by Marie Arnold
“Oh, don’t tell me. It’s hard to talk about back home because it makes you miss it, right?”
“Yeah, something like that,” I mumble.
“I understand. It’s not easy being an immigrant. Sometimes you get so homesick. The day I came to this country, it happened to be Mexican Independence Day. It’s one of the most sacred days in Mexico. It’s on September sixteenth. And in Mexico, there are fireworks, dancing, and lots of food. I was so sad to miss it. When is Haiti’s independence day?”
“I . . . can’t remember,” I admit.
“Oh . . . okay. My husband collects coffee mugs with flags on them. And now that we know a Haitian family, we’ll get a flag of Haiti to add to the collection.”
“That sounds nice, Mrs. H.”
“What colors are the Haitian flag?”
“They are . . . um . . .”
Oh no, not the flag too!
“Mom, let’s go to the rehearsal before Dad gets weepy again,” Carmen says.
“Yes, you’re right. Oh, and Gabrielle, you can have some tamales to tide you over until dinner.”
“Can I have some too?” Carmen says.
“Okay, but just one!” Mrs. H says as she heads out of the kitchen.
“Thanks for the rescue,” I say. “I can’t believe I don’t even know the colors of my flag.”
“We can look it up later,” Carmen replies. But remember, you promised to try to have a good time, right?”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Carmen takes the lids off the pots on the stove, and the delicious scent hits my nose and reminds me that I’m hungry.
“This pot has chicken tamales, and the other pot has pork. And this last pot has sweet tamales, flavored with pineapples. Pick whichever one you like,” she says. I take a chicken, and she takes the sweet one with fruit. We head out to the back of her building for dance rehearsal.
I watch Carmen and her family as they do a dance routine. The boys have their movements, and the girls have theirs. Then they join in and dance together. They even let me dance with them. I mess up a lot, but that’s okay, because it’s fun.
When we’re done, we go inside for dinner. There are so many different dishes on the table, not just the soup and the tamales. The dinner is so good that I eat until my stomach almost pops.
I look around. I love the heat rising off the homemade tortillas, the amazing scent of the soup, and the laughter around the table. This isn’t Carmen’s house. It’s her home. I had a home. And I gave that away.
Chapter Fourteen
Be a Tomato
CARMEN’S FAMILY INVITES ME to spend the night. I pretend to call my family and ask them if I can stay. I hate lying, but it’s better this way. When it’s time to get ready for bed, Carmen lets me wear her favorite Alvin and the Chipmunks pajamas. Her mom goes around to everyone’s bedroom and kisses them good night on the forehead. She kisses me too so I won’t feel left out. Carmen says she hates it, but I think she kind of likes it.
I’m so tired that I could sleep for a whole year, but when I close my eyes, sleep doesn’t come to me. I’m too busy worrying about my family. Did the witch throw them inside a volcano, into a boiling sea of lava? Could they be roaming the frozen tundra, one icy breath away from death? Or did the witch throw them into a den of hungry lions, thirsty for blood?
It’s no use trying to sleep. I walk over to the other side of the bedroom, where Carmen is sleeping. Her hair is all over the place, she’s kicked the covers off, and she’s scowling and talking in her sleep.
“Bow to the laser tag master!” she says.
“You tell ’em, Carmen!” I say as I cover her back up. I walk around the apartment softly, careful not to wake anyone. I need to go get some air and think about how I can make it up to my family when I get them back.
If I get them back.
Carmen left me out some clothes to go to school with in the morning, so I change into them and quietly step out for a walk. Summer just started, but I can tell it’s going to be my favorite season. My family talked about going to the beach for the summer and staying by the water for the whole day. We also talked about going to the summer street fair in downtown Brooklyn as soon as school let out. I guess none of that will happen now.
Gabrielle, stop thinking like that. You will find your family.
I sigh loudly and walk past the storefronts. Carmen’s neighborhood is like mine: there are a lot of corner stores, liquor stores, and meat markets. I walk past the laundromat, coffee shop, and a church. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I keep walking. Some small part of me thinks that maybe I’ll walk past one of the storefronts and see my aunt and uncle inside.
Yeah, I know. Crazy.
“And what do you think you’re doing, young lady!” an old man says as he comes out of the meat market. It’s Mr. Jung. He owns the butcher shop on my block. He has a potbelly and thin mustache, and his glasses are always crooked. He knows my aunt very well. She comes to him to buy her meats, and sometimes, if he gets a meat delivery he thinks my aunt will like, he sets it aside for her.
“Hi, Mr. Jung. What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I own this store and the butcher shop in your neighborhood. Now I have a question: Where are you going at this time of night, and why isn’t your aunt with you?”
“I’m sleeping over at a friend’s house. I just came out to get some air. I’ll go back in a minute,” I reply.
“This is your first summer in Brooklyn, huh? Well, it’s going to get a lot hotter, just you wait.”
“Yeah,” I mumble with my head down.
He looks at me closely. “Gabrielle, is everything okay?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, come inside. I’ll get you a cold drink to cool down before you go back to your friend’s house,” he says. I follow him into the meat market. He hands me a cold soda and invites me to sit on a crate near the cash register.
