One True Friend

by James Cross Giblin

  I've never lived with a foster family like them before, and sometimes I wonder when they'll change They still treat me like I was their son. Mr. Smith tells me to call him Pops, but I can't say it. I never called any of the people I lived with anything except Mr. & Mrs. whatever their names were. Most times I just called them sir or ma'am. "Yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am" pleased them—especially the ones who were foster parents just for the money.

  It's different for my brother Ronald. He calls the Smiths Mama and Papa, because he's lived with them since he was two. He's seven years old now, and they are adopting him, so he will be their son for real. He doesn't remember anything except living with the Smiths. If I was like him, then I wouldn't be so confused.

  Mr. & Mrs. Smith always tell me that this is my home, too, but I still feel like a visitor. I hate it when Mr. Smith calls me "son." Then I get angry with myself for getting angry with him, because he is only being kind. I know that deep down he is a nice person. He calls all of Ronald's friends "son." I try to change my attitude, but my own father lives inside my head.

  Lately Mr. Smith has started what he calls family devotions. He reads a passage from the Bible, and we talk about things that bother us and things that we are thankful for. It's a special family time, but it's hard for me to say anything except "Nothing's bothering me. I just want to find my brothers and sisters." The Smiths already know this. And then for the thankful part I say, "I thank God for the gift of life." My father always used to say that. I think Mr. Smith started this family devotions stuff as a way to force us to feel like a real family. I can't forget my mother and father just because I found a new family. When I stayed with people who didn't treat me like anything much, it was easier to pretend that my parents were still with me and that I was just visiting.

  I'd make believe that my father was rolling up in his raggedy station wagon with my mother and the rest of the children, and we'd ride out to Coney Island. My mom would have sandwiches and potato salad, and if my father had extra money, we'd buy sodas and corn on the cob and my parents would eat raw clams on the half shell—ugh.

  We'd stay on the beach all day; then in the evening we'd go on the rides. 1 know kids go to DisneyWorld nowadays, but Coney Island was our DisneyWorld. Thoughts about my mother and father make me feel happy and sad at the same time. I feel happy when I remember my father's rhymes and jokes, and then sad because I'll never hear his voice again—except in my imagination.

  Still, Mr. & Mrs. Smith are the kindest foster parents I've ever had, and Syracuse, New York, is one of the nicest places I've ever lived in, but I still miss the Bronx even though I only lived there for five months. You and the rest of the 163rd Street crew are like my sisters and brothers. I don't think I ever told you this before, but even Mickey and Dotty remind me of my own twin brother and sister.

  I didn't mean to write such a long letter. Just wanted to say hello.

  Please write me back soon and give me all of the 163rd Street news—even the smallest event.

  Love,

  Amir

  12 noon

  Tuesday

  June 23rd

  My Dear Amir,

  I was so happy to get your letter. Seems like we haven't "talked" for a long time. I've been saving up many things to tell you. My head is about to bust wide open, it's so stuffed with 163rd Street news.

  The smallest event is that my baby brother, Gerald, is three years old now. I helped with his birthday party last Saturday. I had to teach ten little terror tots how to play musical chairs. Did you know that musical chairs turns kids into demons? But I kept those little crumb crushers in check. I did such a good job, my parents are trusting me to baby-sit Gerald all summer, and they're even paying me, so I guess you could say I have a summer job, too.

  I still go to the Beauty Hive on Saturdays to help Miss Bee and the other hairdressers—mostly I answer the telephone and run errands. I love working there. My mother tells me to pay attention to what I'm doing and don't listen to all the gossip and grownup talk.

  But my father calms her down—tells her that I know right from wrong and that they can't protect me from the world forever—which is the same thing I've been trying to tell my mother FOREVER!

  Getting back to more important things:

  I'm glad that the Smiths are nice to you. I don't think they will catch a bad attitude all of a sudden, do you? Three months is a long time. They would have changed by now. And just think, they took you out of the group home so that you and Ronald could live together, and they haven't stopped trying to help you, right? Just like you found Ronald, I bet you find the rest of your siblings. (New word I learned.)

  It makes me feel real proud that you want my advice. Remember, you used to be the one who always gave me good advice. So here's what I think you should do about the letter. Send it out. Sometimes adults don't understand. Who're you hurting? No one. What could happen? Nothing, except you might find your aunt. Don't worry about the telephone book. My father brought it home from his job so we'd have a Manhattan phone book. No one uses it. We don't even know anyone in Manhattan. I looked for Z. Jones and Zachary Jones, but didn't see that name.

  After I read your letter, I thought about my own mother and father, and I was able to put myself in your sneakers and understand how you feel. I would feel the same way you do if I had to live with strangers—even nice ones. It would be like forcing my foot into a shoe that didn't fit. I know it would hurt.

  As much as my parents' stories about growing up and their "how to behave in public" lectures get on my nerves, I could never think of anyone but them as my mom and dad. It would be hard for me to put a smile on my face and feel happy living with strangers. I might even be rude, and I know you could never be rude, Amir. When I'm sad, I get mad and evil as a snake and take it out on everybody, which 1 know is wrong. But like my father always says, "I'll work on that." I'm sure you're still acting sweet and kind even though you're unhappy. I bet you're too shy to speak at Mr. Smith's family devotions. It's hard enough to tell your real parents what you really feel.

