Towers Falling

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

I look up at him. He’s tall with bushy brows and curly hair. He’s smiling and I feel hopeful. Most days, Pop is sad.

  “It’s clay. And construction paper.” With plastic scissors, Ray is cutting paper dolls. One for each of us. Green paper people. With a chubby crayon, Leda draws a big O smile on each of the circular heads. No eyes. No noses. Just O’s.

  “It’s good seeing you play.”

  “It’s homework.”

  “We’re helping,” Ray laughs.

  Pop squats. Even with his skin ashy, his legs and arms too thin, he’s still handsome.

  Ray leans against him. He loves to touch Pop. Leda stays closer to me.

  “You like your new school?”

  I shrug. “It’s all right.” I don’t tell him I like school. I don’t want him to think it’s okay that we’re living in Avalon.

  Pop grins. His finger touches my nose. “I bet you’re the smartest girl in the class.”

  I can’t help it. I smile. When we had a house, I used to sit on his lap on the stoop, and we’d watch the night stars.

  “I think Ray should go to school.”

  “Ray?” Pop looks at Ray like he’s an alien. Ray scoots closer to him. Face upraised, he’s got that “Aren’t I cute?” look, “Aren’t I the nicest boy in the whole world?”

  “When’d you get so big?”

  Leda, still tiny, climbs like a baby bear onto Pop’s lap. “I’m adorable, too,” she seems to be saying.

  Ma opens the door.

  Ray squeals. “Fried chicken.” Salt, grease, and yummy chicken smells flood the room.

  “Hey,” says Pop.

  “Hey,” Ma says. Seeing us all on the floor, Ma’s tiredness just flies out of her body. I can tell she thinks we’re acting like a real family again. Pop is the before Pop, happy, playing with us. It’s extra sweet Ma bought chicken so we don’t have to eat in the gross cafeteria.

  “Pop’s helping with my homework,” I say, knowing Ma would be pleased to hear me say it.

  “What is it?” Ma asks, joining us cross-legged on the floor.

  “It’s a house. Well, our room. Miss Garcia wants us to show our homes.”

  Ma’s eyes flash. Pop hangs his head.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t have to do it. She isn’t making me. I want to show where we live. Folks will find out anyway.”

  Pop’s hand starts shaking.

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind. ’Sides, it’s not just about home, it’s about the missing towers.”

  “What?” Pop’s face crumbles, looks like a scary Halloween mask.

  “It’s some crazy project. We start with home. End up talking about the two towers in Manhattan. Something about history.”

  Ma slumps. Pop lifts Leda and hands her to Ma. Leda, feeling the dark clouds, cries. Ray grabs the red-and-white chicken bag.

  “Too young. You’re too young,” Pop says angrily.

  “James, let it go. Quiet.”

  “She shouldn’t know.” He holds his head like it’s about to explode.

  “It’s okay, James. It’s going to be okay.” Ma looks at me, and I can tell she wants to cry. But Ma doesn’t cry.

  She silently pleads. I know what she doesn’t say.

  “I’ll take Leda and Ray outside. Come on, Leda.” I lift her onto my hip. She’s heavy. “Ray.”

  Leda wails, “I want… I want…” Her hand opens and closes, “Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

  Ray hands her a chicken thigh.

  I open the door, but before I close it, I look back. Ma’s rubbing Pop’s head.

  It’s my fault. I don’t know how it is or why it is, but it is. We were being a family, and I ruined it.

  I slam the door hard.

  Sunday, Pop never gets out of bed. Ma makes me take Ray and Leda to play outside. All day. It’s okay but I get hot. Leda can sleep in the stroller, drooling, her head pitched to the side. Ray just gets crankier and crankier. I have a piece of blue chalk. I teach Ray tic-tac-toe, and we play over and over until the chalk is a nub.

  Come nightfall, Leda’s Pull-Ups underwear starts to glow. Cinderella shines, and her shining is supposed to remind Leda not to pee in bed.

  “One day, Ray, we’ll see a Disney movie.”

  “Yeah? When Pop’s not so sad anymore?”

  Ray looks up at me, believes I know all the answers. I tap him on his head. “Yeah. When Pop stops being sad.”

  All day Sunday, Pop wheezes in bed. Ma works an extra shift.

