The Little Exile

by Jeanette Arakawa

  When school started, things changed. None of the other kids on our block on Lawrence Street were in junior high, so I went to a school where I knew no one. Not even Brian, since he was in high school. Furthermore, Cole Junior High was not a very friendly place. I was taking six classes and as far as I could tell, each class was made up of a different set of students. And as an eighth-grader, it was more difficult for me to make friends, because most friendships had been cemented in seventh grade. I managed to make one friend. She was also new to Cole. Her name was Martha, and her parents were from Armenia. She had dark curly hair and was rather heavy, with large blue eyes and a nose like Dick Tracy’s. Only rounded. She was smart and had a great sense of humor. Unfortunately, she attracted the attention of a bully. She would tease Martha about her nose. At first Martha ignored her, Then, one day, Martha made the mistake of talking back to her. As Martha and I were leaving school, the bully walked up to her and hit her nose with the full force of her fist.

  It was not uncommon for someone to get attacked at Cole. There always seemed to be an after-school fight, or some bully assaulting a weaker person like Martha. The following day, Martha transferred out of Cole.

  After the Martha incident, I made a point of leaving school as fast as possible, afraid that I, too, might become a target. I ate lunch by myself and was always on the lookout for rowdy groups of girls. I kept my distance. I was totally alone. Now without Martha, there was no one I felt could talk to.

  Every now and then, a school-wide assembly was called for a special program. On one particular occasion, a renowned magician was featured. The entire school was seated in the huge auditorium, and we all waited in the dark in eager anticipation. It was taking longer than usual for the performance to start. To ease the boredom, I began rummaging in my purse and found a matchstick I had soaked with cinnamon. These Diamond brand matchsticks were the mainstay for lighting gas stoves and were in ample supply in every household. I had found that matchsticks, because of their thickness, could hold more of the cinnamon flavor than toothpicks. I used matches that had never been lit.

  I opened the wax paper wrapping and removed a matchstick. I sucked on it for a while. My wandering mind then settled on Mr. Nakano and the image of him igniting his match by sliding it across his pants. I wondered if it would light if I slid it across my skirt. I tried it, and it did.

  No sooner had the match caught fire than no fewer than three teachers were grabbing my arm, collar, shoulder, and dragging me out of my seat. I never got to see the magic show and I almost got expelled.

  * * *

  Miss Mills, my homeroom teacher, bore a striking resemblance to George Washington, whose picture hung on the wall. Her hair was brown, rather than silver, but the hairstyle was the same. And, of course, she was a woman. But she seemed more like a man as she took long strides with her short stubby legs and swayed from side to side with shoulders hunched up when she walked down the aisle between our desks. She was stern and tried to keep firm control of the class. She always carried her pointer, a long tapered stick with a rubber tip at one end. Other teachers used it to point to something on the blackboard or map or something like that. In her hands, the pointer took on the personality of a weapon. Like a billy club, which the police carried. She never struck anyone with it to my knowledge, but no one doubted for a moment she would use it if she felt the need.

  She had very strict rules about getting out of our seats. Some teachers would let us get up to sharpen our pencils without permission, but in her class, you had to raise your hand for any reason. It was a hard and fast rule. But sometimes, someone would raise their hand, and she would choose not to acknowledge it.

  Miss Mills was also my math teacher. I had math immediately after lunch. One day I had the fifteen-cent lunch. That was the one with the slice of bread, mashed potato, thin slice of beef, and gravy. The beef had an unusual amount of fat on it that day. But it was delicious. Miss Mills had just passed out a short quiz, and we were given ten minutes to complete it. Suddenly, my stomach began to cramp, so I raised my hand. Miss Mills raised her hand, palm down, and lowered it. She pointed to the clock and lifted one finger as if to say, “One more minute to go. It can wait!” I dropped my hand and hoped that my stomach would calm down. It did. For one brief moment. Then the cramping returned with a vengeance. My stomach squeezed itself into a painful knot making it clear to me there was no room for its content. I was losing control. Everything was coming up. I bolted out of my seat and began to run down the aisle.

