“Quiet!” Mrs. McAdams shouted. “Raise your hands!”
As Gustave listened, he started to figure it out. He heard the word “audition” over and over, which meant the same thing in French. After a few minutes he noticed words he’d heard before in music class—“soprano” and “alto.” Then he heard “chorus,” and he realized that they must be talking about a group from Joan of Arc Junior High going to sing at a rally, and he lost interest. He certainly wasn’t going to audition for that!
Suddenly Mrs. McAdams turned to him. “YOU UNDERSTAND, GUS?” she boomed. “RALLY FOR VICTORY IN THE WAR! CHILDREN WILL SING! TEACHERS PICK THE BEST! LA-LA-LA!” She sang in a fake voice, making the class snort with laughter. Gustave nodded, cringing in embarrassment.
—
Gustave walked from homeroom to science with Frank, joining up with Miles and Leo in the hallway. As they arrived at the science classroom, Gustave caught sight of André in a group of older students going in the opposite direction. André waved. Miles, Frank, and Leo stared at Gustave as he waved back.
“Was he waving at you?” Miles asked excitedly.
“How do you know a ninth grader?” Leo demanded.
“Boy Scouts,” Gustave said.
“I’m in Boy Scouts too,” Leo said, sounding as if he were accusing Gustave of something. “But all the kids in my troop are in seventh grade, like us.”
“It’s the Franco-American Boy Scouts. We’re different ages, but we’re all from France.”
“Andy’s French?” Leo sounded incredulous. “But he doesn’t wear those dopey French pants. No offense, Gus.”
—
After lunch they had recess in the small play area outside the school. The blacktop was packed with kids, some shouting and running around, some basking in the sun against the wall, talking. A group of ninth grade boys had dibs on the basketball hoop, as usual. Gustave had never played the game—he went to his English class for foreign students when the others had physical education.
“Race you to the other side!” called Miles. “Ready, go!” He, Gustave, and Frank darted across the blacktop. Miles made it to the wall first, with Gustave and Frank half a pace behind. Just then, a stray orange ball bounded toward them.
“Attention, Gustave!” André shouted in French, then switched into English. “A little help?”
Without thinking, Gustave jumped up, brought the ball down with his knee, and kicked it back to André. The ninth grade boys waiting under the basket laughed.
“This is basketball, kid, not soccer!” André shouted. “Use your hands. Come learn how to play!”
Gustave ran over. At first he was terrible at maneuvering the ball with his hands, and none of his shots went in. But then André showed him how to bend his knees and push evenly with both hands during a set shot, and another ninth grader, Lou, showed him how to use the backboard. By the time the bell rang, Gustave had actually gotten the ball through the basket three times.
“We’ll make an American of you yet, Serious Camel!” André said to him in French as they went in. “Come and join us anytime.”
“Why did the ninth graders want you to play basketball with them?” Leo asked as Gustave slid into his seat for history. “You’re terrible!”
“He was getting better at the end,” Miles said loyally. “I wish the ninth graders would let us all play.”
“They shouldn’t always hog the baskets,” Frank said.
“We could draw a circle on the wall and shoot at it even if we can’t use a basket,” Leo said. “Me and Gus against you and Miles, tomorrow at recess. What do you fellas say?”
Gustave looked at Leo, surprised but pleased. “Sure!”
Gustave’s good mood faded when Mr. Coolidge announced the homework. In addition to a reading assignment, Mr. Coolidge gave them a handout about a long-term project on a historical figure. “It should be about someone you admire,” Mr. Coolidge said. “I expect you to do research at the public library and use at least three sources. You’ll have to write an essay and give an oral report. A speech to the class,” he said, speaking more slowly and clearly and looking at Gustave. “Everyone will do it. No exceptions.” Gustave nodded reluctantly. His stomach tightened at the thought of trying to speak in front of everyone. At least the due date was in April, almost a month away. He didn’t have to worry about it for a while.
