Wake up, Ashton. Amari didn’t look up from his drawing as he spoke. This is America. Supposed to be the land of the free, but we free? Nah. We got rules everywhere we step. No running, no cursing, no playing, no yelling, no staying up late, no this and no that. Now, grown-ups, they’re the free ones. And if it’s not grown-ups all up and down our backs, it’s teachers—
Not Ms. Laverne, Holly said.
Amari flicked his hand into the air, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. She put us here, he said. She didn’t say, ‘You all want to come to the art room?’ She said, ‘Y’all going to the art room.’ That’s freedom? That’s power?
We got freedom. Holly glared at him. It’s not like before when we couldn’t swim in pools or go to stores and stuff because we were black or something. It’s not segregation.
Nope, Amari said. It’s not. So we should stand up and cheer for America, I guess. He rolled his eyes again.
We can live anywhere we want—
You could live anywhere you want, he said. You’re a rich girl, Holly. Can Tiago live anywhere? Can Ashton live in Connecticut anymore?
Yeah I can, Ashton said.
How?
Ashton shrugged. Just move back. We could just move back someday.
With what money?
Ashton looked down at his desk and didn’t say anything.
Nah, Tiago said. Amari’s right. We’re not so free.
Can’t even walk around with your hood on if you want, Amari said. And even here! We got uniforms! That’s free?
No one said anything.
Yeah, Amari said, answering his own question. Didn’t think so. He went back to his drawing. When I leaned over to look, I could see that most of the paper was covered with colorful guns—blue ones, green ones, yellow ones.
Why are you drawing those?
Amari looked at me like he was surprised I was there. Why are you so nosy, Red? He covered more of the paper with his arm and kept on drawing.
Hey, Amari. My friend asked why are you drawing guns, Holly said. And you know her name.
It’s just a picture, Esteban said. A picture can’t hurt you. It’s like the same thing as a poem. But not in words.
Amari held up the piece of paper and aimed it at Holly. Pow. Mind your business. Now, those are words to go with my picture.
I’m going to tell Ms. Laverne you’re up in here threatening people, Holly said.
Amari looked sadder than anything for a minute, like if someone touched his shoulder, he’d start to cry. But then, just like that, his face went back to normal. He held up the paper, aimed it at Holly again and dropped his voice down to a creepy whisper.
Can’t tell anybody anything. We. Are. All. Alone. Now. I guess that means we’re free.
Even Holly couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
12
The next day, I received a letter from my father.
I stood shivering in front of our mailbox, staring at the long envelope—my father’s name, prison address and number in the upper left-hand corner, my own name and address in my father’s curling handwriting across the middle. I stood on our stoop and stared up the block. Two men were walking a gray dog. One said something and the other threw his head back and laughed. They were too far away for me to hear the laughter, but I could see it. Their faces seemed so happy. So free.
I thought about what Amari had said the day before, about how none of us are really free, then looked down at the letter again. I had known my dad before he went to prison but didn’t remember any of it. Did he ever tickle me? Throw me into the air and catch me? Did he ever push me on a swing in the park or talk me through a tantrum? When I remembered those things, it was always my uncle I saw. I put the envelope against my nose and sniffed it. His letters always smelled like prison—like bleached floors and the vague hint of sour milk.
My uncle was in the city, playing music with some friends of his from college. When I got back inside, the house felt too quiet. Too empty. I sat in the window seat and held the envelope in both hands, turning it over and over. Outside, the leaves on the tree started blowing, silently, like the man’s laughter. They had long ago turned brown, and above them, the sky was incredibly blue. I don’t know how long I stared up at it before finally opening my father’s letter. I was afraid. I think something inside my heart broke when he didn’t come down for us when we last visited. Something I didn’t even know was breakable just fell apart inside me.
Dear Haley,
I’m sorry I didn’t show up last time. I will never not show up for you again. Not while I’m here inside. Not when I’m on the outside again. I know you have so many questions for me. One day I hope to be sitting at a table across from you. No inmates and guards around us, no noisy television, no cold gray room, no intercom blasting names and demands and rules. For as long as you could talk, Haley, you’ve only known me as a prisoner. I look forward to the day when that’s no longer who I am to you.
Love,
Your Father
I got to the end of the letter and went back to the beginning. I’m sorry I didn’t show up . . .
Love, Your Father.
I did love him. I’d only ever really known him in his prison uniform. And inside those gray rooms. I’d only ever really known how hard he hugged me, how his eyes got bright when he saw us standing there. How it always looked like he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
Love your father. No matter what, my uncle always said. You love your father.
I folded the letter back into its envelope, ran my fingers over my name. My father’s hand had written those letters. He had sat in his cell, bent over the page and wrote those words. I’m sorry . . .
Forgive and forget, my uncle said. Staring at those letters, I thought I could forgive my father. But I could never forget. I’d lock every moment of memory inside a room in my brain and hope they’d multiply like cells in our bodies, until I was a grown-up all filled with memories. Maybe that’s what made us free. Maybe it was our memories. The stuff we survived, the good stuff and the bad stuff.