  Family devotions is an interesting idea, though. But if my family had such a thing, Gerald would be running around not paying attention. If I said something was bothering me, then my parents would tell some story to show me how lucky I am. So the what's-bothering-me part and the something-to-be-thankful-for part would be mushed together, and I'd end up thinking I'm supposed to be thankful for what's bothering me.

  Then my mother would find the longest part of the Bible to read, and we'd all fall asleep and accidentally bang our heads on the floor before she said amen. Then we'd end up going to the emergency room. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm sure something weird would happen.

  I thought a lot about what you said about being happy and sad at the same time. Everything has two sides to it—a front and a back, a happy and a sad, a good and a bad. You get my drift? I can have a pity party one minute and a celebration the next. Some people, though, say that's a girl thing.

  Think upon this. Imagine that your mother and father are in heaven watching out for you like guardian angels.

  This is what I believe: When parents die while we're still kids and really need them, even though they don't always understand us, they become our guardian angels and look out for us from above. That's a positive thought for you today.

  But I have one question. The raggedy station wagon you mentioned. Was that the car your parents had the terrible accident in?

  I never told you this before because I didn't want you to be angry with me—like I was putting your business in the street—but we had to write an essay about someone who was determined to succeed. I wrote about you. I didn't use your name, and I kind of changed things around so no one would know it was you.

  I wrote about a little boy (I made him six years old so he could really be small and weak—the teacher thought that was the most ridiculous part of the story). Anyway, just like you, this kid is determined to find his missing brothers and sisters; therefore, he bugs every
social worker, counselor, caseworker, and teacher he meets until people get so tired of him bothering them, they help him. You told me that you used to bug every counselor you met about your missing family.

  The point of the story was that the kid never gave up. I got a lousy grade on it. The teacher told me that I was supposed to write about a real hero or heroine. But I think what you did was great. You succeeded because you made someone help you. That's heroic. Do you know how hard it is to get good grownup help these days? You never did tell me how you actually ended up living with the Smiths.

  I just thought of something Our graduation speaker, who was a little boring, said one interesting thing—well, maybe more than one, but I wasn't paying strict attention. He said, "We will get back in life what we send out." I have thought a lot about what that means. If you're evil, then evil things will happen to you. If you're kind, like you are, then good things will happen to you. I think it's time for the world to treat you kind, because you do not have an evil bone in your body.

  Now, here is the Big Event: All of the 163rd Street/Union Avenue crew graduated yesterday. Mickey and Dotty, the unidentical twins, are still sawed off. They haven't grown an inch in their bodies or their minds. Lavinia is still bossy and showing off. She wore the biggest and whitest dress, like it was her wedding day instead of sixth-grade graduation. Big Russell is so wide now, he looks like a man. Yellow Bird won the talent award, and I won the English award and a perfect-attendance award, too; however, my parents should get the perfect-attendance award. If I was too sick to move, they'd drag my sick body to school so I'd be marked present.

  The big graduation surprise was Charlene. You remember her—she's one of the five sisters from Union Avenue you asked about, the Nit Nowns. She's the quiet one. Well, Charlene received the outstanding-student award. Her mother and her sisters were there, and you know how loud those sisters are, especially the older ones. When Charlene walked up on the stage, the sisters stood up and cheered like they were at a football game. Their mother, Miss Connie, pulled them back in their seats. Charlene looked so ashamed when everyone started laughing at her family. I felt sorry for her and tried to put a muzzle on the twins, who thought it was so funny. "Why don't you be quiet?" I said. "She's embarrassed." The twins kept laughing anyway.

  T.T. was the only one who didn't graduate. I knew he'd never get out of the sixth grade. He's supposed to be going to summer school, but he must be majoring in basketball. Seems like he's either on 163rd Street or in the playground day and night playing ball.

  Graduation was fun, though, and now everyone is getting ready for the next grand event—the annual 163rd Street July 4th Block Party. The block party is big-time now, not the dinky little chip-and-dip affair that it used to be when you lived here. We're having a double-dutch contest, and whoever wins will take part in a citywide double-dutch tournament. We put together a double-dutch team with Charlene and her sisters. So now we have one team: The 163rd Street/Union Avenue Double Dutch Champs.

  The 163rd Street crew told me to tell you hello. Inquiring minds want to know when you are coming back to the Bronx to visit us. Maybe this summer? How is your job at the day camp? Do you have a lot of terror tots to take care of?

  I'm keeping my fingers, toes, and eyes crossed for you, and hope that you get together with all of your family soon. I have to go. Gerald is whining for me to fix him lunch, and my mother will be calling on the phone any minute now to check on us.

  Love,

  Doris

  P.S. Try this: Practice saying Pop Smith and Mom Smith in letters to me. Maybe one day you'll be able to say it to them.

  June 26th

  Dear Doris,

  How are you? I was so happy to get your letter. I read it again this morning before I left for my job at the day camp. It made me feel like I was back in the Bronx. I feel sorry for T.T. Maybe one day he'll grow up. I am the counselor for the six- and seven-year-olds, and while they're napping, I'm writing to you.