—
After school Gustave looked through the pile of packages waiting for him on Mr. Quong’s counter. He was happy to discover one at the bottom addressed to “Mrs. Leonora Walker” at September Rose’s address. A light rain was coming down as he started out, and his bike splashed through puddles. But he was getting much quicker at delivering now, as Mr. Quong had predicted. He worked his way uptown, saving September Rose’s address for last.
Gustave hurried up the stairs and then paused outside her door, catching his breath. He ran his fingers through his hair and knocked.
The door opened immediately, and September Rose peeked out. She was wearing a pink sweater. Her long string of beads was looped around her neck, and she had the curls again, one against each cheek. “Hi!” she whispered, stepping into the hallway. Chiquita slipped out the door from behind her, whining excitedly and jumping up on Gustave. “Chiquita, quiet!” September Rose hissed. “I gotta warn you. My granma is about to give you the third degree. Miss Noelle told her about you and me talking in the hall that other time.”
“The third degree? What’s that?”
Just then the apartment door at the end of the corridor opened a crack, and Miss Noelle peeked out. Chiquita bounded down the hall toward her, yipping, and Miss Noelle pulled her door closed again. At the same moment, a voice from inside September Rose’s apartment called, “Is that the delivery boy? Invite him in, Seppie. I’ll be right there.”
“She’s gonna ask you a lot of questions,” September Rose whispered. “And I mean a lot! Come on in.”
Gustave rubbed his feet extra carefully on the mat outside before going in so that he wouldn’t leave any marks on the carpet.
“He’s here, Granma,” September Rose called, and then looked back at Gustave. “Sorry,” she mouthed, raising her eyebrows.
An elderly woman in a blue flowered dress came out through a swinging door that led into a kitchen. She was round and small, but she moved with majesty as she came toward him. “This the boy?” she asked. “Chiquita, down.” The little dog dropped immediately onto the floor, wagging her tail and looking up hopefully. “I want to talk to you, young man,” she said, ignoring the little dog. “I am Mrs. Walker, September Rose’s grandmother.”
This was obviously a formal situation, so Gustave did what his mother had trained him to do back in France. “Hello, madame—um, I mean, hello, Mrs.” That didn’t sound quite right, but he held out his hand. Mrs. Walker looked surprised, but she shook his hand, her manner thawing slightly.
“You’re Gustave?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs.”
“Ma’am,” September Rose murmured.
“I mean, yes, ma’am.”
“What’s your last name?” she demanded.
“My name is Gustave Becker.”
“You’re a foreigner?”
“Yes, I’m from France.”
“He’s from Paris, Granma!” September Rose interrupted. “Where I want to live when I grow up.”
Mrs. Walker hushed her. “You live nearby?”
“On West Ninety-First Street.”
“I see. And what does your father do?”
“Granma!” September Rose protested.
“I’m just trying to get to know the boy, Seppie.”
“In France he had a store. He sold cloth and shoes. Right now, he is a janitor.”
“A janitor—really?” Mrs. Walker looked surprised. “And your mother? Does she work too?”
“She’s a seamstress. She sews things on hats. Flowers and…” He couldn’t think of the English word. “Shiny small things.”
“I think you me
an spangles. That’s keen!” said September Rose. “I like sewing too. Maybe she could teach me.”
Mrs. Walker was still looking at Gustave curiously. “So,” she said, a bit more mildly. “You know my Seppie from school. You have classes together?”
“Yes.”
“And lunch!” September Rose said, grinning. “We have lunch together—along with Mar-tha!” She chanted the name mockingly.
“Who is Martha?” Mrs. Walker sounded a bit bewildered.
“Oh, she’s just this girl in our grade who’s a big flirt. She was flirting with Gustave for a while, but now she’s back to flirting with Leo. Martha thinks she’s the cat’s meow, right, Gustave? She just loves being the center of attention.” September Rose giggled, batting her eyes. “This is what she’s like: ‘Kiss my hand, Leo! I mean, don’t kiss it! I mean, do! Ooh, look everybody, he’s kissing my hand!’ ” She grabbed Gustave’s hand and mimicked the way Martha had pulled her hand back and forth with Leo, giggling wildly. Chiquita jumped up and ran between the two of them, whining.
