They had a welcome party for me when I moved in. Mrs. Smith baked a huge chocolate cake, and some of the people from their church and the neighbors came. It was real nice of them, but I felt strange. I was used to being a foster kid and going to live in other people's homes, but I guess I wasn't used to getting a welcome party.
So there's some more of the story for you to tell—but I still think you'd better find a hero in the encyclopedia. (Smile.) It was just good luck that the Bronx counselor found out where Ronald was. I didn't really do anything so special.
By the way, writing Mom and Pop Smith is not going to make it any easier for me to say it. Anyhow, I don't suppose I'll ever have to. Once I get in touch with my aunt, I guess I'll be living with her. Well, I see some little eyes staring at me. The terror tots are waking up. Write back soon.
Love,
Amir
8:30 P.M.
Saturday
July 4th
My Dear Amir,
I hope that you are very, very fine and that your 4th of July was better than mine, and I hope that Mr. Smith is able to bring you down here soon. It's a real drag when you can't be with your best friend. Before I tell you about my stupid 4th of July, I want to say that I always imagine how you feel—to have parents who are not really your own parents. You see, I can't be a helpful friend if I can't understand exactly how you feel and try to feel the same way.
Like I said before, guardian angels led you to the Smiths. That's why they're nice to you. They can't help themselves. You probably shouldn't worry about not being able to call the Smiths Mom and Pop. When those same guardian angels lead you to your family, you won't be living with the Smiths anymore anyhow. However, I have a question. Why did you say in your last letter that you guess you'll be living with your aunt? Isn't that what you want more than anything else?
Let's put this good thought out in the world so that it can come back at you: Your brothers and sisters live in Manhattan or the Bronx with your aunt, you and Ronald will move back here to be with them, and everyone will live happily ever after. Except the Smiths, because I think they really like you and they'll miss you, and they love Ronald, so they'll miss him even more. But they'll come and visit you and Ronald every Sunday.
That's a nice fairy tale, ain't it, Amir? It would be so wonderful if things turned out that way, wouldn't it? Guess I'm bugging. No matter how things turn out, someone is going to be unhappy.
Here's another nice fairy tale: You move back to the Bronx. Then I wouldn't have to be bothered with my phony little girlfriends who can't be trusted.
Without you, Amir, I wouldn't have a sensible person in this world to talk to. I can't even talk to my parents anymore. No matter what happens in life, they make endless speeches about their own childhoods, which have nothing to do with my problems. My father tells me about his boyhood down South, and my mother tells me about her girlhood in Harlem, and I can't get a word in edgewise.
Guess you're wondering what in the world I'm ranting about, and what I'm doing in the house so early—the one night of the year when my parents let me sit out on the stoop until way after the sreetlights come on.
Remember 1 told you in my last letter that we were having a big 4th of July block party and double-dutch contest? And that now we had a 163rd Street/Union Avenue double-dutch team with Charlene and her sisters from Union Avenue?
Well, Lavinia and Mickey and Dotty decided that they did not want to be on a team with the sisters anymore, and that we should have two separate teams. Me, the twins, and Lavinia would be one team, and Charlene and her sisters another team.
Lavinia and the twins got angry with me. They said I was a traitor because I wouldn't go along with their scheme. They thought if we won the tournament in the fall, we'd travel all over the country and be on television. They think they're too cute to be on the same team with Charlene and her sisters, and are always talking about how funny the sisters look with those extensions in their hair, and how Charlene's clothes are always too big for her and how tall and skinny the older sisters are. If the truth be told, the only way Lavinia and the twins could have had a winning team was to keep those sisters on it. Those sisters are like double-dutch geniuses.
I like the sisters—even if we're not serious hang-out buddies. They've always been nice to me; they're just loud, except for Charlene. So I threatened to leave the team if Lavinia and the others threw the sisters off.
"I'm not a phony," I told Lavinia. "Just because you think this tournament is some kind of big deal, now you too good to associate with Charlene and her sisters after they taught you everything you know." You know what Lavinia had the nerve to tell me? "See ya," she said, flicking her hand at me like I was a nobody and a nuisance. "If you feel that way, go and hang out with them drugged-up sisters."
Now, how vicious is that? The sisters act wild, but I know they don't mess with drugs. Lavinia thinks they do because the sisters are always jumping double dutch in the playground, which is filled with teenagers, and that must mean they're up to no good. And Mickey and Dotty think whatever Lavinia wants them to think.
The playground may be a little worse than when you lived here, Amir Yellow Bird, Big Russell, and the rest of the boys play basketball on the block and don't even go there anymore. Only T.T. still plays there. He and Charlene and her sisters all live in the same building across the street from the playground, so that's where they play.
People say that kids from the next block are fooling with drugs, but you know how everyone in this neighborhood exaggerates. Before the summer is over, there'll be more rumors than flies on 163rd Street. I'm glad I'm out of all of it and don't have any friends except you. I'm better off just staying by myself.
You see, Charlene's sisters got angry with me, too, because they think I didn't want them on the team either. I tried to explain to them that breaking up the team wasn't my idea. I even offered to stay on their team. They laughed in my face. "When you learn how to jump," one of them said. Only Charlene listened to what I had to say. "Don't pay them any mind," she said when they started yelling at me. "I believe you." Looks like no matter how nice I try to be, I make somebody mad.