  SMALL GROUPS

  Everyone’s excited. Miss Garcia claps her hands and calls, “Small groups.” Me, Ben, and Sabeen are a group. I used to think Sabeen was unpopular and that’s why she hung out with Ben and me. But it isn’t true. Everybody likes her. “Hi, Sabeen,” second graders shout. Fourth graders admire her scarves. Sabeen wears a different color every day of the week. Today is Wednesday—blue scarf day. The silk covers her hair, wrapping about her neck, and flapping in the back like a shawl.

  I don’t know why Sabeen likes to be with Ben and me. We’re the new kids, outsiders. George, Manny, Anastasia (“’Stasia,” everyone calls her), even pretty Angel say, “Sabeen, me, me, me. Sit beside me.” Sabeen just smiles sweetly, flipping the tail of her scarf, and walks to Ben and me.

  “Share your art. Your essays about home,” says Miss Garcia. “What does home mean? How do you show home? Feel about home? Discuss among yourselves, then we’ll share ideas with the entire room.”

  Buzz, buzz, buzz. Everyone’s talking excitedly. Me, Ben, and Sabeen look at each other. I can tell Ben, like me, doesn’t want to go first.

  “Well,” says Sabeen, “my home is great.” She unfurls yellow construction paper.

  I’m amazed. In bright red, she’s drawn a three-story house with deep steps, a chimney, and white curtains on the windows. She’s sprinkled gold glitter as earth and added purple and white flowers. There’s even an orange cat walking by.

  “The basement, you can’t see. That’s where Babaanne, my grandmother, lives. It’s like a baby apartment. First and second floor, my parents, my brother, and I live. Up top, beneath the roof, is another bedroom. That’s where Uncle Ahmet, my father’s brother, lives.”

  “You live with all those people?” I think I could live with all those people, too, if I lived in a mansion like Sabeen.

  “Family,” Sabeen exhales. “Home is divine. Blessed by Allah.”

  “Who’s Allah?”

  “‘God’ in Arabic. Want me to read my essay?”

  “No,” says Ben, and I’m surprised. He’s being rude. Though I was going to say no, too.

  Sabeen pouts—her lips push out then suck back in. She really wants to read her essay, but, unlike me, Sabeen doesn’t hold grudges. She doesn’t have an off switch for “happy.”

  “Show us your home,” she says, polite, to Ben.

  Ben lifts a sketchbook. It’s professional, with huge spiral rings. The cover has a picture of a huge hand drawing. Inside, with black ink and charcoal, he’s drawn a ranch with open and fenced spaces. With horses, goats, and chickens. The ranch house has a long, extended porch. Up in the right-hand corner is a barn.

  “That isn’t here,” I say. “New York doesn’t have such stuff. We don’t have the space.”

  “It’s where I wish I was. It’s where my dad is.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “An apartment with my mom.” Ben closes his pad. “I’m not going to read my essay.”

  He looks at me. As if to say, “Your turn.”

  I lift a box from under my chair. My house is pathetic. The clay dried and cracked; it’s a crumbling gray square. Ugly. Small like the Avalon room. I lift the cutout, and the paper people unravel—one, two, three, four. Five. They all have Leda’s O’s for mouths.

  “I didn’t write an essay.”

  Sabeen looks shocked. Sad.

  “You’re such a good student,” I say. “You never do anything wrong, do you? You’ve got the big house. Everybody’s happy. Your family is d
ivine.”

  My voice is sarcastic, mean. Sabeen’s supposed to holler back. But she’s looking at me misty-eyed like Ray and Leda do when I snap at them. I push off from the table and stand. My chair topples. The whole class quiets.

  “I hate this school.”

  Miss Garcia hears me. “Dèja, go to the principal’s office. Wait for me there.”

  I turn, head up, strutting. I act like I’ve been sent to the principal’s office before. A million times. I slam the classroom door.

  I tremble. My whole body sags. I hope they don’t call Pop.

  PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE

  I’m scared.

  In the office, nice ladies type on computers, asking if I want water. I don’t want anything except not to be here.

  There’s a door with a gold nameplate and black letters. PRINCIPAL THOMPSON.

  Maybe that’s where they have straps and whips? Paddles to punish kids? Bells ring. Lunch. My stomach rumbles.

