Sabeen opens her eyes. Nobody’s jumping now. The video camera shifts back to the South Tower.
“You’ve seen this before?” I ask Ben.
“My dad’s military.” Ben’s gaze doesn’t waver. Ben’s kind, but he knows a lot. Book learning and life learning. Though he looks soft, he’s already wised up that life can be hard.
Sabeen’s pale, her eyes big. I’m sorry she’s seen the video—will all the happiness fly out of her?
I wish I could talk with Ma and Pop. Or with a teacher.
Sabeen moans. I gasp. Ben’s hands become fists.
On the tiny cell screen, the South Tower, floor by floor, falls, leveling, collapsing like an accordion. Down, down, down.
Tons and tons of gray smoke billow, darkening the sky. Particles of glass and concrete flurry like a tornado.
Steel, concrete, glass pound, rush like death elevators, squashing each floor, one after another and another. Boom, boom, boom until there’s no height, only weight hitting the ground.
The people? Where’d they go?
“The South Tower burned for less than an hour. Then, it collapsed.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Its foundation was strong.”
“Took years to build,” adds Sabeen.
Ben clicks another link. “The planes were like explosives. Gallons and gallons of stinking oil, burning. Metal so hot, it lost strength, softened.”
“Metal was the building’s bones,” I say, imagining metal sheets and beams buckling, glowing red.
Ben avoids my eyes. “The North Tower was hit first, collapsed second.”
The camera shifts to the North Tower. The unbelievable is going to happen again.
“How long did it take?” I murmur.
“One hundred and two minutes. The North Tower collapsed twenty-nine minutes after the South Tower.” Ben sounds like a robot, dull and factual.
The bell rings. Lunch is over. Ben stuffs his phone into his pocket.
Sabeen wipes her eyes and adjusts her scarf.
Going back to class, the three of us move like zombies.
HISTORY
On the whiteboard, Mr. Schmidt writes:
ATTACKS ON AMERICAN SOIL
Beneath the header, he adds dates:
APRIL 18, 1775
–THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR
“Paul Revere was on a horse and he said…?”
“The British are coming, the British are coming,” classmates yell.
“Is that really true?” asks Mr. Schmidt.
Manny answers, “People just think he said that. His mission was top secret.”
JUNE 18, 1812–WAR OF 1812
“In 1814, the British invaded Washington, DC. And?” He points to Michael.
“They burned the White House to the ground.”
DECEMBER 7, 1941
“I know,” says ’Stasia, waving her hand. “The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.”
“Technically, Hawaii wasn’t US soil. It didn’t become a state until 1959. But, yes”—Mr. Schmidt stops writing—“the attack led to America’s entry into the war.”
DECEMBER 7, 1941–WORLD WAR II
Ben, Sabeen, and me glance at each other. We know what’s coming. I want to yell at Mr. Schmidt and tell him to stop.
Maybe I shouldn’t be learning this?
I clench my hands. I have to learn this. It’s part of my parents’ world. My family’s. Which means it’s part of me, isn’t it?
I shudder.
Sabeen is crying again, sniffling at her desk.
Mr. Schmidt writes ever so slow:
FEBRUARY 26, 1993
–WORLD TRADE CENTER BOMBING
I’m surprised. I was expecting September 11, 2001.
“Other attacks on American soil were by nations; this is the first transnational terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.”
“You mean they tried to bring down the towers before?” asks ’Stasia.
“Yes, with a truck bomb. It failed.” Mr. Schmidt turns back to the whiteboard.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
He puts down the marker, his shoulders slump, and his back curves.
No one says a word.
Mr. Schmidt turns, looking like an even older Yoda. “Al-Qaeda terrorists attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.
“We call them terrorists because they are not representative of a single nation. Instead, they’re ideologues. Here is what that means—ideologues are narrow-minded people, incapable of independent thought and critical thinking.
“So, since 2001, America has been engaged in a new kind of war… a war on terror.”
Angel raises her hand. “Why do they hate us?”
I can’t help groaning. My head aches. Ben, his back ramrod straight, seems frozen, staring at the whiteboard. Sabeen’s elbows are on the desk, her palms cover her eyes, her fingertips touch her scarf.
