Will there be whitefish and dumplings and Polish sausage,
Dressel’s German Bakery,
and Marshall Fields Department Store, with the
fifty-foot Christmas tree?
Did they have lightning bugs
and summer rainstorms
and snow?
Was it real? Were we actually going to live
somewhere else?
Somewhere called California,
where everything was perfect
and dreams came true,
just like in the movies?
TO CALIFORNIA
Someone was found to take Sparkle.
I hugged her, weeping
until her long cocker ears were wet.
Furniture was packed into a moving van.
Goodbyes were said.
I saw Grandma crying and I hugged her, too.
I was excited and scared and lonesome
already.
We started for California
on a snowy January morning.
Cocooned in the backseat of the car,
I vomited across the country
from Chicago to Los Angeles.
In Dallas, Texas, we stopped at a J. C. Penney
to replace the blankets, pillows, and towels I had ruined.
The J. C. Penney had a magic machine.
A clerk put our bill and our money
in what looked like a brass soup can,
which she dropped into a tube.
With a press of a button, the can shot up the tube
and across the ceiling to somewhere
in the depths of the store.
Soon with a whoosh it returned to us,
now containing our change.
If Texas was this modern, I thought,
what would California be like?
We climbed back into the car
where I was immediately sick
on the new towels.
LOS ANGELES
With my frizzy perm and
little puff-sleeved cotton dresses
tied in the back with floppy bows,
and brown oxfords, sturdy and roomy enough
to last all year,
I arrived to find California girls
mature even in their
Catholic school uniforms.
California girls rolled skirts up shorter and
tucked matching blouses into tiny waists,
and tossed their hair in the boys’ direction.
The nuns at my new school didn’t like the way I
looked
or talked
or that the smartest girl in the class
had a whiff of
Polish and
Chicago about her.
You might have crossed your Ts like that
in Chicago,
the nun in my class told me with a sniff,
but it is not proper here.
And
Those shoes might be worn
in Chicago
but they are not acceptable
uniform shoes
here.
I went home each day
alone
to lie on my bed and
read.
In a book I could go wherever I wanted—
home to Chicago, to Grandma and Grandpa, or
over the ocean or
back in time and
imagine myself there.
I wrote letters to my grandma,
who couldn’t read or write.
My grandpa wrote back,
enclosing a two-dollar bill each time,
so I knew he still bet on the horses,
for where else did one get
two-dollar bills?
Did he still drink Green Rivers at the drugstore?
Who was helping Grandma make kolachke,
sticking little fingers into the dough to make
dents for jelly?
Was Sparkle happy in her new home,
or was she sad and bedraggled,
her cocker ears hanging to the floor?
Did the neighborhood kids play
Red Light, Green Light without me?
Did they play hide-and-seek,
looking for
but never finding
me?
GIRL SCOUTS
In Chicago I was a Brownie.
We wove potholders and made cookies,
sang and played games,
and told stories.
In Los Angeles I thought I’d join the Girl Scouts.
The California Girl Scouts
didn’t dress in Girl Scout uniforms but wore
poodle skirts and
starched white blouses
and sleek black flats on their feet.
They didn’t want to sing or play games.
They wanted to have parties
with boys
and dancing.
I sat alone,
my big brown oxfords tucked beneath my chair
so no one could see them,
until the meeting was over
and then my big brown oxfords
took me home.
I was not a California sort of Girl Scout.
BECOMING CALIFORNIANS
My father loved California and the
heat.
He’d do cannonballs
into the neighbor’s swimming pool
and float with only his nose,
his belly, and his toes
above the water.
My mother drank martinis
and served Thanksgiving and
Christmas dinner
on a picnic table in the backyard.
Isn’t this great? she’d say,
over and over.
It’s warm enough to eat
Christmas dinner outside.
I didn’t think it was great.
Where was the snow?
And people with red cheeks
bundled up in scarves and mittens?
Where were
red cabbage with apples,
roast squab, and
lime Jell-O with whipped cream,
like at Grandma’s?
My brother was as pale and thin
as a wisp of smoke
but he could run like the wind.
He found three boys his age
in our new neighborhood
and played basketball and baseball,
or just ran, fast as he could,
animated by youth and happiness
and friends.
I was by far the oldest girl
in our neighborhood,
blocks and blocks full of babies and
boys.