  Miss Garcia steps into the office. “You’ve thought about your behavior?” Before I can answer, she says, “Come along, Dèja.”

  Whew, I’m lucky I didn’t have to go behind the door. I follow Miss Garcia, but she doesn’t lead me to the cafeteria. We go back to homeroom.

  I touch the letters on the door. HOMEROOM 5.

  “Oh, this is home, too. I mean, another kind of home.”

  Miss Garcia smiles, opening the door. She’s not even mad anymore. “Good thinking, Dèja. You like our homeroom?”

  I do like it, I think but don’t say. Sunshine windows… calendars… maps. Even a globe that spins. I pick up my clay room. It’s so ugly.

  “What’s this?” Miss Garcia lifts Ray’s paper cutouts. Ray made me promise to bring them to school. “You’ve a brother and a sister?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ray cut these paper dolls. He’s smart. And Leda, my little sister, drew the mouths.”

  “It was nice of you to let them help.”

  Miss Garcia is looking at me—like she sees me, understands how hard things are for me. She makes me nervous.

  I chatter. “Ray should be in pre-K or something. He doesn’t say much, but he understands a lot. He already knows his numbers and colors.”

  I know I’m chattering, but Miss Garcia doesn’t seem to mind.

  “He must be very smart—he’s the only one who really made home.”

  “You mean he got it right?”

  “I do. Buildings, spaces are important.” She turns her head, staring across the river at the new skyline. Then she looks at me, the paper dolls dangling, but still connected. “Seems like this is your home. These people. Your family, not the room. But them.”

  We’ve lived all kinds of places. But our family has always been together. I look around at the other projects—more drawings, homes made from Popsicle sticks, even LEGOs. Angel baked a gingerbread house. But I’m the only one with people.

  Miss Garcia lays the cutouts on the table. Everyone’s house is better than a room in Avalon. But I’ve got Ray, Leda. Ma. I love them all. Even Pop, though he makes me mad, too.

  “If family makes home, what makes homeroom special?” asks Miss Garcia.

  “You.”

  “Thank you, Dèja. And who else?”

  I’m supposed to say friends. But I don’t think Sabeen is going to be my friend anymore. I shrug.

  “Let me read your essay.”

  “I didn’t write it.”

  Miss Garcia’s smile slides off her face. I feel bad.

  “Another missed homework and I’ll have to meet with your parents.”

  Pop would be a mess. If he didn’t come, Ma would lose pay.

  “I’ll do it now.” I borrow Ben’s pencil and tear a sheet from Sabeen’s notebook. I still don’t have a backpack. Or school supplies.

  Miss Garcia’s heels click-click down the row, and she pulls a brown sack from her desk drawer. She click-clicks back. “I’m not crazy about cafeteria food.”

  She hands me half a sandwich. PB&J. Who knew teachers liked PB&J?

  “Can’t you eat free in the cafeteria?”

  “No, but you could.”

  “Yeah, well.” At my old school, almost all the kids got free lunches, not so many here. I don’t want to stand out.

  I take the sandwich. Strawberry. On brown bread. “Ma says wheat bread is good. Avalon only uses white.”

  Miss Garcia holds two plastic bags: one, carrots; another, celery. “Which one?”

  “Carrots.”

  “We’ll both have a working lunch.” She click-clicks back to her desk.

  The sandwich is good. I feel good in homeroom with Miss Garcia. It wouldn’t be nearly as nice if I were by myself.

  I look out the windows at the skyline, wishing I could understand how Miss Garcia sees it. I like her.

  I want to be a better student.

  I write:

  Essay by Dèja

  I thought I knew home was a place. But it’s more. Home is where you have your people. Family. But maybe home is also friends? Can school friends be like family? I think so. Else why call class “homeroom”?

  When I’m grown, I still want to have a nice home. Building, I mean. Not stinky Avalon.

  “Done,” I holler. Miss Garcia sits beside me. She fits in a kid’s chair even though she’s grown.

  She reads. I hold my breath.

  “Good, Dèja, but you can do better.”

  “What’s wrong with it? I wrote it.” Miss Garcia ought to be happy.

  “An essay is like you asserting things you know or believe are true.”

  “Asserting?”

  “Writing with confidence. Take your first two sentences: ‘I thought I knew home was a place. But it’s more.’ How can you write more forcefully? More concisely?”