Mr. Schmidt isn’t answering Angel’s question. It’s like his stomach is tied in knots. He’s all choked up. I scowl.
He should be tough. Tougher. Tell us the whole story.
Behind my closed lids, I see floors collapsing. Great gusts of gray dust, smoke rise. Seconds, mere seconds for the building to squish, squash, layer by layer, with tumultuous roaring, everything and everyone.
I’m sick of Mr. Schmidt. Sick of what he and all these other Brooklyn teachers have to say. History is dead. Not alive. It doesn’t mean anything if they don’t teach the whole story.
In my mind, I see overlapping circles. Connections.
I see Ray’s cutout dolls. Five of us. Ray, Leda, me, and Ma. Pop is barely holding on. All four of us trying to raise him high.
I’m angry. September 11 broke something in Pop.
How come Pop never told me? Why isn’t Mr. Schmidt telling me that?
How could anybody hate my Pop? Hate Americans so much?
Fierce, I push against the desk; my chair bangs, clangs to the floor. I leave. I walk out.
I don’t like this school anyway.
“Dèja, Dèja.” Mr. Schmidt’s voice snaps at my heels.
PACT
I open my locker. There’s nothing in it. I don’t even have a lock.
“Dèja. I told Mr. Schmidt I’d find you.”
I slam the locker. “I don’t want to be found.”
“Come on. Outside. You’ll feel better.”
I think I won’t, but it’s Ben asking with his glasses and wide blue eyes. He doesn’t even blink. I want to tell him that I hate him. That would be a lie.
“I don’t like your boots.”
“Yeah. I know. They don’t fit New York.”
“Oh, Ben. I’m such a jerk.”
The school bell rings. Recess.
Doors open, and yelling, screaming kids dash everywhere.
“Come on.”
The school yard actually has equipment—swings, a sandpit, and a jungle gym. It’s fun seeing the littlest kids run and play. Most fifth and sixth graders try to look cool. ’Stasia and Angel practice cheers. We don’t have a team, but they practice anyway. Michael dunks a ball.
Ben pulls me toward the chain-link fence. There’re picnic tables beneath huge oak trees. He sits on the table. So do I. We’re not supposed to. But we do it anyway.
My old school didn’t have trees.
“In Arizona, trees are everywhere. Even ones with green trunks. Mesquite. There’re green cacti, too.”
“I thought Arizona was a brown desert.”
“It is. But it’s like a layer cake. Brown earth or rock on the bottom, green trees, then blue sky. Did you know cacti bloom flowers? Every color except blue. We’ve even got roadrunners.”
“Like in the cartoon?”
“Kinda. And javelinas.”
“What’s that?”
“Like big pigs.”
Sabeen sees us from afar. She’s standing still. I can tell she’s thinking whether she should walk over. Me and Ben watch her.
Palm open, she lifts her hand.
Ben does the same, like we’re in a secret club with energy passing between our hands.
Sabeen nods, turns toward the sandbox kids. She likes helping second and third graders build castles.
It’s not so bad here in the school yard. Weird—this is the best my life has been in a long while. No worry about getting poorer, falling down the ladder. We’re already at bottom. Can’t get any worse. I’ve got friends. Good teachers. I like Brooklyn Collective Elementary.
Am I going to mess things up?
“Ben, I’ve got to go see it. I’ve got to walk across the bridge.”
Ben stares at his boots. “Folks did that. Walked out of New York. Over the bridge.”
“Well, I’m going in.”
“It’ll take all day.”
“I don’t care. Pop worked in a tower.”
“There’s nothing to see, Dèja,” Ben whispers.
“There’s that new building. I’ll see that.”
“The Freedom Tower. It’s called the Freedom Tower.”
“How do you know so much?”
“My dad talks about the towers all the time—it’s why he joined the Marines. Why he went to Afghanistan.”
I rub my forehead. It hurts. Too much information, too many pictures cloud my mind.
“Wait until Saturday, Dèja.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s only two more days.”