The girls at school talked about
bras and
boyfriends.
I had neither.
I was out of place, not good enough,
strange and foreign,
marked like the laundry my Irish mother
didn’t get clean enough,
according to my grandma,
who hung it in the attic
so the neighbors couldn’t see.
I wanted to go home.
My uncle Stooge raised homing pigeons,
which, taken far away,
still found their way back,
but not
me.
Like a lightning bug in a jar,
flapping against the sides,
I was unable to fly free.
My mother said,
You always have your nose in
a book.
I did.
I found friends in books.
And hope.
So I read.
I was more lonely than anyone knew.
The loneliness came in flashes
but I swallowed it inside
and read.
Reading saved my life.
GOING BACK
Three years later,
just before I started high school,
my brother and I took the train
from Los Angeles to
Chicago.
The Chicago air was heavy and steamy.
It made my hair limp
and my clothes sweaty.
People dressed funny
and talked funny.
We stayed at Grandma’s house
but Grandma did not sleep
at the foot of my bed
to keep me safe,
as she used to,
but in her own bed
with Grandpa.
She did not say,
I am so happy to see you again.
Looking at my long legs and
wide shoulders,
she said,
You are too big for a girl.
She said,
The fingernails you bite
collect in a sac in your stomach
and one day they will explode
and kill you.
Grandpa did not play the spoons
anymore
or lead school children
safely across the street
anymore
or drink Green Rivers
anymore.
No one drank Green Rivers
anymore.
Uncle Stooge and Uncle Chester
stayed elsewhere so we could have their beds.
The house still smelled like pipe tobacco
but the uncles were not there.
Only the pigeons were the same.
Everything else was changed,
especially my brother
and me.
We were growing up
and away.
On the way back to Los Angeles,
the train broke down
and sat on the tracks for two days
in the middle of nowhere,
a place not Chicago
and not California.
Just like me—
not Chicago and
not California,
a too-big foot in each place
but at home in neither.
And I am not certain
if that is a bad thing or
a good thing.
Karen Cushman is best known for writing historical fiction with gutsy girl protagonists, like The Midwife’s Apprentice, which won a Newbery Medal, and Catherine, Called Birdy, which won a Newbery Honor Award. She was born in Chicago and moved to California when she was in middle school, with her younger brother. She read, wrote, and put on plays in her garage enthusiastically from a very young age, though she did not publish her first novel until she was nearly fifty. She lives on a soft green island near Seattle with her husband. She has one grown daughter.
“It’s almost time for our big adventure!” Ms. Wehrle drops a yellow paper on my desk.
I must be hearing wrong when she says our sixth-grade class is taking a three-day trip to “study science and nature, and things you can’t learn in a classroom.”
Three whole days? I took school trips at the Lahore Grammar School in Pakistan—my school until we moved to America this summer. But we visited places like Shalimar Gardens for a couple of hours. We didn’t sleep there.
When I show my parents the yellow paper, they don’t like the idea either.
“No, no, no.” Abbu shakes his head. “I won’t send my daughter into the jungle with strangers!”
Ammi agrees with Abbu, and I sigh with relief. It’s bad enough being stuck in middle school every day. It’s taken me a month to stop getting lost in the giant building and find my locker. I’m finally beginning to understand how things work in America (HERE), compared to Pakistan (THERE).
THERE we stayed in one classroom all day and teachers came to us. HERE we rush to different rooms in crowded hallways before a bell rings.
THERE everyone wore neat uniforms. HERE kids wear whatever they want—even pants with holes in them and numbered shirts.
THERE my school was all girls. HERE half the students are boys—even tall and hairy ones.
THERE I had one English class, and the rest in Urdu. HERE I think, write, and speak in English all day long and go to a special English learning class called ESL.
THERE I had my best friend, Deena. HERE I have nobody to talk to, share secrets with, or trade lunches with.
But just because I’m figuring it out doesn’t mean I want to be alone anywhere without my family for three days. So I crumple up the yellow paper and throw it away.
A week later Ms. Wehrle calls me to her desk while everyone works on an assignment.
“Raniya, I don’t have a permission slip for you for Outdoor Ed,” she says, pointing to a pile of the yellow papers.
