I gulp. “Everyone’s part of something larger.”
“Right,” says Ben, high-fiving me. “We’re a social unit. Dèja, Sabeen, and me. Friends.”
Good friends, I think but don’t say.
Miss Garcia hands me a marker. “Diagram your ideas, Dèja.”
I draw a circle around my doll family. I draw another circle that overlaps my family and I write Ben, Sabeen, me. Then another circle overlaps my friends’ names, and I write Brooklyn Collective.
“There’s another circle,” says Michael. “Brooklyn. We live in Brooklyn.”
“We’re New Yorkers, too,” says Manny.
Manny loves the New York Knicks. All he likes to wear is blue and orange.
“We live in New York State,” adds George.
I draw another circle.
I step back and stare at the circles. Miss Garcia is beaming like I’ve cracked some secret code.
“Think critically, class.”
“We’re all different, but connected,” says Angel. She stands beside me, shoulder to shoulder.
“What connects us?”
Some of us blink; some of us look at our feet.
Miss Garcia speaks slow, her voice rising like a question, “New York is one of our—”
“Oh, oh, I know. Fifty states,” says Sabeen.
“America,” says Ben.
“Is that why in music we’ve been singing ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee’?”
Miss Garcia laughs. “Teachers like to coordinate.”
“The circles keep expanding,” adds Michael, picking up another marker, writing and drawing. “Americans become North Americans. Western Hemispheroids.”
“That’s not a word.”
“We’re humans,” says Angel.
“Earthlings,” says Charles.
“Maybe it doesn’t stop there?” asks Michael. “What if there’re other universes?”
Everyone laughs. But I don’t. For some reason, I’m remembering Pop mad. Would this schoolwork make him mad, too?
Ben studies my face, like he already knows I’m uncomfortable, upset. I walk away from him toward the windows.
It really is nice to have a classroom where you can see the sky above, the river below. See helicopters and boats.
I imagine the huge gap the vanished towers must’ve left. Like teeth pulled, missing from the skyline. Like Godzilla had planted his foot.
My palms flatten against glass. “History is alive,” Miss Garcia said.
“Miss Garcia, where did the towers people go?” Except for a few gasps, everyone quiets.
I turn. Folks are either staring at their feet or snickering. They think I’m acting out. But I’m not. I want to know stuff. Understand.
“Dead,” Michael blurts. “They’re dead.”
“Like my cousin,” adds Angel. “I didn’t know him.”
Miss Garcia stands beside Angel. “It’s very sad. But it’s not all sad. There’s a beautiful new tower there.” She nods at the windows.
Another mystery. Kids look at Miss Garcia, some look at me. The ones looking at me know the answer. Know something I don’t know.
At my old school, I’m not sure folks would know about the missing towers. We didn’t have classroom windows overlooking Manhattan. Our play yard had metal fencing and weeds. An abandoned building next door.
I’m not dumb. But sometimes this school makes me feel I am.
Ben looks at me, his finger poking his glasses higher on his nose. Sabeen’s head is down; only pink silk shows.
I blurt, “Miss Garcia, if history is alive, how come everybody in the towers is dead?”
“Not everybody,” says Ben. He shrugs like he’s saying sorry.
“That’s right. Only some,” echoes George.
Miss Garcia steps behind me. I see us both reflected in the glass.
“Dèja, if home is about relationships, social units existing within larger units, how many do we share? As a class?”
Sounds like a word problem. I hate word problems.
Sabeen counts circles. “Family, friends, classmates, school, city, state, country. Seven circles.”
“How many do we share with the people who used to work in the two towers?”
Ben’s cowboy boots click like a girl’s heels. “Americans,” he whispers, turning back toward the board. He picks up a red marker and starts overlapping the outer circle.
“New Yorkers, too,” says ’Stasia. Ben adjusts and makes a circle overlapping the circles for New Yorkers and Americans.
Ben comes and stands beside me. Everybody else is holding back.
“We’re connected to the folks who died in the towers. Even though I wish I wasn’t a New Yorker,” he mumbles. “We’re Americans.”
“Miss Garcia, how many people died in the towers?” asks Manny.
