It was a song about summertime, I said again. I was sleepy and my head was hurting again. Am I going to have to sleep here?
Just tonight, my uncle said. He was sounding choky again.
My mouth was hot and dry. My uncle got me a glass of water and helped me take a few small sips. The pain shooting through my arm hurt like crazy, hot and sharp as a flame.
That big kid broke my clothes and my arm, I said.
He didn’t mean it.
I know.
We listened to the hospital sounds without saying anything. Somebody was calling for Doctor Somebody. A kid was crying somewhere. A nurse ran past my room.
Will my dad always be in prison? I asked sleepily.
Not always.
But when he comes home, can I still live with you?
We got time to figure it all out, Hales.
I pulled his hand back to my head. He rubbed it until I fell asleep.
20
By mid November, it had gotten colder. The school cranked the heat up a notch and the radiator’s hissing got louder. We were all sweating, but Ashton kept the scarf he’d been wearing all day wrapped around his neck. The day before, he’d worn a turtleneck under his uniform shirt. He had moved his desk and was sitting outside the circle, far away from Amari. But they kept looking at each other like there was something they wanted to say. And couldn’t.
I took out my recorder and started to turn it on.
I don’t want you recording me, Ashton said.
Then don’t say anything, Holly said before I could talk. The week before, she had brought her knitting needles and a ball of purple yarn to school. She sat there, the needles clicking over themselves, the purple square of yarn growing more rectangular. Her grandmother had taught her to knit before she died. I’d only met her once. She was tall and dark brown with silver-white hair. She had died three years ago in December, and every year, as December got closer, Holly started knitting. She said she didn’t even like knitting that much, but it reminded her of her grandmother. By April, the needles would be gone again.
Ashton got quiet.
I don’t have to record anybody today, I said. It’s not a big deal.
I mean, I want to be remembered like everybody else, Ashton said. He kept his eyes on the arm of the desk, tracing circles into it with his thumb and pointer finger. And I don’t want to at the same time.
I don’t get it, Ashton, Amari said, annoyed. He was drawing in his sketchbook. I couldn’t see what it was because, as usual, he had his left arm curving over the picture. There was a pack of colored markers by his elbow. Either you do or you don’t.
Ashton looked right at him. I don’t want to be remembered for saying the wrong thing.
Ms. Laverne said we can’t say anything wrong here, that everything we say is okay and nobody’s judging us, Esteban said.
Amari said a curse word. Then looked up with a cheesy grin. See? No lightning struck me, he said, going back to his drawing.
I can’t say stuff like how much the gun thing sucks, Ashton said. But, I mean, does everything have to be about black versus white? I mean, what if people just stopped talking about racism. Wouldn’t it just go away? Look at us all sitting here. Everybody is everything and we’re all together. And nobody’s fighting or being mean to each other.
Amari stopped drawing and shook his head. You just don’t get it.
I do too get it, Ashton said. I didn’t even think about being white until the first time I met you, Amari. You asked me if I was an albino. I bet you don’t even remember.
I remember, Amari said.
I didn’t even know what an albino was, Ashton said. He pushed his hair away from his forehead.
And that’s the problem, Amari said. Like I said, you just don’t get it.
That’s not fair, Amari. I didn’t get it, but I knew I didn’t like the way it sounded. And I was mad because I thought you guys were laughing at me.
We didn’t even know you, Amari said. Why would we be laughing at you? Why would you think that was . . . that that was what kind of kids we were.
Because kids are like that, Ashton said.
Not ALL kids. Not us.
The room got so quiet. I think even the hissing of the radiator stopped. Even Holly’s needles stopped clicking.
I know you guys aren’t like that, Ashton said. He looked at Amari. You remember what I said back when you asked if I was an albino?
Yeah. Amari nodded. You were like, ‘No, are you?’ And then I said, ‘How am I going to be albino and be black like I am?’
Amari went back to his drawing, but he was smiling a little. Of course I remember that day, he said.
I don’t know if you remember this part, though.
Amari looked up at him again. What part?
You said to me, ‘We cool, though, bruh. It’s all good. I’m Amari.’ And the way your voice sort of just dropped down into something so . . . I don’t know, dude. It was so friendly. He pointed to his chest. I felt myself choking up inside.
For some reason, when you said that, I missed everything we left in Connecticut a little bit less, you know—our house, our street, my grandma, my school, my friends, all of it. It didn’t feel so hard right then, just because you’d said, ‘It’s all good. I’m Amari.’
Yeah, Amari said. I remember that. Of course I remember that.
You do?
Yeah. That’s when me and you became friends.
Yeah, Ashton said. I know.
They looked at each other. And it was like they had left us. Like they had gone back to that day when they were little kids and were standing in the school yard with the September light shining down on them and kids running all around. The sound of the flag flicking in the wind above them. It’s all good. I’m Amari were the words raining down over them. Like snow. Like soft and welcoming snow.