Mrs. Walker laughed. “You children—Lord have mercy! I’m glad you have a new friend, Seppie. Pleased to meet you, young man. Miss Noelle saw you the other day and she got me all worried,” she added, a bit apologetically. “She always keeps an eye on things in our building.”
September Rose snorted. “ ‘Keeps an eye on things’! That’s one way to put it. It’s like living in the same building as the FBI!”
Mrs. Walker shook her head at her granddaughter. “She’s just looking out for you. Gustave, you and Seppie can talk right here in the living room. No need to lurk in the hallway and alarm Miss Noelle again!” At the door to the kitchen, she looked back. “You know, I think you’re the first white person I ever had in my home. Thought I’d never live to see the day.”
“Sorry—she’s so old-fashioned,” September Rose whispered, blushing. “So, this is our apartment. Make yourself at home.”
Chiquita seemed to think the last comment was addressed to her. She jumped up onto the sofa, turned in a tight circle, and settled down with a sigh. Gustave looked around. The room had high ceilings. Light streamed through the tall windows onto bright, stuffed furniture; a big radio in a wooden cabinet; a thick, soft rug; and photos on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Overhead, something moved and glittered. When Gustave looked up, he realized that the shiny figures of birds dangled from the ceiling as well as from the mantelpiece and from hooks around the room. In the center of the mantelpiece, in an ornate frame, with more glittery birds around him, was a photo of a middle-aged man in a military uniform. He had a high forehead, deep-set dark eyes, and close-cropped hair. His posture was stiff and proud, and he gazed steadily out of the frame. Something about the man’s eyes was familiar.
September Rose came over to look at the photograph too. Her mouth looked sad and vulnerable in a way Gustave hadn’t seen before, and he suddenly realized who the man must be. “Is that your father? He’s a soldier?”
September Rose nodded silently, running her finger gently around the frame. She seemed to be far, far away, and Gustave wanted to pull her back into the sunny room. “What are these?” he asked, indicating the metallic birds.
September Rose touched one with the tip of her finger. “My Granma makes those. She’s a tin-can artist. She makes a bird for every day my father’s away. It’s kind of like a prayer. Pretty, aren’t they? Especially when the sun shines. This one’s my favorite.” She cupped a pale blue one with a long neck, then tapped it gently, making it sway and tinkle against the other birds dangling around it. “There are even some outside on the fire escape. I’ll show you.”
September Rose led Gustave into the kitchen and pushed up the window. A brisk wind whipped in. Outside, a wind chime made of dangling tropical birds swayed and jingled above the fire escape. “See? Granma made that too.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mrs. Walker was at the stove with her back to them. “September Rose Walker, shut that window now! It’s windy out there!”
September Rose slammed it shut, and a last bit of breeze rushed through the kitchen, making the birds dangling from the ceiling collide noisily. Chiquita had trotted into the kitchen behind them, and now she sat next to the kitchen table, sniffing the air.
“Those are all made out of tin cans?” Gustave asked.
“Yes. Granma paints some of the birds and some she leaves shiny. She makes them for her friends too. Each one’s different.”
“They’re amazing,” Gustave said.
“I know! I tell Granma they could be in a museum.”
“Not my birds.” Mrs. Walker pulled a pie out of the oven. She glanced up at the ornaments, still jingling against one another in the stirred-up air. “No one’s taking away my birds. They for Martin, your daddy, my baby boy. To bring him home.”
Her voice was hushed, and nobody spoke for a moment. Then Mrs. Walker opened a cupboard and pulled out glasses and blue-patterned dishes. “Who’s hungry?”
Chiquita gave a little squeak and jumped up, balancing on her hind legs.
Mrs. Walker snorted. “I don’t make pie for dogs! Seppie, you never had your after-school snack. What’s your daddy call you? String Bean? And looks like Gustave could use some banana cream pie too.” She took a bottle of milk out of the refrigerator and poured them each a tall foamy glass.
“Banana pie?” Gustave whispered as he and September Rose sat down. “Pie made with bananas?”
“Sure! Don’t you have it in France? Banana cream pie with sliced bananas on top. It makes it super sweet.”