“Two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three,” she whispers. The room is quiet except for the wall clock’s ticktock.
“‘Groups’ sounds better,” says Angel. “Not ‘units.’ Towers people aren’t like LEGO people. Pieces.”
“I agree, Angel. And like us, everyone has special and unique homes. Everyone belongs to social groups, has special relationships.”
“Office mates,” says Michael. “Friends, colleagues, at work. My dad has friends at work.”
“Schoolmates, too,” argues Manny. “Me and Angel are going to be best friends forever.”
“Maybe a husband?” pipes Lynn, who twists her red hair when she’s nervous. “A wife? Kids?”
“They all have parents, grandparents. Else they wouldn’t be human.”
Another circle.
“I’m an only child,” says Ravi. “Wish I wasn’t. Maybe some have—”
“Had,” I say.
“Had,” echoes Ben.
Ravi frowns. “Brothers and sisters?”
“Then they’d have… had nieces and nephews.” Lynn twists her hair.
“On and on,” says Michael, drawing more circles. “Everyone has or had their relationships. Some overlap.”
“It’s sad,” says ’Stasia. “One person dies and it ripples outward.”
“Like waves,” says Ben. “Like this. Never-ending circles.”
“I still don’t understand. How can ‘history be alive’? The people in those towers are dead. It happened long ago.”
“Not so long,” says Miss Garcia. “Fifteen years.”
“I wasn’t even born. I’m sorry they’re dead. Honest. But why should I care?”
Miss Garcia doesn’t like my question. Her face is rigid.
I’m not trying to be a smart mouth. Why should I care? It happened ages ago.
“A good question, Dèja,” says Miss Garcia, her voice trembling. “Why should anybody care?”
“Americans,” answers Ben. “We never stop being Americans.” He says it flat, dull, like he’s repeating something he’s heard before.
Sabeen slides next to me and Ben. We watch a tugboat pulling a ship, leaves turning orange and brown on the shore, and the sky darkening with rain-filled clouds.
School is supposed to teach you about life, not death, I think.
I touch my forehead against glass. I want to make my life better. Dead people don’t do that. History doesn’t put bread on the table. Or buy clothes. All kinds of stuff happened in the past. Life goes on just fine. No, not so fine. But knowing about the past isn’t going to make things better. At least not for me.
The bell rings.
“History,” says Miss Garcia. “Mr. Schmidt’s project will further your understanding.”
I groan. I stop myself from rolling my eyes. School could be worse. It’s better than home.
RECENT PAST, FAR PAST
“It’s not fair,” I holler. “At Ben’s, we’re going to do schoolwork. I can’t babysit Ray and Leda, too.”
“You want your father to get better, don’t you?”
“He’s always ruining my life.”
“Dèja!” Ma looks fierce. “Apol
ogize.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” says Pop, sitting on the bed, wheezing. “I’m sorry I’m sick, baby.”
I want to say I’m not a baby. I haven’t been a baby for a long time.
Ray stands on the bed behind him, his little hands massaging Pop’s head. Ray’s always helpful. Leda’s hugging Ma’s leg.
How come Pop never gets well? I want to scream. Other than aspirin, he doesn’t take anything. When we can afford it, he uses an inhaler. Yet he’s still sick. Headachy. Sad. Why doesn’t he go to the hospital if he’s getting worse?
I never talk with Ma about Pop. There’s no time. No privacy. Plus Ma really doesn’t want to talk. Makes me mad. She changes the subject. Like I’m too dumb to figure out what that means.
I’m tired of being responsible. It’s enough to take Ray and Leda to day care, watch after them, and put them to bed. When Leda gets startled, she wets herself; I have to clean her up. There’s a group of boys—seventh graders—who tease Ray, calling him “Shrimp.” Sometimes one of them grabs Ray’s arms and swings him like a tetherball. Ray’s too terrified to scream. I’ve got to rescue him. Punch the big kid on his shoulder, yelling, “Let Ray go. Better not drop him.”
It’s scary for me, too. There’s only one of me and four of them.