  “Marie!” Miss Mills shouted as she blocked the aisle. “I didn’t give you permission to get up! I want you to return to your seat immediately!” I hesitated for a moment. Then it was over. My lunch exploded out of my mouth. At her feet. She did a weird dance stepping tippy-toe from side to side with her shoulders hunched, skirt pulled up over her knees, trying to avoid the pile of semidigested meat, potatoes, bread, and gravy that was growing on the floor in front of her. When the heaving stopped, I pushed Miss Mills out of the way, stepped around the mess, and ran out the door.

  In the restroom I stood over the basin, washing my face and rinsing my mouth, wondering what I was going to do next. I couldn’t return to the class. I had totally humiliated myself. I imagined how repulsive and disgusting it must have been for those poor kids who sat on either side of the aisle. And Miss Mills must be furious with me, I thought. I’d probably be expelled. This, added to the lighted match in the auditorium incident, was surely enough to send me home for good. I raised my head to look at my pathetic self in the mirror, when I saw the reflection of a girl from my class enter the restroom. She was in my class, but I didn’t know her name.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, as she put her hand on my shoulder. I spoke to her reflection in the mirror.

  “Yeah. I think my stomach has finally settled down.”

  “Miss Mills says it’s all right. She wants you to return to class.”

  “Is she very angry?”

  “No,” she said. “But she’s a bit flustered. She’s been pacing back and forth and can’t seem to get on with the class lesson. The janitor came in and sprinkled some stuff on your vomit and swept it up. It doesn’t smell or anything.”

  “I can’t believe that I did that!” I said.

  “It’s okay. It couldn’t be helped,” she said. “By the way, my name is Annie Hernandez. What’s yours?”

  We walked together back to the classroom, and from the doorway, all signs of my “accident” seemed to be gone. Everyone was very quiet and had solemn looks on their faces.

  “I was just telling the class,” Miss Mills said. “If you are feeling sick, you don’t have to ask my permission to leave the room. Just go.”

  “You seem better, but I think you should go to the nurse’s office now. I’ve written a note for you. Gather your things and Annie will accompany you.”

  Now I had to walk the path on which I had, just moments before, poured the foul contents of my stomach. As I walked with my head down, I could see little traces of it that remained on books stacked on the under-chair book shelves. A faint stench still lingered. Not quite enough to trigger another episode, but close. When I reached my seat, I quickly reached down to the shelf below it, scooped up my belongings, and once more, retraced my steps up the aisle. I ran out the door, with Annie on my heels.

  The nurse had me lie down. I fell asleep immediately. I awoke refreshed, and she let me go home.

  Home was an empty apartment. My parents were at work, of course, and there were no neighbors to visit— everyone was at work. And Brian was still at school.

  When my parents finally did come home, Papa was in his usual nasty mood.

  * * *

  Papa was having problems at work. He had taken a job as a spotter, although he lacked the experience. It involved a lot of chemistry. But it paid $1.25 an hour, a twenty-five percent raise over his $1 an hour as a presser. Spotting was less physically demanding and more prestigious, so “he couldn’t turn it down.” It was muc
h more difficult than he had expected, and he made mistakes. That meant that someone’s garment didn’t get cleaned well, or worse, it was ruined. He was on the verge of being fired. So there was no room for my problems at the dinner table or any other time. Brian was always doing homework and Mama was always upset by Papa’s predicament. The only conversations at our house were very heated ones between Papa and Mama about Papa’s future.

  “You should be more sympathetic toward me at work!’ Papa shouted at Mama. “They don’t respect me. Everyone used to call me, ‘Mr. Mitsui.’ Now, everyone calls me ‘Charlie!’ I’m being insulted, and you pretend like nothing’s wrong! You should be sticking up for me!”

  “You want me to lose my job, too? It’s your fault! You should be more honest! If you don’t know how to do something, you should say so!”