“It smells delicious,” he told Mrs. Walker. “When we got bananas one day, they stayed green and then turned sort of gray. How do you make them ripe? We don’t have them in France.”
“Oh, sugar!” Mrs. Walker put a slice of pie on his plate. “I’m so old, I don’t buy green bananas!”
“Don’t say that, Granma! You’re not so old,” September Rose protested, handing a small chunk of pie down to Chiquita.
“None of that, Seppie!” Mrs. Walker tapped her arm as Chiquita gobbled the bite of pie. “When I buy bananas, I buy them yellow. But they aren’t in the market too often nowadays. Most days I eat a can of fruit salad,” Mrs. Walker said. “That’s what I mostly make the birds out of. I love those red cherries. They go down easy. Martin loves that fruit salad too.” She sighed.
“You and Daddy love fruit salad! I get tired of it.” September Rose put down her fork, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “Gustave, how are you trying to ripen your bananas? You gotta keep them warm. Like at the equator. We think that’s where my dad is. He’s not allowed to say in his letters where he is, but we know it’s someplace warm.”
She held out her skirt and started to sway back and forth like the Hawaiian girls in a movie Gustave had seen once in Paris with Marcel and Jean-Paul. “You know the jingle from the radio, right?” September Rose said. “Watch—I’ll be Chiquita Banana.”
September Rose started to sing, rocking her hips and swaying her arms to the syncopated beat. It was a song about bananas and how you could tell when they were ripe. Her voice was warm and rich, and it filled the small, bright kitchen. How could she sing like that with people listening—so easily, so lightly?
“Bananas like the climate of the tropical equator,
So never put bananas…in the refrigerator!”
September Rose twirled around with her hand on her hip as she ended the song. Chiquita jumped up on her, yipping.
Gustave clapped. “Are you going to try out for that chorus for the Victory Rally?”
“I guess.”
“You’ll be picked for the solo, I’m sure.”
“Maybe.” September Rose sat down and took a big bite of pie.
“Don’t you get embarrassed, singing in front of people?” Gustave asked.
Mrs. Walker laughed. “Not my girl Seppie!”
“Why would I get embarrassed?” September Rose asked. “I’m going to be a famous singer when I grow up, just like Jo
sephine Baker. I’m going to sing to audiences of hundreds in Paris!”
“Josephine Baker indeed!” snorted Mrs. Walker. “You go right ahead and sing, Seppie, but you keep your clothes on your back while you do it.”
“I know, Granma! I just love the way she sings and dances! And her curls, of course.” She turned her cheek toward Gustave. Now that he was up close, Gustave was surprised to see that her curls were drawn on, not real.
“I thought that was hair!” he said.
“I want to get my hair done like Josephine Baker’s for real, but Granma won’t let me,” September Rose complained. “So I have to draw the curls on with an eyebrow pencil.”
“Your hair’s a gift,” Mrs. Walker said tiredly, as if they’d had this same conversation many times before. “Your daddy’s going to want to see his little girl in braids when he comes back from the war. We’re going to leave it be.”
“For now,” September Rose said meaningfully.
“Did you ever hear Josephine Baker sing here in New York?” Gustave asked.
“No. Just on the radio. She used to perform in Harlem sometimes, but I read an article in an old magazine that said she doesn’t like to sing in America, because even with a Negro singer performing, they won’t let Negroes be in the audience. It makes her mad. It makes me mad too. It’s not like that in Paris. She said so in the article.”
Just then they heard the apartment door open. September Rose stiffened. “I thought Alan was working this afternoon,” she whispered nervously to her grandmother.
A moment later a young man stood in the doorway. “Who’s that?” he demanded, staring at Gustave. “And what’s he doing in our kitchen?”
20
“Sit down, Alan,” said Mrs. Walker calmly, cutting another slice of pie. “Gustave, this is September Rose’s brother. Please excuse his rudeness. He must be tired. Alan, this is Gustave. He goes to school with September Rose.”
Alan dropped his pile of papers onto the table. “What’s he doing hanging around Seppie?” he demanded, folding his arms across his chest.
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