I climbed the stairs slowly, the third one creaking, the fifth one slanting downward. From memory I knew how my feet would land on each stair. I knew how my door would whine as I closed it. I knew the water rattling through the pipes when my uncle showered and how the dog in the backyard across from ours barked every morning when its owner let it out. Everything around me was as familiar as my purple comforter, as easy as saying my own name. I sniffed the letter again before putting it in the drawer with the others, then lay down on my bed and wrapped my comforter around me.
13
Think about the Familiar. Every morning, you get up. You brush your teeth and wash your face and put on the clothes you’ll be wearing that day. Days roll into weeks and weeks turn into months. The leaves start falling from the trees. A wind comes from the north and makes you shiver so hard, your teeth chatter. Every morning, you eat breakfast at school with your friends. You tear into the bagels and slurp up cereal and side-eye the suspicious- looking eggs. You and your friends laugh over silly stuff—Tiago’s Santa hat with the white beard attached and the silly faces he makes whenever he wears it, Amari’s drawings of dogs with wings, cats with crutches, impossible ice cream sundaes like wishes on paper.
Think about what you know—how the mornings always come too quickly and the weekends don’t last long enough. How your uncle has always shaved the left side of his face before the right—for good luck, from habit. The Familiar.
The trips to Malone, Taco Tuesday, stories at night, hair day at Holly’s house. The Familiar.
A lady with a tiny black dog leaves her building every morning just as you’re leaving yours and she waves and you wave. But that’s the only time you’ve ever seen her.
We knew what we knew. We did what we had always done. Then one day, Ms. Laverne said,
Put dow
n your pencils and come with me.
We left our classroom and walked down the hall to the art room. The Familiar popped like a bubble above our heads. But we held tight to our knapsacks and kept on walking.
14
For the two weeks after Halloween, we snuck our candy into the ARTT room, trading and sharing it until our stomachs twisted up from too much chocolate and our tongues burned from Sour Patch Kids and Jolly Ranchers.
The half-moons beneath Esteban’s eyes grew darker, and some days his uniform looked like he’d slept in it. He had left the circle completely, sitting on the windowsill and staring out into the school yard.
One Friday, just as we entered the ARTT room, without saying a word, Ashton and Amari started moving our desks. They arranged them around Esteban at the window. None of us said anything, but Esteban looked up. Then he smiled.
We took our seats in the new circle like it was just a regular Friday. But the circle was a little smaller now, our chairs closer together. We were closer together.
Amari pulled out his sketchbook and started drawing. Then, just as quickly, he snapped it shut.
Hey, Red. Can I talk into your recorder? I got something I want to say.
Sure.
I nearly spilled out my whole knapsack rushing to get the recorder for Amari. When I handed it to him, he turned it around and around in his hand. It’s the button on top that starts recording me, right?
I nodded.
My name’s Amari, he rapped. Rhymes with Atari. I’m old-school like that. I’m so smooth like that.
Oh man, Holly said. You are not going to spit weak raps into history, are you?
Amari looked like he was ready to say something back to her, then he sat up, his lips pressing together.
Wait a minute, he said slowly. Twenty years, we all meet back in this room and you can play this for us. My voice is already changing, so let me catch it like it is. He smiled.
Your voice is SO not changing, Holly said. Keep dreaming.
Amari rolled his eyes at her. Jealous. That’s all you are.
Nope. Believe it or not, I don’t want my voice to change. Sweet and fine the way it is.
The other guys smiled, but Amari just looked at Holly. She stared right back.
Why don’t you two get married and get it over with, Ashton said.
Both Amari and Holly made gagging sounds, but my stomach double-flipped and landed. Hard. No. They hated each other. No, Ashton was wrong. But then I saw the edges of Holly’s lips turn up.
Whatever, Amari said, turning back to me. If it was cool with Esteban, I’m good. Just don’t play it for nobody but us. Twenty years from now, we all meet right back here in this room. The six of us.
That would be cool, Tiago said.
Yeah, Esteban agreed. That would be nice. We’d be old, though.
Red’s gonna be the first one I recognize, Amari said.
I smiled. Twenty years seemed like a hundred years. I couldn’t even imagine a room without the six of us in it. One day, we wouldn’t be in Ms. Laverne’s class. But Amari would recognize me.
Esteban had stopped smiling. So had the others.
It’s strange to imagine us not together anymore, Ashton said. I know it hasn’t been that long, but . . .
Yeah, but still, Amari said.
So let’s make it a promise! Holly slapped both hands down on the arm of the desk. Twenty years from now, no matter where we’re living, no matter what. We’ll meet back here in the ARTT room.
Kick any little kids in here out, Ashton said. Because we were here first!
Amari held up the recorder. And Red will bring this and we’ll all listen to ourselves.
I nodded.
The green light on the recorder was still on. It’s recording us, I said.
That’s cool, Amari said. You think you can hold on to this thing for twenty years?
Yeah, I said.
It sounds corny, Ashton said. But it sounds really cool too, because mostly, when you move away from someplace, you don’t see the people again and you don’t even remember what they sound like.
He got quiet, looked down into his lap and sighed. It was such a deep and heartbreaking sound. A sound I knew wouldn’t sound any less sad over the years. A sound I’d hear again and again and remember Ashton, his head down, his hair falling over his forehead, his cheeks puffing out, his lips parting to exhale air.