  “See that? You’re on their side! . . .”

  In camp, there was always someone for me to talk to. Here, there was no one. Lately, I had also been wetting my bed. I would dream that I was walking the cold dark hall to the bathroom and sitting on the toilet. It all seemed so real. I convinced myself that I wasn’t dreaming. Then I would awaken when I felt myself lying in a warm puddle. It was disgusting. The situation at school, the situation at home, the situation in my bed . . . I was always on the verge of tears. The slightest thing would cause my eyes to well up. Watching kids walking to school together, or seeing clusters of kids at lunch would fill me with overwhelming loneliness, and I fought to keep my tears contained. When I walked around school, I would pull my books close to my chest and scurry down the halls with my head down, so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone and hope that no one would recognize me as the “barfer” or the stupid girl that lit a match during assembly. At lunch, I would find a spot that faced a wall and bury my face in a book, as I picked at my food.

  I tried to be the first one out of class to avoid those who might want to hurt me. I had dealt with bullies before. But this was different. When I was younger it was name-calling or poking and tripping. Here, it was much more serious. Martha’s nose had been broken. Another boy’s face was slashed with a knife.

  I had navigated rough waters before. But now I felt totally at sea with no help in sight. I was struggling to keep from drowning. Each day was a tremendous struggle. And it began when I awoke in the morning. I had a difficult time getting myself out of bed.

  One morning was particularly awful.

  “Hurry up, Marie. You’re going to be late for school.” Mama said. “You’re getting to be a problem for me, lately. You must know that I have enough to do without having to worry about your getting up. I want you to take more responsibility for yourself! Now, get up!”

  I wish she would leave me alone and let me lie here forever, I thought. I rolled over and pulled my pillow over my head. But she was relentless.

  “Are you still in bed? I can’t leave for work until I know you’re up! Up! Up!” Her sharp voice penetrated my ears right through the pillow.

  I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on my bathrobe, squeezed some toothpaste on my toothbrush, draped a towel around my neck, and slithered out the door. There was a long line to the toilet and sink. It was unusually slow this morning. The line wasn’t moving at all! And I had to go! I finally turned the corner and was now on the porch. There were still three people ahead of me. My bladder was stretching to its limit. I could hold it no longer! I shifted out of the middle of the corridor to the edge as if to look out the window at something in the alley below. Then under the cover of my floor-length robe, I left a puddle, hoping no one would notice. I was so embarrassed. It was a carpeted area, much like our apartment, dark and intricately patterned. I stood firm protecting my puddle and continued to gaze out the window. I yielded my turn to those behind me until none were left. Then I moved from my spot to use the sink.

  It was after this episode I realized that I didn’t feel I had the energy to continue struggling with my problems. I began thinking about how life was so difficult, and that it wasn’t worth the effort. I was tired of worrying about the problems at school and wetting the bed and other places. I was tired of being afraid of being attacked at school. I was tired of being alone all the time without friends or anyone to talk to.

  Ideas about how I could leave this world began to invade my thoughts. I considered and eliminated the more painful methods and those that would be messy. These daydreams filled the spaces between mundane thoughts during the day and each night as I lay in bed.

  In the movies, people took vast numbers of sleeping pills, but we didn’t have anything like that at our house. I decided that I could go to the drugstore and see if I could buy some. I didn’t know how much sleeping pills cost. Hopefully, my allowance would cover it.

  So that was settled. Then I began to envision how everyone would react to the fact that I was gone. They would be so sorry they hadn’t been friendly to me, I thought.

  “Did you know Marie?” they would say. Those that remembered me, the very few, like Annie, would be able to brag that they did. Others would say, “I wish I had been more friendly toward her.” But it would be too late

  CHAPTER 20

  “It Might As Well Be Spring”

  JEANNE CRAIN

  Saturday morning I lay in bed awake with my eyes closed. Something had awakened me. Perhaps it was the sound of Brian going out the door to baseball practice. I then realized that I was lying in a puddle again. I can’t stand it! I felt so helpless. I’m going to the drugstore today to see about getting sleeping pills, I decided. In the meantime, I’ve got to get up and clean up the mess. Ugh. I’m going to lie here until it gets cold.