  I like this job very much. It reminds me of how I took care of my younger sisters and brothers. The other counselor teaches them how to swim and play games, and I do the arts and crafts. I'm going to show them how to make puppets this afternoon. Mostly, the children like to see me draw, and they always ask me to draw pictures of them.

  Mr. Smith promised when I first moved in that one day he'd drive me down to the Bronx for a visit, but he works most weekends, especially in the summer. It's a five-hour drive. One day, though, I'll visit you and the rest of the crew.

  I never thought about guardian angels and stuff like that, but maybe you're right. Maybe my parents are still watching out for all of us—including Ronald. It's a positive thought, anyway, and it makes me feel good. Yes, the station wagon was the car that my parents had the accident in. They died in that car.

  You're smart—that's why I asked your advice. I haven't sent out any letters yet, but I decided I will, even though I feel a little guilty. I have to send them. But like you said, who am I hurting? There's a Xerox machine here at the camp. When I asked the woman who works in the office whether I could make a copy, she said no one is allowed to use the machine but her, and she'd make me a copy when she had time. Then she started asking me a lot of nosy questions, like what is it for? Is it personal or official business? Is it something for my mother or father? I'm afraid she'd read the letter and tell the whole camp everything in it.

  Sometimes there's a teenager working there. I'll ask him to let me make a copy when the woman isn't around.

  When you said that you get back in life what you send out, you reminded me of something I had forgotten—my dad used to say the same thing in his own funny way. "Send out junk, and junk will fly back in your face." He also used to say, "When you help somebody else, you help yourself, too."

  It makes me sad to remember. I guess I push some memories down deep inside myself until they disappear. Still, they return, sharp like needles. You're right about the Smiths, though. Why would they change now? They were nice to me from the first time we met. Sorry you didn't get an A for your story. The next time you need to find a famous person, try the encyclopedia. I ain't no hero.

  There's not much to the real story of how I found out where Ronald was living.

  I bugged the counselors, like I told you before. I'd always ask about my brothers and sisters. Most times caseworkers and counselors would try to help me. No one ever said no to me. They'd say, "We'll find out," but they never did. Either they never had the time or they forgot. My father always told me to be a pest when it's necessary. He'd say, "Sometimes a little ant in your pants can get your attention quicker than a rhino at your heels."

  So I'd try to be a pest as much as I could, but you know me, Doris, I'm not too good at pestering. If I was, I'd figure out a way to pester that woman in the office into making copies for me. Anyhow, I talked to a counselor in the Bronx who found out that Ronald lived in Syracuse with the Smiths. At first I thought that all of my brothers and sisters lived up here. It was because of her that I was sent to the group home up here, so I could be near him.

  I never saw or heard from her again after that. She was a real nice lady, though. She contacted the Smiths, and they brought Ronald to visit me in the group home.

  It was a sad visit. I didn't recognize Ronald, and he didn't know me. The last time I'd seen him, he was just a little kid. He stared at me with a big question mark in his eyes when Mrs. Smith said, "Ronald, meet your brother Amir."

  Ronald knows that he's being adopted, and he knows that he has brothers and sisters, but I don't think he understands, even though the Smiths explained it to him. It's just something he was told. Ronald was calling the Smiths Mama and Papa, and it was hard for me to think of him as my brother.

  I don't want to feel like that, because he is my brother. I kept reminding myself of how it was when my mother brought him home from the hospital. He had tiny hands and feet as soft as velvet. I remember how the rest of the kids always wanted to hold him and play with him, and my mo
ther and father had to shoo them away. "Y'all going to kill this baby with love," my mother would joke. "You'll drown him with those slurpy kisses."

  I was the only one who could hold him all of the time, because I was the oldest. He has no way of remembering how much we loved him. "You can call and visit your brother anytime," the Smiths told me. When you're a foster kid like me, you have to learn people fast. I could feel deep down inside my heart that they meant what they said. I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but they didn't seem like evil people—they looked like nice grandparents you could trust. Ronald stuck near them, like he was afraid of me.

  Every week after the first visit, the Smiths picked me up and took me to church and then to their house for Sunday dinner. Mrs. Smith is a good cook and baker. She makes the best fried chicken in the world. Maybe the Smiths were the ants in my pants. They kept telling me that I could stay with them. "Ronald started out as our foster child," Mr. Smith would always remind me, "and now he's going to be our son for real." He also told me that he'd help me get in touch with the rest of my family.

  I thought about it for a long time, because, like I said before, I felt deep down inside myself that the Smiths were real nice, honest people, but I was afraid that there could be another side to them. Also, Ronald acted like we wasn't even related. He still acts that way most of the time. Doris, I can tell only you this—it doesn't feel like he's my brother. But I guess he is, unless he's the wrong Ronald. (Just joking.)

  After one of their visits Mr. Smith said, "My cousin is doing a search for your family's records. Me and Mrs. Smith want to help you, whether you live with us or not." That convinced me to stay with them. They wanted to help me just because that's the way they are.