“Yes, ma…I’m not going.” I stop in time before saying “madam,” like I call my teachers THERE. It slipped out of my mouth during the first week of class and everyone giggled, including Ms. Wehrle.
“Why not? You’re the only student not going.” Ms. Wehrle frowns. “It’s not just fun. There’s so much hands-on learning about science and the environment, team building and more.”
“My parents said I can’t go,” I say.
“Oh dear. Is it a matter of…finances?” Ms. Wehrle half whispers the last word.
“Pardon me?” I whisper back.
“If it’s a matter of the cost…ahem…we can talk to the PTA and I’m sure—”
“No, thank you,” I interrupt. My face grows warm and I look up to see if anyone is listening. THERE, Abbu used to have a job at an office where he wore fancy suits and shiny shoes. HERE, he goes to work in jeans and sneakers at a shop. But Abbu says we still have plenty of money.
“Well then, may I ask why? This is the only time in my twelve years here that any student hasn’t gone.”
“Oh…um…I don’t know,” I mumble. A boy named Tony with dark brown hair is definitely listening from his desk.
“Would it be okay if I called your parents to discuss it?” Ms. Wehrle asks.
“Yes. May I go back to my seat now?”
“Of course.” Ms. Wehrle frowns again. As I walk past, Tony shrugs at me.
By the time I get off the bus and walk home, everything has changed.
“Your teacher called.” My father is home. By “home” I mean the basement we are staying in for now that belongs to a nice old lady.
“Did you tell her I won’t go?” I’m sure Abbu was as firm with Ms. Wehrle as he is with my sister, Soniya, and me.
“She told me about the learning that happens there that can’t happen in a classroom. She said it’s safe, and she will sleep in the same cabin as you—all girls. I told her thank you very much and gave you permission.”
HERE I watch TV shows where kids roll their eyes at their parents and say things like “But, Dad,” stretching out their words so it sounds like “Daaa-ad.” I could never say that, even if I want to.
“Yes, Abbu” is all I say, although my heart is racing. Why didn’t I tell Ms. Wehrle m
y parents don’t speak English? At bedtime, I confess to my mother that I’m scared.
“You will be fine, meri jaan.” Ammi always calls me her “heart.” “Your teacher said it is most kids’ favorite part of the year.”
“It won’t be for me.”
“You always enjoy school outings.” Ammi brushes my hair out of my face.
“That was THERE. Please don’t make me go.”
“Abbu told your teacher yes. We can’t say no now. You will be fine.” Ammi smiles. But I see the worry in her eyes.
There’s a list of things we have to bring to Outdoor Ed. Abbu buys me a bright green sleeping sack from the home store. I pick out a hat and gloves. The list says “no electronics.”
And now I’m sitting on the bus with my Outdoor Ed group, called the Frogs. I’m gripping my lunch as I sit on a hard green bench by the window, alone. It’s louder than the school hallways as everyone talks in excited voices about what we’re going to do at this place called Skycroft.
The bus pulls away from school, and Ammi shrinks into the distance. Just before she disappears from view, she wipes her eyes. She was quiet when she hugged me goodbye for an extra-long time.
As my chest tightens, I’m grateful she didn’t cry in front of me. I would have crumbled into pieces, and Ms. Wehrle would have had to sweep me off the sidewalk. Ammi never cries. Even when we waved goodbye to our cousins and left our happy life THERE in Pakistan and everything I’ve known to board a plane HERE to Maryland three months ago, she forced a smile at me.
I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes. Three girls in sparkly T-shirts and fluffy boots are whispering in the seat across the aisle from me. Behind them, a couple of boys are yelling to others in the back of the bus. Another kid taps the edge of the window, like he’s playing drums. I sink into my seat and wait for the hour-long ride to end.
* * *
—
Screech. I wake up when the bus stops. I look down at my lap and something is missing. My lunch bag! It’s nowhere on the floor. Then I turn around and see Tony, in the bench behind me, holding my lunch and grinning.
My heart sinks into my stomach. I’ve seen bullies on TV, stealing lunches and shoving kids into lockers. I don’t know what to do, so I turn back around and say nothing.
“Don’t you want this?” Tony asks, touching my arm. I tense but don’t move. “I mean, what’s left?” he adds. “I tried half your sandwich. Was that Sriracha mayo?”
Totally Middle School Page 4