21
I’ve got some more stuff I want to say, Ashton told us. Haley, I don’t care if you record this part.
I turned the recorder on. Esteban was sitting on the ledge of the window, watching us. Watching all of us. Holly got up and squeezed in beside him. He moved over a bit, making space for her.
Ashton slowly started unwrapping the scarf from around his neck. On one side, we could see finger marks where someone had necked him so hard, they had left the reminder of their own hand. I swallowed.
There are a bunch of kids who aren’t very nice here, Ashton said. The ones that call me Casper and Wonderbread and Ghostboy and Paleface and other names I don’t even want to say.
Amari looked up and his eyes turned to slits.
Who did that to you?
Ashton shrugged.
Nah, man, tell me. Who did that?
Yeah, Tiago said. Who did that to you?
Some eighth-graders, Ashton whispered. I don’t know them. They just do it to be stupid. For laughs.
You can be stupid and laugh without hitting somebody, Amari said. That’s messed up.
I know. Ashton gently touched his own neck. Not like I can do something about it. It’s just what happens. Like the way kids laugh at us sometimes in the cafeteria, right? We don’t care.
I care, Holly said. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.
Me too, Tiago said. I hate it.
Yeah, but if we say something, they’re just going to laugh harder.
* * *
• • •
Ashton was right.
We were different, but most days we believed Ms. Laverne when she told us how special we were, how smart, how kind, how beautiful—how tons of successful people had different ways of learning.
But some days, it got inside us. Like now.
* * *
• • •
Where’d they get you, bruh? Amari asked.
Ashton shrugged. Outside the school yard.
/>
We all got quiet again.
You know how in the middle of the yard there’s that huge flagpole? Ashton said. And up at the very top there’s the flag?
He looked at each one of us and we all nodded.
Well, on that first day I got here, I stared up at that flag thinking, this is happening all over America. All over America, kids were walking into school yards and classrooms, and the American flag was waving. All over America, kids were saying the Pledge of Allegiance, saying ‘indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.’ All over America, we had memorized this, but did anybody know what it meant?
Nah, Amari said. Not really. Not back then.
I didn’t either, Ashton said. But it gave us a sameness. I stood in the school yard looking up at that flag and I felt something. Not just like a new kid. Not just like a white kid, but like I was a . . . a part of everybody running and jumping and playing all over America. Not just in our school yard. I mean—everywhere.
I know . . . right? Holly said. Like, thousands and thousands of kids all over the country got decked out in their new school clothes and were all excited for their first day of school.
Yeah, Ashton said. Like that! But on my first day here, almost every kid seemed to be some shade of brown. I had never seen so many brown . . . and black people. His voice faltered—like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it right this time. So many African . . . Americans.
And Latinos, Tiago said. Don’t forget us.
Man, you brown, Amari said. He already mentioned you.
Light brown, Holly said. Light, light, light, light brown.
I’m not saying anything to be racist, Ashton said. It’s just what I remember. I never even thought about my color till that day. Before I even met you, Amari, it felt like everybody was staring at me.
Lucky you, Holly said.
How’s that lucky?
Because every single body in this room except you had to think about themselves that way already. Like, way before now. The way you felt like you were on the outside of everything? Like you weren’t a part of it? Well, that’s the way a whole lot of people feel every day.
Amari and Esteban nodded.
It’s true, Tiago said. Like the way people sometimes look at me just because I have an accent, and like Amari with the guns, and like Esteban with his papi—everybody.
Even me, I said. The first thing people see is my hair. Then they see my skin.
Then they ask, ‘What are you?’ Holly said.
You got the white pass, Ashton. Until now.
I hear you, Ashton said. But I never asked for a white pass.
You didn’t have to, Holly said. But all I can say is, welcome home.
Ashton looked confused until Holly smiled.
You’re one of us now.
Ashton leaned back in his chair and, slowly, he smiled. Yeah, he said. I’m one of us now.
Club Us, Amari said. The membership requirements are kinda messed up, but whatever.
I got a question, though, Tiago said. Why’d your family come all the way here from Connecticut, anyway? The one time my family went to Connecticut, it took us a whole bunch of hours. It was pretty but I’m not trying to be driving for that long. And my mom wouldn’t let us play video games. She was like, ‘No, we’re going to listen to audiobooks.’ For hours!
So not fair! Amari said.
What are you talking about, Holly said. You like to read, Amari. You read all the time except when you come here. Then you draw. But in class, I always see you with a book.
Yeah, I know that. You act like that’s news.
Then what are you saying?
I didn’t say anything about reading. I’m telling the brother it’s messed up because you can play a video game and listen to a book. You don’t just have to stare out the window. Those are two whole different senses.
That’s what’s up, Tiago said. That’s what I tried to tell my mom.