“Saturday, I’ll have to bring Ray and Leda.” I inhale, deep. “I’m going to skip school. I’ve never done it before. Honest. But I’m going to do it tomorrow.”
Head slowly bobbing, Ben declares, “I’m coming with you. We’ll take the subway.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“I’ve got money.”
“Sure. Rich boy.”
Ben elbows me. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m sorry.” I am.
“My dad was going to come to New York for my birthday.”
“You had a birthday?”
“He sent me fifty dollars. Mom says he loves somebody else. Not a kid. A grown-up. He might get another wife.”
I want to hug Ben. But he might think I like him, like him.
I just like him.
I pat his back. “I’m sorry, Ben.” On the last pat, I let my hand stay for a few seconds. I can feel the bones in Ben’s back. He’s thin, a cross between a sidekick cowboy and a weak soldier. But he’s strong inside.
Ben pushes his glasses high onto his nose.
“I’ll meet you at nine a.m. After school starts. We’ll take the subway. I’ll buy lunch.”
“Thanks, Ben. It would’ve taken hours to walk.”
He grins. “Too bad we don’t have a horse.”
“Trust you on a horse?” Ben lightly punches my shoulder. “You’d get me thrown off.”
I run. Ben chases me. “Sabeen, help,” I yell. She stands, waving. I stop. Ben crashes into me. We both laugh. He pulls my arm. I twist, dash; he catches me. Like crazy windmills, the two of us smack each other’s palms.
It’s been weeks since we’ve acted silly.
Is this growing up? Less silliness?
Maybe I’m already grown, even though my body’s small.
All I know is, I’m more grown than my parents and teachers think I am.
What I feel and know and my body don’t match.
It isn’t just the video’s fault. It’s my whole life.
I’m ten, eleven next year. I’ve got to know enough to help Ray and Leda. To help Pop.
FIELD TRIP
I didn’t lie. Just told Ma and Pop, “Off to school,” and I am. I make sure to keep my hoodie up and my chin down. I hope nobody recognizes me. I skip across the school steps on my way to the subway.
There! Five skips’ worth. I was at school.
I stuff my hands in my pockets. It’s mid-October. Ma says she’s going to find me a coat at Goodwill. We haven’t gone yet. Pop’s worse. He sleeps all the time. Ma says Pop is depressed. When she’s not working, she stays in our room, making sure he eats. Dragging him by the hand to the cafeteria.
He seemed better after he saw Miss Garcia. Like they shared something. He stopped complaining about my lessons. But Pop is always like this—better, then worse.
I heard Ma on her cell phone, crying, telling Auntie Rita he might have to go to the hospital. She thought us kids were asleep. While in the dark, she wept, whispering into the tiny metal phone. “Too much,” she said. “Too long. Nothing helps.”
I shivered in bed. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold. I tucked Leda’s icy feet against my tummy.
During the fall, Pop always gets extra gloomy.
I stop, catch my breath. No, every September—Pop gets worse. Why didn’t I connect it sooner?
September, Pop starts to unravel, becoming sad, distant. I just connected his moods to Thanksgiving and Christmas. Holidays are when I want most for our family to be happy, like the white families on TV and in magazines eating turkey, opening presents, or playing board games. We never play board games. I can’t remember when Ma last baked a turkey. My last gift was a ribbon.
Nauseous, I close my eyes. I feel Brooklyn swirling about me. People chattering, feet stomping, and taxi horns honking.
I want to scream, “Quiet.” But the noisy city won’t mind me.
Am I doing the right thing? Maybe I should stay in Brooklyn? Leave it alone? Forget 9/11, wondering what it means to Pop. To our family and me.
Forget everything except I’m in the best school I’ve ever been.
Avalon isn’t so bad. Ma has a job. And I’m getting older every day. In high school, I might get a job at McDonald’s. I’ll buy Leda a baby doll. Ray, a race car. I’ll give my pay to Ma.
Coo-coo-coo-ooo—oowo—woo.
I look skyward.
Ma said New York has tons of birds. But mostly folks are so busy, streets so loud, people miss seeing them.
Coo-coo-coo-ooo—oowo—woo.
I search the trees. A mourning dove.