“I didn’t know people go food shopping late at night,” I admit.
“Oh yeah, many people only shop at night. There are fewer lines, less hassle. And many of my customers are working moms. They don’t have time to make it down here until after closing. So I try to keep the market open later. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
“Where are you from?”
“My family was born in South Korea.”
“Was it hard to be here because you’re not American?”
“What do you mean, Gabrielle? Of course I’m an American.”
“You are?” I ask, not sure I heard him right.
“Why yes, I am.”
“Can you be American and not be from here?”
“Of course you can.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit.
“Look around this market. It’s a good representation of what it means to be an American. There are shoppers from all different backgrounds. There’s Mrs. Ferrari in aisle three. She’s from Italy, and she’s a schoolteacher.” I follow his gaze to see a beanpole-thin woman with a grocery basket in her hand.
“And over there in aisle five are Mr. and Mrs. Oni; they’re here from Nigeria. And that older lady over there, in aisle one, is Ms. Tsosie. She’s Native American. Her people called this land home long before anyone else.” He watches Ms. Tsosie closely as she feels her way through a stack of produce. “Ms. Tsosie, go easy on that avocado.”
“I have to feel it, make sure it’s right for me,” Ms. Tsosie shouts back.
“It’s not your boyfriend; it’s a fruit.”
She rolls her eyes and picks up another avocado.
“The point is this, Gabrielle: America is made up of immigrants. Immigrants like you and me. This country is strong because of its many different cultures and backgrounds.”
“So being an immigrant is a good thing?”
“Oh yes, it’s a very good thing.”
“But what if I want to be an American?”
“Why can’t you be both Haitian and American? Come tak
e a look at this,” he says as he walks over to a bin full of tomatoes.
He holds one in his hand and shows it to me. “These beautiful tomatoes are both a vegetable and fruit at the same time. They don’t worry about being one or the other. The great thing about this country is that we do not have to either. Be the tomato. Be Haitian. Be American.”
“I never thought about being both,” I reply.
“Well, think about it. It’s important to be proud of your past as well as your future—that’s it! Ms. Tsosie, put down the avocado!” he says, rushing over to Ms. Tsosie.
“What did I do?” she asks.
“You squeezed it so hard, it’s guacamole now!” he replies. The two of them start to argue about the right amount of pressure to apply to fruit. Then someone calls my name.
“Gabrielle!”
I look over and see an older lady waving to me. It’s Mrs. Anderson, my aunt’s Jamaican friend. She’s the one who wanted me to have dinner with her and her granddaughter. She has a basket in her hand full of meats, veggies, and Caribbean spices.
“Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” I say.
“Hello, sweetheart! Where’s your aunt?” she asks, scanning the store.
“Ah, she’s around somewhere,” I reply.
“She didn’t show up on the bus today. Is everything okay?”
“Um . . . yeah. She had some stuff she had to do, but she’s fine.”
“Oh, okay. I didn’t know she shopped at night as I do. It’s just better. There are no long lines, no big crowds. It’s the best.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Have you seen Mr. Jung? I need more Scotch bonnet peppers. The bin is empty,” she says.
“I think he’s over there with Ms. Tsosie,” I say, pointing toward them.
She looks over and says, “She’s molesting the avocados again.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Never mind that. We were supposed to have you over to dinner. When can we do that?”
“Not sure. Things have been crazy around the house. I will have my aunt call you.”
“That sounds good, but since you’re here now, you should meet my angel—my granddaughter. I know she’s here somewhere . . .” Mrs. Anderson looks around for a few moments.
I’m not really in the mood to meet new people. Also, I have too much on my mind to worry about making new friends. But I don’t say anything because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She looks around a little more but can’t seem to locate her granddaughter.
“Maybe I can meet her another time—” I start.
“Wait! She’s right over there!” Mrs. Anderson says. I look down and my sneakers are untied. I bend down to tie them; when I come back up, I come face to face with Mrs. Anderson’s granddaughter—Tianna.
What the heck?
“This is my angel,” Mrs. Anderson says proudly.
Our eyes meet, and all of Brooklyn stands still. It’s like we’re the only two around. Her eyes are wide with shock and alarm. My mouth is open, and I can’t remember how to close it. My heart is racing, and I feel like someone poured a bucket of ice water on me.
“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost or something. Do you know each other from school?”
We don’t answer Mrs. Anderson right away. We can’t. The shock is just too much to take in, and we need a few more seconds—or maybe a full year. Wow. Just wow.
“Gabrielle, do you know my angel?” Mrs. Anderson asks again.
Oh yeah, I know your demon granddaughter. She’s awful! She’s mean, she’s cruel, and I can’t stand her. She’s the reason my life has been hell since I got here. I wish she went to another school—no, I don’t want to have any other kid feel the way Tianna made me feel. I wish she were on another planet. Yes, that’s it!
Mrs. Anderson, your angel brings nothing but hell to everyone she meets. Pack her stuff and ship her off this planet, so we never have to see her mean, spiteful face again!
“Gabrielle, have you met my angel before?”