15
Amari rested the recorder on top of his drawing pad. Then he pulled a green marker from his pack and started tracing it. His hand moving slow and sure around the recorder. I think what’s really messed up is the way everything changes all quick from one year to the next. You know?
Like, I don’t mind my voice getting deep. He stopped drawing and looked up at Holly. Even if you don’t hear it, it is!
But it’s like one day you asking for some Batman sheets for your bed, and the next day somebody telling you Batman is for babies. Stuff like that.
I thought about the way I had once loved purple so much. About how deeply I had once believed in unicorns.
And like hugging and stuff, Amari said. Boys don’t hug each other. I mean, when you’re little, you do. It’s okay then. You always see the kindergarten kids running to each other and hugging like they haven’t been together in years. That’s what I love about little kids—they just get to be little kids. But when you get to be big—like us—all that goes away. It goes far away. Like once with my dad. I was about eight years old and I went running to him ready to jump in his arms like I always did and he said, ‘Whoa, big man! You too grown for that now.’ One day yes. Next day no.
But you know, deep . . . like way down inside me? I want it back sometimes. I want to hug you, Esteban, like Red hugged you, and say, ‘That sucks, bruh!’ I want to promise you your dad’ll be back soon and that this was just a glitch in the road.
That’s what my dad called this moment we’re living in. ‘Glitch in the road.’ The Saturday before last, he wouldn’t let me go anywhere. Not to Ashton’s house. Not to the corner store. Not even to the stoop to hang out with my boys on the block. He kept saying, ‘You just sit tight, Amari, and watch all the TV you want. I’m gonna talk to you later.’
Amari looked up at us. All the TV I want?!?! That was like a zombie talking. Because my dad is the king of ‘Turn off the TV and read a book.’ My dad is the ‘I’ll throw that TV out the window’ kinda dad. You get the picture?
We all nodded.
So around one o’clock, in the middle of me watching like my hundredth TV show, my dad came in and said, ‘Walk me to the bank, Mar.’ That’s his nickname for me. I found out it means ‘Sea’ in Spanish.
Mar, Tiago and Esteban said with an accent.
Mar, the rest of us said softly.
He just calls me Mar because it’s short for Amari, but I like that the short name has a meaning. Amari means ‘Strength’ if you use the Yoruba translation. But in Japanese it means ‘Not Really.’ I think if we were Japanese, I’d be real mad about my name. Just saying.
Not Really, Esteban said. That’s crazy. But funny.
Hey, Not Really, Ashton said. Clean up your room because it’s not really clean right now.
The rest of us laughed.
That’s what’s up, Amari said. But the cool thing is, that’s not the translation, so everybody can let it go now.
I guess we can, Holly said. But . . . Not Really.
Even Amari smiled and started talking again. Maybe in twenty years he’d be the mayor of New York and we’d all be in the audience listening to him talk. He spoke like he was so sure of everything he said. Like all his life someone had been saying, You’re right, Amari. You’re smart, Amari. You’re beautiful, Amari.
So my mom was at a spin class with her ‘girls,’ he said, holding up quotation fingers. They’re grown ladies, but she always ca
lls them her ‘girls.’ Every Saturday they go to a spin class to work off the calories, and then they do brunch. I don’t get it. That’s all I’m saying. Why go sit on a bike for hours, then go eat pancakes and sausage and eggs and bacon and everything on a menu? That’s crazy! Just go eat! That’s what I do the Saturdays I have brunch with them.
And you know what else is crazy, Ashton said. How come grown-ups always tell each other how young they look, and kids always want to be grown-up already, so we lie and say we’re ten when we’re really nine or that we’re thirteen when we’re really twelve?
But grown-ups lie too, Amari said.
Facts, Tiago said. My mom’s been thirty for, like, ten years!
Mine too, Holly said. And don’t let her see some gray hairs. It’s like she’s seen a ghost—all screaming and whatnot. Then running around the house looking for tweezers to pluck it out.
Wrinkles too. Ashton laughed. My mom is like, ‘Oh my God, Ashton, please tell me you can’t see this wrinkle by my chin.’ And of course I can see it—it’s, like, the size of a river. But I just go, ‘Uh-uh, I don’t see anything.’
You know that’s the right move, Amari said. Or else!
Everyone nodded. I didn’t know anything about mothers and wrinkles, but I knew that when my uncle first saw some gray hair on his head, he went into his room, closed the door and played sad songs on his guitar for hours.
Anyway, Amari said, me and my dad started walking to the bank. And he goes to me, ‘Look, Mar. I want to talk straight with you.’
And I was like, ‘Yeah?’ Because that was strange. I mean, me and my dad, we always just talk straight. Nothing crooked about it.
So he says to me, ‘You’re in fifth grade now. Happened so fast, I didn’t even see it coming.’
And I had to smile when he said that. It has to be at least two years since I last sat in his lap.
Then my dad said, ‘This country is going a little bit crazy. I know it’s just a glitch in the road, but I want you to know there’re things you can’t do anymore.’
Harbor Me Page 4