  “Concisely?”

  “Clearly. Not using extra words.”

  Peanut butter’s choking my throat. I want to cry. Miss Garcia pats me on the back. “Your ideas are right there, Dèja. You said it. Just say it better.”

  My eyebrows pinch together. “Home…”

  “Go on.”

  “Home is more than a place.”

  “Excellent. That’s your thesis. Your main idea. Spaces, buildings are important but never as important as the people inside.

  “You should thank your little brother.”

  “I will.” I knew Ray was smart.

  “What else do you have to do?”

  “Apologize to Sabeen.” I don’t tell Miss Garcia I feel especially bad because Sabeen had mentioned God and I made fun of her. Pop doesn’t believe in church. But before moving to Avalon, Ma would take me, Ray, and Leda to church. If Ma had heard me, she would’ve scolded me and said, “Dèja, I taught you better than that.”

  Sabeen’s great. I was just upset because her house is BIG and everyone inside is happy.

  HOMEROOM

  Thursday. Cotton candy pink. I hate pink, but the scarf looks good on Sabeen. Her skin is the lightest brown, silky smooth. I told her sorry, and she smiled, saying, “No worries.”

  I wave to Ben. Sabeen and Ben both make homeroom home. Nice. Two weeks and I feel like the three of us were always meant to be friends.

  “Gather round, class.” Miss Garcia tapes Ray’s paper people to the whiteboard.

  “You’ve all done great work drawing, painting, building your homes, and writing essays. You’ll find your papers and my comments in your homework folder. Over the weekend, I want you all to think about essay revisions, being more specific. Developing your ideas.

  “Now,” she says, “there is one person who through their artwork expressed home best. Dèja?”

  I’m proud. “It’s my little brother. Not me. My little brother, Ray, cut out those paper dolls. People. Family.”

  I expect someone to say something not nice, but no one does. ’Stasia asks, “Who did the mouths?”

  “Leda. My baby sister. She’s two.”

  “Cute.” I don’t know if she means Leda or the circle mouths.

/>   “I get it,” says Sabeen. “Family makes home. They’re all holding hands.” Sabeen clutches my hand. It feels good. Usually I’m the one clutching Ray’s or Leda’s hand.

  “Family is another word for relationships,” I say. I’ve had time to think. Though she’s looking at Miss Garcia, Sabeen squeezes my hand.

  Me and Sabeen have a relationship. She likes me no matter what. Ben does, too. Neither cares where I live.

  I clutch Ben’s hand. In friendship. Like Sabeen’s clutching mine.

  Ben doesn’t act surprised.

  Then Miss Garcia reaches out, taking George’s hand on the right, Charles’s on the left. Everybody grabs a hand—some cleaner than others, some with painted or plain nails, some brown, some white, some colors in between. Miss Garcia nods at me.

  “We make a home, too. Miss Garcia’s homeroom.”

  “Sappy, sappy, sappy,” Sabeen laughs.

  “Better than sour,” I say.

  “We’re Room Five at Brooklyn Collective,” adds Ben.

  “A social unit,” says Michael. Kids give him strange looks. “My mom’s a sociology professor,” he says, his face turning strawberry red. He’s cute, pops into my head.

  Sabeen nudges me.

  “What?”

  Sabeen just smiles. I stick out my tongue.

  Miss Garcia writes HOME above Ray’s dolls. Beneath them, she writes SOCIAL UNITS.

  Handing out red, green, blue, and black markers, Miss Garcia asks, “How many social units do you belong to?”

  “There’s my church.” “Synagogue.” “Girl Scouts.” “Boy Scouts.” Kids start writing on the board. Football team. Gymnastics team. Dance class. A big list of stuff they do and people they do it with.

  I don’t have anything like that—just my family home. My school home.

  Avalon is not a social unit. I don’t want it to be.

  “Dèja, look up ‘social unit.’” Miss Garcia hands me the dictionary from her desk.

  I feel shy. I’m good at reading but maybe not good enough for this school. “Social unit—‘a unit (such as an individual, a family, or a group) of a society.’”

  “Meaning?”

  Miss Garcia, everyone, is looking at me. I exhale, feeling Miss Garcia trying to mind meld. Think critically, I hear inside my head. Think critically.