“We’ll be good,” says Ray, leaping off the bed. Leda’s pacifier wiggles in her mouth. She clutches my leg, saying, “Go.”
Ma’s eyes are pleading again. She’s tired. But if I can ride the subway by myself, Pop can, too.
Anxious is the only word Ma ever says about Pop. He’s anxious on the subway. Anxious about closed spaces.
I’m anxious living in Avalon.
Ray tucks his shirt into his baggy pants. I have on my blue jeans and a T-shirt that says I’M IRISH. Ma got it at Goodwill. I want to look nice. Leda’s in a too-tight red jumper with padded feet. The three of us are a mess.
I grumble, “Ray, you get the stroller. I’ll carry Leda.”
Ma rushes toward me, hugs me tight. “Thank you, Dèja.” I don’t want to be responsible, but I feel good when Ma thanks me.
I shut the door. Ma will ride the subway. Take Pop to the clinic. I hope they give him medicine (the yuckier the better).
Folks are yelling in the halls. Fighting about money. Or just grumbling to grumble. It’s hard to be nice when you’re crowded in small rooms. A man, snoring, is sleeping on the floor. A girl, not much older than Leda, is slurping juice from a baby cup. Where’s her parents?
Avalon is not pleasant. It stinks like soured food.
Ray bang-bangs the stroller down the metal stairs. I carry Leda. If she falls, it’s always bad.
We make it down the steps. I slide Leda off my hip. I stoop. “We’re going to Ben’s. Schoolwork. It’s important. No matter what—be good. Don’t bother anyone. Mind your manners.”
Leda plunks her butt into the stroller. Ray says, “I’ll push.”
“Whatever.”
I knock. Ben swings open the door like he’s been standing behind it waiting for me. His eyes widen at Ray and Leda.
“I know. It’s terrible.”
“It’s cool. Come on in.”
Ray rolls the stroller inside, and Leda pushes herself out and down to the floor.
“Carpet,” I say, embarrassed. “She likes the carpet.”
“We don’t have any,” adds Ray, cartwheeling and rubbing the beige tufts, embarrassing me more.
“Enough, Ben,” a lady shouts. I see her pacing in the kitchen. “I’ve had enough. Enough.”
Bam. She slams the phone.
Ben looks embarrassed.
“Benjamin the second? Your dad?” I remember how proud Ben was to be Benjamin the third.
“Yeah. My parents are divorcing.”
“That’s why you came to Brooklyn?”
Before Ben can answer, his mom glides into the room, cooing, “Your friends are here. So glad your friends are here.” She has short blond hair, blue eyes, and a stressed-out smile. Her lips are stretched too wide. Ma does the same thing when she’s pretending nothing’s wrong.
“I’m Dèja, Ben’s friend. This is my brother and sister, Ray and Leda.”
She claps her hands like I’ve given her a gift. “I’m Dora. Short for Dorothea.”
There’s another knock. Ben opens the door.
“Sabeen,” I shout, excited. Sabeen’s scarf is purple; her pants, red. The woman—her mother?—behind her is covered head to toe in black cotton. Only brown eyes show. Eyes exactly like Sabeen’s.
“Hello, I’m Dora.”
Sabeen looks at her mother, then speaks, “Hello, Mrs. Rubin. My mother wants to thank you.”
Sabeen’s mother speaks quick and sharp. She’s not angry; she’s bowing slightly. I can’t see her mouth, but I can tell from her eyes she’s smiling.
Sabeen translates. “My mother will pick me up in two hours.” Then she waves good-bye and steps inside the apartment.
The door shuts, and all of us—except for Ray and Leda, who are crawling over the couch—stare at each other.
“Full house,” says Dora. “How nice.”
Suspicious, I look at her. I think she means it.
“Sabeen, call me Dora.”
“My mother wouldn’t like me to.” Sabeen frowns then pipes, “How about Mrs. Dora?”
“Mrs. Dora it is,” she says, her smile more relaxed. “Well, get studying, Ben, kids. I’ll take care of these two.” Dora holds out her hands, and Leda climbs right into them like she’s climbed into a white lady’s arms a thousand times. Dora shifts Leda onto her hip. Ray clasps her other hand. “Let’s make snacks.”