I look at Tianna. The shock has almost worn off, and what remains is fear. She’s afraid that I’m going to tell her grandmother the truth. Her eyes are pleading with me. I want the truth to come out. I want everyone to know how awful Tianna is. Then I look at Mrs. Anderson’s face.
“No, Mrs. Anderson, I don’t know your angel. Hi, Tianna. I’m Gabrielle.”
She swallows hard, and I can almost feel the relief sinking into her body.
“Well, you two get to know each other. I need to go over to the meat section; I’m making goat head stew, and I almost forgot the goat head!” Mrs. Anderson laughs.
“Goat head?” I ask, never taking my eyes off Tianna.
“Yes, goat head stew. It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe. And it’s Tianna’s favorite.”
“Really? That’s so good to know,” I reply as I stare her down. Tianna looks off to the side. Her grandmother walks away to get the meat, leaving her “angel” and me to talk alone.
“Why didn’t you tell her we knew each other?” she asks as soon as her grandmother is out of earshot.
“I was planning to, but then . . .”
“Then what?”
“Then I saw the look on her face. Your grandmother is proud of you. She loves you—like, a lot. I didn’t want to make her sad and tell her the truth—that her grandchild is a nightmare.”
“Yeah, but now you’re gonna go to school and tell everyone you saw me at the market with a goat head and a basket full of crazy island seasoning. You’ll tell them all about my grandmother and her colorful outfits that don’t match what other grownups are wearing. And they will make fun of me. Fine! I don’t care.”
She’s lying. I can tell by the way she can’t look at me. I can also tell by the tears that spring up in her eyes. “You care, Tianna. You care—a lot.”
“Okay, okay, fine! You win! What do I have to do to get you not to tell everyone?”
“Were you born in Jamaica?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do you ever go back there?” I ask.
She angrily chews on her lower lip. “I go every year.”
“Then why do you make fun of me? You’re from a small island, just like me.”
“I don’t know. I just . . . It’s what they do here,” she mumbles.
“No, it’s what you do. And you didn’t have to. You made me feel so . . .” I can’t finish my thought. I’m not going to cry at a meat market.
“I made you feel what?” she asks.
“Forget it,” I reply, shaking my head.
“Say it—”
“Small! Okay? You made me feel . . . like I didn’t matter. But now I see you. I see the real you.”
“What does that mean?” she demands.
“It means I was wrong to let your words get to me. I’m done with that now. You can call me whatever you want. You can make fun of me. But I know whatever you say to me, you are really saying it to yourself. We’re the same. Different island, but still the same thing.”
“If you don’t tell anyone, then I’ll stop teasing you. I’ll be your friend.”
I shake my head sadly. “I have friends—real ones. Ones who tell me that I’m okay just the way I am. And that I don’t need to change. Maybe you should get some friends like that,” I inform her. I turn to walk away, and she stops me.
“Are you going to tell everyone at school you saw me here?” she asks, terrified.
“You’re making the same mistake I made. You’re hiding who you are because you think it will make people like you. But that doesn’t work. And what’s the point of them liking you if it’s not really you?”
“So you’re going to tell them you saw me?” she says, sounding defeated and sad.
I look at her and how scared she is. I was scared too—scared to be the new Haitian girl. Afraid to be me. And it cost me everything.
“Don’t worry, Tianna. I didn’t see you here tonight.”
“Really?” she says in disbelief.
“Yeah, but you should know that until you tell the truth about who you are and where you’re from, no one sees the real you.”
Chapter Fifteen
FEAR
THE NEXT MORNING, we meet up with Rocky in front of Carmen’s building. We offer to take him on the bus with us so we can all meet Getz together. But Rocky says he’ll join us later; he has a yoga class he can’t miss.
“Yoga?” Carmen asks.
“Yeah, it helps keep me centered,” Rocky says casually. Carmen and I look at each other and decide it’s best just to nod along.
When the bus comes, we take our seats, and the kids on the bus are friendlier to me. Kim—the girl who didn’t invite me to her party—now wants me to sit with her at lunch. She says she’s sorry for not inviting me and that she can’t remember why she didn’t. It’s possible the witch made her forget that I’m Haitian.
Kim is not the only one who forgets I wasn’t born here. The other kids talk about movies and TV shows that I don’t know about because I was in Haiti at the time. But when I tell them that, they laugh and tell me to stop being silly. According to them, I was in the same preschool classes they were. Well, that’s one thing we can say about Lady Lydia: when she grants a wish, she goes all out.
When we get to school, most of the staff is busy getting ready for Culture Day. It’s scheduled for tomorrow in the auditorium. The hallways are covered with flags from all over the world. The desks and chairs in some of the classrooms have been rearranged to make room for long tables that display games from other countries.
There’s also a sign-up sheet for kids who want to talk about where they are from. You put your name in one column, and in the other column, you put the country you are from. I go over to that table to sign up, but when I put the country I’m from, the ink disappears. I show it to Carmen.
“It won’t even let you write the word Haiti?” she says.
“No,” I say.
“Try again,” she says.
I lean down on the table and write Haiti in small, neat letters. Nothing happens. The ink remains. Carmen and I smile at each other, but then seconds later, the ink disappears yet again.