So since I'm no longer on the stupid double-dutch team, I just sat on the stoop on the 4th of July and watched everyone else have a good time.
I know I'm not a good jumper—my long legs get in my way—but my ex-friends replaced me with a girl who doesn't even know how to turn the ropes good, much less jump. The poor child has no rhythm. The sisters won first place in the contest, and Lavinia and the twins won absolutely nothing. So you see, if Lavinia and Mickey and Dotty had listened to me and kept a single team, then we all would've been winners.
Anyway, all I need is one true friend who I can trust with my very life. You.
To be fair, there were also a few laughs today. Someone exploded a firecracker that made Miss Nichols's wig pop off her head like the lid on a steaming pot. I'm sure your 4th of July was much more sensible.
Bye for now. Oh, I almost forgot to ask—did that Old Battle-Ax in the office let you make some copies of your letter and drawing yet? If not, send them to me. My mother works in a cleaners', and they have a copying machine.
Your friend to the end,
Doris
July 9th
Dear Doris,
How are you doing? Thank you for offering to make copies of the letters for me, but the woman in the office was out today. (She's not that old. She's a Young Battle-Ax.) Her helper let me make all the copies I wanted. I copied five letters and five sketches. I didn't want to overdo it, otherwise he might not let me come back later to make more.
Yesterday Mr. Smith told me that he'd found out for sure that my sisters and brothers are with my aunt and her husband. All they have to do now is find her. I'm afraid to get excited, because I'll be disappointed if it's some kind of mistake. I said I guess I'll be living with my aunt because like Mrs. Smith always says, nothing is sure. Maybe my aunt won't want me to live with her. Maybe there's too ma
ny of us for her to take care of. Anyhow, at least the children are all together, and I will know where they are. When I finish high school and get a job, then they can all live with me. That's my plan.
Mr. Smith is still asking me to try and remember the last place we lived because that was the last time my aunt visited us. But all of my memories are useless. I can't remember exactly where we lived. I see a lot of different places in my head, and I don't know whether I'm remembering two different places like they were one. I think about a place we lived in the city, and I see a narrow street and that steep hill on Third Avenue and my mother walking out of a courtyard. I mix up 163rd Street in the Bronx with another place that I'm not sure of.
My 4th of July wasn't as exciting as yours. Most of the kids around here are seven- and eight-year-olds, like Ronald. Maybe I'll make friends when I go to high school. Except if friends visit me, they'll wonder why I call my parents Mr. and Mrs. Smith. (Ha, ha.) Mr. Smith drove us to the lake on the 4th. We had a picnic and saw a fireworks show in the evening. I missed the Bronx, though—sitting on the stoop, watching wigs pop off heads. Real fun.
Ronald had a good time playing basketball. He really thinks that he's going to grow up to be a famous basketball player. Ronald reminds me of Yellow Bird and Big Russell and the rest of the 163rd Street crew. Basketball is everything! Maybe that's why he's not so close to me the way you think a little brother would be. Guess he thinks I'm weird, since I don't play basketball and can't teach him anything about it.
When I first moved here, I tried to tell him about our family and tried to teach him how to draw, but he doesn't care about that. He tunes me out whenever I try to tell him anything. His eyes look blank, and he says, "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He acts like he wants me to hurry and shut up. I try hard not to be angry with him and to understand him. He was so young when we were together before. I wonder what the other kids are like now. I wonder if they remember me and our parents.
About Lavinia and the twins.
They're just being themselves. I think that they changed because the double-dutch contest became a big event. And maybe they look down on the sisters because they don't always have new clothes and they're sort of poor.
People used to do that to my family. My mother would say, "They don't know us, so they don't know what they're missing." I guess people talked about us because we were different. But I didn't know that we were different. I thought that all families were like us.
We used to put on family plays just for ourselves. My father played the piano, and when he wasn't away on the road, he'd play music for us. My mother made the costumes, and we kids made up a story with songs. Actually, I'd sketch pictures and the kids would put words to my drawings and turn it into a story. I can draw a story, but not tell one. My sister Olivia loved to sing.
I just thought about something, Doris. Maybe the plays were like our special family devotions. They were different from the Smiths', but they made us feel happy, even though we didn't pray and read the Bible.
You said that your parents like to talk about their childhoods. My mother always talked about growing up in the South, too, like your father does. She loved plants and flowers, so everywhere we lived looked like the Bronx Botanical Garden. She'd find half-dead plants because they were cheap. We'd help her clean and water them and watch them grow and flower. She'd tell us that we were like her geraniums—she wanted to help us grow and flower, too.
In some places she had the fire escape filled with plants. She loved red geraniums best of all. She used to say, "It's not where you live, but how you live."
Doris, it's time to eat dinner, so I'm going to go now. Write soon. Don't let Lavinia and the twins worry you. You'll figure out a way to make up.
Love,
Amir
P.S. Ignore the drug rumors.
