Life, After

by Sarah Darer Littman

  “You have the lunch voucher?”

  Sarita and I qualified for a subsidized school lunch program. I wished I could just take food from home or buy lunch with money like everyone else.

  “Yes, Mamá,” I sighed.

  She planted a kiss on my forehead.

  “Good luck, querida.”

  There were already three people waiting at the bus stop when I got there, two boys and a girl. One of the boys was playing a Game Boy Advance, and he didn’t even look up when I approached. The other two were busy talking, and they glanced in my direction and then looked away, continuing their conversation as if I didn’t exist.

  Welcome to Twin Lakes, New York.

  I stood there, eavesdropping. I mean, what else did I have to do?

  “…seriously, I can’t believe Kelly and Rick broke up over the summer. I thought they were going out for life.”

  “Yeah, well, absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder, I guess.”

  I hoped that wasn’t true. I thought about Roberto. His school in Miami had already started. If I were in Buenos Aires, I’d be excited to start school instead of nervous. Excited to see my friends. I would have friends, instead of feeling so strange and alone. Just overhearing about the breakup of this couple, Rick and Kelly, two people I didn’t even know or care about, had me worrying about what would happen with Roberto.

  Before I could completely depress myself, a large yellow bus pulled up, and I followed the other three onto it. I found an empty seat next to a girl who looked half asleep, and listened to the chatter around me, trying to make sense of it to distract myself from my gloomy thoughts.

  When we pulled up at the high school, I followed the crowd into the gymnasium, where we were directed to tables according to the first initial of our last name. There, we lined up to get our schedules, and locker numbers and combinations.

  When I got mine, it made no sense to me at all. It had a lot of numbers and letters and I was completely confused. I felt like sitting on the floor of the gymnasium and crying, but instead I went to find a teacher.

  “Por favor, excuse me. It’s my first day here and I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

  The teacher took my schedule and locker number.

  “Let’s see…your locker is in Baker building. That’s B building. Let me get someone whose locker is over there to show you the way.”

  He walked over to one of the tables and conferred with another teacher. A minute later he came back, accompanied by a shaggy-haired boy wearing a U2 T-shirt.

  “This is Jake. Jake, this is…”

  “Daniela.”

  “Jake, please show Daniela where her locker is over in B building. Make sure she can open it, too, okay?”

  Jake nodded.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s boogie.”

  I wasn’t sure what it meant to “boogie,” but I followed him out of the gym.

  “So, you’re new?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Argentina.”

  “Cool. Great soccer team.”

  True, but despite having gone out with Roberto, I wasn’t football mad, so that was pretty much the end of that conversation.

  “This is the crosswalk between Adams and Baker building,” Jake said, as we walked down a window-lined hallway. “You’ll probably be using this quite a lot during the day. The gym, the media center, and the auditorium are in Adams. The cafeteria is in Baker.”

  We went up a flight of stairs and down a locker-lined hallway and finally Jake stopped.

  “Here, this one’s yours. Try opening it. It’s not always easy.”

  I tried the combination and couldn’t get the door open.

  “Here, let me try.”

  Jake tried and couldn’t open it, either. Finally he smashed the locker with his fist and the door popped open.

  “It just takes the magic touch,” he said with a smile.

  “Maybe, but I’m not sure that I’m going to be able to do that when I need to open it again.”

  “These lockers suck. Don’t ever leave anything of value in your locker anyway. Like if you have a cell phone or an iPod and you leave it there, it’ll be gone, for sure.”

  I wished I could afford a cell phone or an iPod to put in my locker in the first place. If I had a cell phone, I could call Roberto. If I had an iPod, I could listen to music on the bus instead of fragments of other people’s conversations that I had to work to understand.

  “Where’s your homeroom?” Jake asked. “If it’s near here, I’ll show you where it is.”

  I showed him my schedule and he noted the room, which luckily was just down the hallway on the left.

  “So did you ever see that movie Evita? The one with Madonna? My parents got it on Netflix and made us watch it. I mean, it wasn’t so bad, although musicals aren’t really my thing, but that was about Argentina, wasn’t it?”

  I had no idea what he meant by “Netflix,” but that movie had been all over the news in Argentina when they made it.

  “Yes, it was. About Evita Perón. There were protests when the movie was filming because some people didn’t want Madonna to play Evita,” I told him.

  “Seriously? Why not?”

  “Well…for a lot of people in Argentina, Evita Perón was like a saint. And to have her played by this woman, you know, with the pointy bras and…well, they thought it was…how do you say in it English? Degradante.”

  I couldn’t think of the word, but Jake seemed to get the point anyway.

  “Do you think that?”

  I didn’t want him to think I was a prude.

  “No. I’m just saying, it’s what some people in Argentina thought.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that. I’ll have to tell my parents tonight. Anyway, here’s your homeroom. Good luck with your first day, Daniela.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll need it.”

  Homeroom consisted of the teacher taking attendance and us having to fill in forms. It only lasted for half an hour, ten minutes of which were taken up by announcements that I could barely understand, which came over a crackly loudspeaker. I didn’t worry too much about not understanding, though, because no one else even appeared to be listening.