See, Dèja. It’s slender, small-headed, grayish brown with dark eyes. I remember Ma stooping beside me, her arm about my waist, her finger pointing at a maple. See.
I see it, to my left, in the tallest tree.
Coo-coo-coo-ooo—oowo—woo.
Mourning doves sound like they’re crying.
I want to cry. But I bet on Brooklyn streets, no one would notice. Or care. I clench my fists.
Wings whistling, the dove takes off, ascending; then it lands, whistling, on a tree just above me.
I whistle—sharp, sweet.
The dove’s head tilts. He looks at me.
Coo-coo-coo-ooo—oowo—woo.
I remember Ma said, “Doves fly, straight and powerful.” Maybe that’s why their wings whistle? They aren’t really sad. Or if they are, it doesn’t stop them from flying, going where they want to go.
I can stay at Avalon, stay at school. Just stay. But nothing about my family will change. I know it.
Ma and Pop are stuck. Maybe seeing where the towers stood, I might help Pop, Ma, all of us, get unstuck? Get out of Avalon and move on to a better life.
It’s a slim hope. But it’s all I have.
I inhale. I’m Dèja, the original. One and only.
I don’t want to be stuck.
Whistling, the dove takes off, flies. Point A to Point B.
Whistling, I take off, too, running, flying down the street. On the ground, I have to weave around people, trees, lampposts, and trash cans. But I still feel good, like I’m flying. Moving is better than going nowhere.
I see Ben. I whistle, sharp. He’s got his backpack, and it makes me feel good that he’s prepared. He’s a good friend.
As I move toward him, I wonder—maybe Ben has a reason, too? Not just for me, but for him, too?
SUBWAY
“An extra pair of gloves.”
“Thanks, Ben.” I put on the gloves, and the subway ding-dings. The doors close and the train lurches.
Even though it’s Octo
ber, it feels like winter. Last night felt colder than the North Pole.
There’s no room to sit. We grab hold of a silver pole. I’m still huffing, breathing deep. Right above our heads, two tall men in thick coats and knit caps hold the pole, talking about the Knicks. Beneath their arms, I glimpse folks sitting to the right and left. Everyone is bundled warm.
“Are we on the right train?”
“Yeah, C train. Northbound to Chambers/World Trade Center. Figuring it out was easy.”
“Seems like it ought to be hard.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The train is packed. Mainly grown-ups going to work. Tourists. Two women with babies. The kid in the stroller, kicking her feet, looks like Leda; the other is in an infant sling.
Nobody notices me and Ben.
Warm breaths, sweating bodies make fog, clouding the windows. The train rocks and sways. I’m warmer than I’ve felt all day.
Avalon is an icebox.
I like the buzz of voices. The slippery seats. The bright lights. The posters blaring: STUDY COMPUTERS… BECOME A DENTAL ASSISTANT. Another poster, a scary brown and gray with a grim policeman, asks, HAVE YOU SPOKEN TO YOUR KIDS ABOUT DRUGS?
I start worrying again. I wish this was a happy adventure.
Ben’s cap is pulled over his ears. Even though it’s warm in the train, his cheeks are still red.
The encyclopedia said Arizona is famous for sun and blue skies.
“Was it hard coming to New York?”
“I hated the plane.” Ben blinks, “I mean—”
I know what he’s thinking. At least my plane didn’t slam into a tower.
“I’ve never been on a plane,” I say.
“I’d never been on a subway until I came to New York. Look at this.” He pulls a folded map from his jacket.
The train lurches, slows to a stop.
Folks push, trying to leave the train. Other folks shove, trying to get in. “Here.” Ben pulls me toward an Asian couple lifting shopping bags. Two seats. We slip into them as they get up, and high-five. Score.
“You’re a good traveler, Ben.”
He grins. “You have to be quick in New York.” He unfolds and spreads his map on our laps. “Look, Dèja. Isn’t it beautiful?” Complicated lines. Parallel, horizontal, intersecting, crisscrossing lines. Blue lines, red, orange, green, and yellow. The C line is blue. Beneath the earth, subway lines snake up and around Central Park. Some lines merge; others stretch to and from Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, and Manhattan.
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