  But something was amiss. I sensed that there was someone else in the room. A presence. A ghost? A robber? Was I still asleep? One way to find out is by opening my eyes, I thought. Suppose it’s something I’d rather not see? I’d have to take that chance. I’ll just take a small peek by opening my eyes a crack, I thought. So I opened them just a sliver and jerked with surprise at what I saw!

  There was someone standing over my bed. A total stranger! A beautiful young woman, tall and slender, with large smiling eyes and clear complexion. I thought for a moment, I’m having one of those “I’m sure ‘I’m not dreaming,’ dreams,” like the ones that fool me into thinking I’m on the toilet. I reached out and touched her.

  “Hi, Marie. You sure are a sound sleeper. I’ve been standing here for at least five minutes! It’s ten o’clock, you know.”

  “Who are you? How’d you get in? What’re you doing here?” I said, rubbing my eyes. Why would anyone who looked like her be standing over my bed, I asked myself. Mature girls stuck together. They didn’t bother with runts like me.

  “It’s me. Jean Okada. From Rohwer. Don’t you remember me? Seventh grade? I knocked, but no one answered, and your door was unlocked, so I just walked in.”

  Our door was secured by a padlock on the outside. Papa and Mama had gone to work earlier, and Brian was off doing something with his friends. If they had locked the door, I wouldn’t have been able to get out. Until now it didn’t occur to me the door wasn’t locked when any of us was left in the apartment.

  “Is that really you, Jean?”

  The last time I saw her she was about my size. Now she was tall and wore lipstick. She had large eyes with thick dark lashes that reached out toward the object of her gaze. She was missing one of her front teeth, but she was beautiful, nonetheless.

  I was so happy to see Jean tears started to well in my eyes. Then I realized I had a problem. My bed and nightgown were wet. As long as I stayed on the wet spot, I was fine. The slightest shift resulted in cold discomfort.

  “Jean. I can’t believe it’s you,” I said, trying to lie as still as possible. “You’ve gotten so grown up. How’d you know I was here?”

  “Don told me. My parents know his parents, and they were over for dinner last night. We were talking and his parents said that there was a family from Rohwer living in one of their apartments, and when they said it
was you, I said, ‘I know Marie. I’m going to have to go see her!’ So, here I am!”

  I rarely saw Don or his family, although they lived in the apartment next door. They were the owners. Their apartment had a real kitchen and bathroom. At least, that was what I heard. I had never seen it. They had no reason to be in the hall like the rest of us, because they had their own private bathroom and toilet

  “By the way. Where’s your brother?” Jean asked as she looked around the room. Then she noticed the door to the other room and peered in.

  “I don’t know. I think he’s playing baseball with his friends or something. How’d you get into the building?” I asked. My door might have been unlocked, but the front door downstairs was always locked.

  “I rang the bell and Don’s mother opened it for me. She can open the door from inside their apartment.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that. I’m glad she did. And I’m so glad you’re here. It’s good to be able to talk to someone I know.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know anybody at school. It’s impossible to meet anyone, because we’re constantly changing classes and everything, and everybody seems to have friends and doesn’t seem interested in making new ones.”

  “I don’t have many friends either, but I’d be happy to have you meet who I know,” Jean said. “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “Help me meet some boys!”

  “Help you meet boys? I don’t know any myself.”

  “You have a brother! And he’s in high school!” Jean said. Then she laughed, “I’m just kidding. . . .”

  I wanted to get out of my bed and wet clothes, but couldn’t as long as Jean was standing there. But I didn’t want to say anything that would offend her and cause her to leave. Finally, I reached a point where I had no choice. I threw caution to the winds and blurted. “Jean, do you mind waiting in the hall until I get dressed? It’ll just take a minute.”