12 noon
Tuesday
July 14th
My Dear Amir,
I was so happy to get your letter. Before it came, I was bored to tears. The only interesting time in my life is on Saturdays, when I work at the Beauty Hive, and on any day that I get a letter from you. I have a Suggestion for Today: Think Only Positive Thoughts: My Letter Will Find My Aunt. My Aunt Will Find My Letter. I Will Live with My Aunt and My Sisters and Brothers Happily Ever After.
You're not thinking straight—you're bugging. Why do you say your memories are useless, Amir? There's no such thing as a useless memory. Maybe you just don't want to remember things because they make you sad. Anyway, I'm glad you finally made copies of your letter and sketch. I don't know why grown people always want to be in our business. It's not like you're doing anything wrong—just trying to get some information.
Your family was different, especially from the Smiths, but I think that was a great thing—putting on family plays. Maybe that really was your family's way of having devotions. That could never happen here, unless we played church. My mother and father would preach, and me and Gerald would be the congregation—nodding and saying amen
I don't have much news, because I lead a very dull life Here is my typical boring day:
9:30 A.M.
Take Gerald to the library for storytime and pick out a book for myself. Yesterday and today I ran into Charlene in the library. She brought along her baby sister, Claudette. Charlene and I picked out books together. She likes to read, too.
10-10:30 A.M.
Walk home real slow so that Gerald will think we've been outside for a long time.
10:30-12 NOON
Let Gerald overdose on kiddie shows while I read, and then we eat lunch. My mother calls up on the telephone to make sure everything is okay.
12:30-1:30 or 2 P.M.
If I'm lucky, Gerald takes a nap and I either read or look out the window. There's always something interesting to see on 163 rd Street, even when it's too hot to be outside—kids playing in the fire hydrant; Yellow Bird and them playing serious basketball with a bottomless milk crate tied to the lowest rung on the fire escape of my building (that milk crate is the tackiest thing you ever saw); Lavinia and the twins walking up and down and back and forth trying to look cute, or jumping double dutch.
2-3 P.M.
Gerald wakes up and whines about going outside. So I read to him, and that keeps him quiet for 15 minutes. Then we sit on the fire escape, but he's learning that sitting on the fire escape is not the same thing as going outside to play.
3:30 P.M.
My mother comes home from work and tells me that I can go and play until suppertime. I go, because if I don't, she'll start questioning me about why don't I want to go outside, did I argue with my friends? Then she'll say that I'm moody and that's why I don't have any friends. When I go outside, Lavinia and the other girls are there either sitting on the stoop gossiping or jumping double dutch. They're still going to be in the tournament in the fall. (Yellow Bird told me.) They don't say anything to me, and 1 don't say anything to them. We make one another invisible. I walk around the corner like I really have somewhere to go. Me and Bird are still okay with each other. He said that he was going to write you a letter. However, I'd advise you not to hold your breath waiting.
4:00 P.M.
I go back upstairs and help with dinner. My mom's so tired that she doesn't ask me why I came upstairs so soon. She needs my help. I know she suspects that I've fallen out with my friends. Any day now I'll get a lecture.
6:00 P.M.
My father comes home from work and we eat.
That's the story of my interesting life. I don't even keep a diary, because I'd be writing the exact same thing every day. I wouldn't even have to write anything. Just put in a new date and write "Ditto"—except for Saturdays at Miss Bee's.
I've thought of another thing I can do for you since I have so much time on my hands. I can look up florists and find out who sells red geraniums. Then I'll ask whether a woman with children used to come into the store to buy geraniums. What do you think of that idea?
Also, why did your parents move so much? Were you
guys moving when your parents had the car accident? Was Ronald an infant when all of this happened? I don't mean to be nosy—just wondering. Guess I need to get a life. Bye for now.
Friends 4
v
e
r
Doris
P.S. Amir, please draw me a picture of the lake where you spent July 4th. Put Ronald in the picture, too. I want to see whether he looks like you. I miss your stupendous drawings.
part two
Brothers
Amir put the letter from Doris into his backpack. He took out his sketchpad, sat down on the bed, and recalled the deep blue-gray water of the lake and the fat white clouds floating like sailboats across the sky. He promised himself that he'd buy paints or colored pencils when he got his first paycheck.
He re-created the fluffy clouds that seemed as though you could curl up inside them. As his pencil moved quickly over the page, another image formed in his mind, and he began to draw a woman with a wide smile and deep dimples on either side of her chin. He heard his father's voice. Darlin', you just smiling to show off them dimples. Amir sketched in another face inside the swirl of clouds—a young man, with a narrow face and large, full eyes.
Suddenly Ronald burst into the room. "Amir, Mama says it's time to eat."
"Wait a minute. Look at this."
Ronald's eyes darted to Amir's sketch.
"Who's those people?" he asked, practically leaping on the bed.
Amir hesitated. "Our mother and father."
Ronald frowned. "That don't look like them."
"It's our mother and father," Amir said.
"It don't look nothing like them. I don't think you draw so good."
"I mean our—yours and mine."
Ronald stared at Amir blankly; then, before Amir could stop him, he snatched the drawing out of Amir's hand and dashed out of the room.
One True Friend Page 3