn’t belong here. And my sister came home crying once because some kid asked her why Mexicans are so lazy. It broke her heart, because she really liked the guy. And last year, someone spray-painted on my locker a word I’m not even allowed to say.”
“All of that really happened?”
“Yes. But I’m not going to let it make me do bad or crazy things. I want to be around people who like me. People I don’t have to pretend for. People like you. So please stop this.”
“You have your family here. And my aunt and uncle are great, but my parents are still in Haiti. They are counting on me to be good. And if Tianna or anyone else keeps teasing me, sooner or later, I’ll get in a fight again, trying to defend myself.
“That means I will be sent back to Haiti. But if I don’t have anything for them to tease me about, I won’t have a reason to fight. If I can be American, I will have no trouble, no problems at all.”
“Gabrielle . . .”
“I know, I know! It looks like it’s about my hair and my clothes, but it’s more than that. I have to fit in to stay in this country. I have to do whatever it takes to make me like everyone else. You don’t get it because your entire family isn’t counting on you like mine is. Carmen, I’m all they have. I have to make this work. Please. Help me.”
“I like you the way you are, and I won’t help you change that. I’m sorry,” she says as she walks out of my room.