  Then the bell rang and we were told to go to our firstperiod class. I checked my schedule and it was Mathematics, in Room A104. A104. Where was that? All the classrooms in the building I was in began with B. Did that mean it was in the first building? It must. But how was I supposed to get back there? I had no idea how to get to my math class, and I didn’t want to be late.

  There was a group of girls at the end of the hall and even though I was nervous about approaching them, I didn’t have much choice if I was going to make it to math class before lunchtime.

  I stood next to them, waiting for them to say “hello” or “can I help you?” or “are you lost?” It was the first day of school, and the girls looked far too confident to be firstyears. But they just ignored me.

  “Por favor, uh, excuse me…”

  Most of them kept on ignoring me, but one of them turned long enough to give me a quick glance. I was about to turn away when she said, “Wait! Where did you get that shirt?”

  I felt fire rising in my cheeks and sweat gathering under my arms. It was my first day of a new school in a new country and the last thing I wanted to do is admit to a girl I didn’t even know that everything I was wearing except for my underwear and shoes came from charity. So I ignored her and asked, “Can you tell me please how to get to room A104?”

  She ignored me right back. “Jess, isn’t that the shirt your dad got you in Monaco that time he went on business?”

  The one she called Jess stopped talking and looked me over from head to toe with big brown eyes. She was really pretty. Her long dark hair curled just the right amount without frizzing and it was obvious that none of her clothes were from a charity. Oh no. Everything was the latest style and all her accessories matched to perf
ection.

  It was clear from her expression that she didn’t like what she saw.

  “I think you’re right, Coty. That is my shirt. I can’t imagine that there are too many aquamarine Commes les Poissons shirts in this town.” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “My mother must have had one of her charity clean outs for Jewish Family Services or something. I liked that shirt but, whatever. It just means I can guilt her into another shopping expedition—‘But, Mom, you gave away that shirt Dad bought me…’”

  If I hadn’t been too embarrassed to be seen in just my bra on my first day of school, I’d have ripped off her stupid shirt and thrown it in her smirking face. Part of me wanted to punch her in the nose and another part wanted to crawl under a rock and die. But the biggest part of me wanted to be back in Argentina—if only that were possible.

  Rather than stand there being humiliated, I decided to walk away and try to find someone else to give me directions to room A104.

  My face was hot and my eyes were burning with tears of anger and shame as I hurried down the hallway, heading I wasn’t sure where, and—

  “Hey, watch where you’re going!”

  I had been so busy looking down at the floor trying not to cry that I walked right into some guy.

  “Excusa—I mean, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking…I mean…”

  “Are you okay? You look a little…”

  I looked into the stranger’s concerned eyes, and there was just enough of a hint of Roberto’s in them that it sent me over the edge. I burst into tears.

  “Hey, what’s the matter? It can’t be that bad,” he said. I felt him patting my shoulder awkwardly, like he didn’t really know what to do with this strange girl he’d never met who bumped into him and then started crying.

  “Y-yes. It c-c-can,” I hiccupped. “I c-c-an’t find r-r-oom A104.”

  “Wow. Now that is a tragedy,” he said. “But, you know, I think I might just be able to help you out with that.”

  He rooted around in the pocket of his shorts and handed me a tissue.

  “Here. I think it’s even mostly clean.”

  At that point I was more worried about running snot and mascara than germs, so I took it gratefully.

  “Can you really help me find room A104?” I sniffed, wiping my eyes. “I think I’m going to be late and I don’t want to get a detention.”

  “First of all, they won’t give you a detention on the first day of school. Second of all, it’s obvious you’re new to the school, so you’re doubly off the hook. And third of all…well, I can’t think of a third of all. But don’t worry. C’mon, this way.”

  He tapped my arm lightly and headed down the hallway in the direction he came. Part of me wondered if he’d get in trouble for being late to wherever he was heading. The other part of me wondered what he meant by “off the hook.”

  “So where are you from?” he asked. “Clearly nowhere local.”

  “Argentina,” I told him. “We moved here from Buenos Aires just over a month ago.”

  “So what’s your name, Miss I’m-a-lost-girl-from-Argentina?”

  “Daniela. Daniela Bensimon. But my friends call me Dani.”

  He pushed the door open into the stairwell. I followed him down the stairs.

  “I’m Brian, by the way. Brian Harrison. So are you having a rough time adjusting?”

  Talk about an understatement. Rough didn’t even begin to describe how it felt at that point. But then I thought about how much rougher it could have been if Tío Jacobo hadn’t helped us and we’d stayed in Argentina. “It’s very different here, and with a new language and…”

  “And getting lost trying to find your classroom,” he said.

  “And that.”

  And those girls making fun of me because I’m wearing clothes from Jewish Family Services…

  “Okay, listen up. Remember this location. This is the connector corridor between Adams and Baker buildings, affectionately known as The Crosswalk. You will probably walk this something like five bazillion times a week between now and June.”

  “Bazillion?”

  Brian laughed. “As in, lots and lots of times.”

  “Oh yes. I was here this morning once already with Jake.”

  “Jake Freheit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Longish hair, wearing a U2 shirt?”