See . . . ?! Amari rolled his eyes at Holly. Miss Know-It-All think she knows it all.
But I’m with Tiago, Amari said. Why’d your peeps come all the way from Connecticut to BK?
When my dad lost his job in Connecticut, Ashton said, a friend he knew from college gave him a job managing a Key Food in Brooklyn. I didn’t even know what a Key Food was. I guess there are some in Connecticut, but not where we lived.
Welcome to Brooklyn, Amari said. We’re glad you landed here.
* * *
• • •
That day, I remember all of us in the ARTT room leaning in toward each other. But what is frozen in my mind, even more than that, is later the same day. Ashton, Amari, Esteban and Tiago left the school together walking four across. So close that their shoulders were touching. Me and Holly walked behind them. A double wall against the neckers who were waiting right outside the school yard. Three tall eighth-graders who glared at Ashton but walked backward, away from the six of us. Three tall eighth-graders who looked from Amari to Tiago to Esteban to Ashton, then kept looking to me and Holly, then turned and walked quickly, really quickly, away from all of us.
22
The first time we saw Esteban smile, really smile again, was in December. It was because of poetry. The Thursday night before, he had gotten a letter from his father, who was still in Florida at the detention center.
At least he’s still in this country, Esteban said. Even though he’s far away.
And he’s okay, I said.
Okay-ish, Holly said. But that’s better than nothing, right?
Esteban had come down from the windowsill and was sitting with us in the circle. He unfolded the letter from his father. It was written on yellow legal pad paper. Esteban handled it delicately as we all leaned in to look at it with him. His father’s handwriting was small and careful, each letter so clear, it almost looked typed.
He wrote me a poem, Esteban said. He said he has time to write now. He said when he writes, it’s like he’s back in the apartment with us.
Nobody can touch it, he said.
We all put our hands down in our laps. Even Holly lowered her needles.
That’s cool with me, Amari said.
Me too, I said. But can you read it to us, at least?
It’s in Spanish, Esteban said. But I wrote an English version too. Because one day, I’m going to be his translator. You guys know what that is, right?
We nodded, but Esteban was so excited, he explained anyway. I’m going to rewrite all his poems in English for him. And we’re going to sell books in the DR and in America.
Then Esteban cleared his throat and read.
When they came for me, I lifted my hands to them,
let them wrap the cuffs around my wrists. I did not fight, I did not yell.
When they pressed me into the van, there were others who spoke our language—
a language of sun and ocean and beauty, a language
of birds and merengue. We leaned across the van
toward each other and knew the same people back home.
Always remember, when you are with your people you are home.
Esteban finished reading the poem and carefully put it back into his notebook. Carefully put his notebook back into his bag.
I kept staring down at my hands, a stone in my throat like I’d choke to death. I saw my father’s head again, getting pushed down into the police car. Was he crying when it happened? Did he look toward me? Did he know that everything was gone?
I took a breath. Then another. Air wasn’t coming in fast enough.
Haley, I heard Amari say. You okay, Red?
I nodded but kept my head down.
It’s beautiful, I choked out.
He said he’s going to write me more poems, Esteban said. He said he’ll write them until we’re all together again.
He’s a good poet, Tiago sai
d. He reminds me of the other poet guy, the one Ms. Laverne read us. The one who wrote that poem about a blank white page or something.
Alarcón, Holly said. Francisco Alarcón.
I tried to remember Alarcón but couldn’t. My head felt so heavy. Maybe this was the weight of the world people talked about. The gray ghost that took your breath and your words.
How do you even remember that? Amari was saying to Holly.
Because she said his name a hundred times AND wrote it on the board. Jeez. How do you not remember that.
Yeah, Tiago said. That guy.
He’s going to write me more of them, Esteban said. He promised. And I’ll read them in English and Spanish because it’s for both languages.
That’s what up, Amari said. Read those poems in all kinds of American, son.
When I finally looked up, Esteban was smiling.
23
Outside, the sun is slowly sinking. I hear my uncle drag his suitcase across the floor above me as I listen to Esteban read his father’s poem. His voice on the recorder is careful and clear. I wonder if he and his dad are walking along a beach together. I wonder if they’re working on their books, Esteban finding the English words for his dad as he writes what he sees. Downstairs, my father has stopped playing piano. Now I hear him moving around in the kitchen, pots being pulled from cabinets, the sound of a bottle of seltzer being opened.
When they came for me, I lifted my hands to them,
let them wrap the cuffs around my wrists. I did not fight, I did not . . .
Knock knock. My uncle stands at the door, smiling, a bright orange shirt in his hand.
I thought you were going to help me pack, he says. What about this thing? Stay or go.
The shirt should go, but you should stay. I turn back to the window, the recorder silent now.
Hales, c’mon, favorite niece.
Only niece.
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