Before I can holler, “Be good,” Ray and Leda are gone, disappearing into the kitchen.
Me and Sabeen follow Ben. “My room,” he says, opening a white door.
“Cool,” I deadpan.
Ben’s room is amazing. A bed just for him. A fluffy pillow. A desk with a computer, sleek and silver. A bookcase overflowing with books. There’s even a window with a view of sky and treetops.
The walls are covered with charcoal drawings. They’re Ben’s, I can tell. All brushed darkness, some shadows and light.
There’re dozens of drawings of his old home—a single-story house surrounded by grass. To the right, there’s a barn and a fenced pasture with horses. Ben drew the ranch from different angles: front, back, up high, down low. The sky is clear, sometimes not. Mountains are in the distance. Great peaks cut through clouds. I can’t believe there’s so much space.
I touch the edge of one drawing—a close-up of a horse with long eyelashes and clear, yearning brown eyes. His expression seems to say, “Stay. Ride me.”
Sabeen tilts her head. I can tell she wants to ask about the horse. I shake my head. I wouldn’t want to leave a horse. I’d be happy if one day I got a dog. Or a hamster.
“Sit,” says Ben.
I scan the walls again. There’s not a single drawing of Ben’s dad.
We adjust our chairs in front of the computer. As usual, Sabeen sits in the middle.
Ben isn’t poor, but I still feel sad for him. I’m not used to feeling sad for folks who have stuff.
Sabeen’s smiling, happy as usual.
“Why’s your mom dressed in black?”
“It’s a niqab. For modesty.”
Modesty, what’s that mean? I look at my jeans and tee. “Are you going to wear one?”
“Maybe.”
“If you did wear one, we’d know you anywhere. Wouldn’t we, Ben?”
Ben clicks on the computer. “Sure would. Sabeen glides, happy and nice. She does everything right. Even sits proper.”
“I do not.” Sabeen uncrosses her feet, unfolds her hands. Me and Ben laugh.
He taps, opening a page, and types:
BRAINSTORMING
Ben, Dèja, and Sabeen
I like how our names are alphabetical. Ben’s like that—always fair. His name isn’t first because he’s a boy.
“Dumb question,” I say. “Past is past.”
“Mr. Schmidt won’t like that answer,” says Sabeen.
Mr. Schmidt is about a hundred years old. He wears bow ties.
“Sabeen, do you always get A’s on homework?”
“Yes. I pay close attention. Mr. Schmidt said exactly, ‘What are the differences between America’s far past and its recent past?’”
Ben deletes, retypes:
What are the differences between America’s far past and its recent past?
“Who cares? The past is past. Mr. Schmidt doesn’t know about life. About what’s important here, now. I’m trying to make my future.”
Sabeen shifts, turning toward me. “What are you going to do in the future?”
Sometimes Sabeen drives me crazy. She’s looking at me bug-eyed, trusting, and sweet, like Leda does when she first wakes. If she’d asked me earlier, I would’ve said, “Buy a house.” Since kindergarten, I’ve wanted to live in the biggest, best house in the whole world. But the house doesn’t matter.
What matters is not feeling bad, less than somebody else.
How can I say, “In the future, I don’t want my family to feel bad. I don’t want to feel bad”? I squirm on the chair, bite my bottom lip.
Ben rescues me. “Soon as I can drive, I’m going back to Arizona. I don’t like it here.”
Sabeen sighs, “I like you here.”
“Me, too, Ben.” I grin. “If you leave, can I have your room?”
“It’s not about the room, Dèja.”
“I know, Sabeen. I’m not stupid.”
Sabeen murmurs.
“What, what did you say?” I say loudly, thinking, here comes the disrespect.
Sitting tall, hands clutched together, Sabeen speaks, “Ozur dilerim. ‘Sorry,’ in Turkish. America welcomed my family. I welcome you.”
“Wait, is that why you like us—the new kids?”
“You’re not new anymore,” says Sabeen, intent, fussing like a kitten. “It’s been three whole weeks. I like you because you’re Dèja. Ben, I welcomed you because it’s what Americans do.”
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