  “Sí—I mean, yes.”

  “He lives on my street and is one of my best buddies. So anyway, you’ll probably be walking across here at least five more times today. Any classrooms that begin with an A are in Adams building, which is the one we’re about to enter, and any ones that begin with B are in Baker, which is the building we just left.”

  “Which is where my locker and my homeroom are.”

  “Right. So you’ll need to figure out which books to take with you in the morning because you won’t always have time to run back to your locker between classes. Unless you’re a really quick sprinter, in which case I’d really love you to try out for the track team, because we could do with some good sprinters.”

  I thought about my limited athletic skills and laughed. “I’m probably the last person you would want on your track team. Unless you really wanted to lose.”

  “So, just out of curiosity, because I’m a curious kind of guy, what kind of team would I want you on?”

  Good question. We walked in silence down the noisy corridor for a moment, Brian saying, “What’s up?” and “Hey, how was your summer?” as we passed by people, but without really stopping to listen to the answers.

  “I suppose your speaks-fluent-Spanish-and-a-bit-of-Hebrew team. Or maybe your makes-pretty-good-pasteles-and-alfajores team.”

  “I don’t know what pasteles and alfajores are, but if they’re edible, then I definitely want you on my team.”

  I laughed. “Pasteles are a pastry filled with caramel and alfajores are two cookies stuck together with dulce de leche. They’re both delicious.”

  “Well, Ms. International Food Network, I am really pleased that I bumped into you, because I’m hoping that maybe someday my Good Samaritan actions might earn me a taste of some of your amazing Argentinean cookies. But in any event, here you are at Room A104. And from now on, if you’re lost, ask me for directions. You can think of me as your personal GPS.”

  He gave me a crooked, offbeat smile, and even though he wasn’t typically handsome like Roberto, at that moment I found him attractive.

  “Thanks, GPS—er, Brian,” I said, and headed into my math class with a sigh of relief. At least numbers are the same in every language.

  After Math, my next class was “Language Arts.” Thankfully, it was in an “A” classroom. But I wasn’t sure what “Language Arts” meant. Was it an art class or a language class? I knew it wasn’t ESL or “English as a Second Language,” because I had that later. I used to think I understood English passably well until I came to Twin Lakes and had to navigate my way around school.

  The hallway was as noisy and frightening as before, but I managed to find room A203 without bumping into those girls.

  I found a seat near the front but not too close to it, next to a boy who was writing in a bound notebook. Even though there were other empty seats, I chose him to sit next to because he was the only person in the room who wasn’t already engaged in lively conversation, maybe because everyone was ignoring him.

  He glanced at me briefly, but didn’t say anything; he just turned his attention back to his notebook.

  Estupendo. I was being ignored by the guy everyone else was ignoring. I sat at my desk, swallowing hard so I didn’t cry, and tried to remember that I was once a person who had friends. I opened my notebook to the back and wrote in small letters: ROBERTO, GABY, SOFIA, RICARDO, MILI, LEO, DAVID…names of people I wished were sitting in the chairs next to me. Names of people I’d probably never see again. Ever.

  Just when I thought I was going to drown in misery, the bell rang.

  “Settle down, people,” the teacher said.

&
nbsp; Settle down? I jotted the phrase down in my notebook to ask the ESL teacher.

  The Language Arts teacher’s name was Mr. Hallowell, and like every other teacher, he took attendance. Like every other teacher he mispronounced my name Ben-simon.

  “It’s Ben-simone,” I told him.

  I heard someone in the back of class imitating me saying Bensimon and I felt my cheeks flush.

  “Oh, you’re the new student from Chile, right?”

  “No, Argentina.”

  “Close, though.” He smiled.

  Not that close.

  “Actually, Santiago, the capital of Chile, is just over seven hundred miles from Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina,” said the kid with the notebook. “That’s eleven hundred kilometers.”

  Where did that come from? How does he know that?

  Everyone turned to stare at him, including Mr. Hallowell.

  “Is that right, Mr…?”

  He looked at his attendance sheet as if it would miraculously reveal Geography Boy’s name.

  “Argentina is almost double the size in terms of square miles occupied. It’s a much bigger country,” Geography Boy continued, seemingly unaware that a) the teacher was waiting for his name or b) the entire class was staring at him like he was a fact-spouting freak.

  “That’s very interesting, but right now I’d like to know your name.”

  “Jon Nathanson.”

  There was whispering going on all around me.

  “That’s enough, class. Mr. Nathanson, this is all fascinating information but not relevant to the taking of attendance, so I’m going to have to ask you to save it for another time.”

  The people in the class snickered. Jon lowered his head and started writing in his notebook again. I felt sorry for him. He might have been born in America, but in that classroom it was clear he was almost as much of an outsider as I was.

  Language Arts, it turned out, was literature. We were going to start off by reading Hamlet. Perfecto. Not only did I have to learn in a language I wasn’t 100 percent fluent in, I had to read a play written in a form of that language several centuries old. I wondered if they would let me read it in Spanish. I mean, seriously. Otherwise it was like asking me to run a marathon with my legs tied together, carrying a concrete block.