We need work, green cards, a car, and a place to live, but I don’t know the order or who is taking care of all that. Is Dad supposed to?
My parents are drained and tired, and too many questions will stress them out more, so I keep quiet and try new desserts the church ladies have brought. The apple pie tastes like Grandma’s strudel; the one called pumpkin is squishy. I wash it down with a clear, fizzy soda called Sprite that’s like Fanta from home.
After Barbara shows her friends out, Mom brings their empty plates and glasses into the kitchen. Dad and Eldin turn the TV back on.
“Do you want to go to the beach?” Barbara asks us.
“Is Atlantic Ocean?” I try in English. Though it’s cold out, I want to play in the sand.
“Long Island Sound,” she corrects. “Eighteen miles wide.” She points in the direction of the water I saw from the attic window. “Go to the end of the street, make a left, down the hill,” she instructs, making it clear she won’t be coming with us.
The four of us walk there, unsteady on the gravel road. The beach is dark and muddy, nobody else around. My feet crunch on rocks and broken seashells. It’s low tide, and smells like seaweed and rotting fish—nothing like the beaches on Baywatch and Beverly Hills, 90210. I dip my hand into the ocean and my fingers feel like icicles.
“Told you so,” Eldin taunts as Mom and Dad look at the houses lining the shore, their huge glass windows facing the sea.
It’s already dark when we trek back at six p.m. In the kitchen, Barbara’s cooking. I smell liquor on her breath, but she doesn’t seem drunk or anything.
When we sit down together at the dining room table, she serves us lettuce and tomato first, which feels odd, since we usually have salad during dinner. Then she puts out soup, fried chicken, string beans, and mashed potatoes, and Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Don’s were crunchy hard. I’m surprised these are soft and chewy. How many kinds are there?
It’s wonderful to have a four-course meal in comfortable chairs in a dining room instead of eating on stools or the bed, or standing for a pizza slice.
* * *
Over the next few days, more Americans come from local churches and synagogues to visit us, but nobody from mosques. Eldin figures there must not be any Muslim houses of worship in Westport. They bring us fruit baskets, cider, toiletries, pots and pans. Once again, Barbara takes the gifts upstairs. I listen to her footsteps overhead as we sit in the living room. It seems like she’s putting everything in the room that’s off-limits. I try to smile without showing my crooked teeth and say “Thank you” to each one. I’m amazed that members of other religions are helping us.
A lady with short blond hair and glasses, named Ellie Lowenstein, shakes our hands with a powerful grip, looking into our eyes. She gives us a radio that Eldin immediately fiddles with.
“You’ll need to go to the immigration office for green cards to get Social Security numbers,” she tells my parents and Eldin, our translator. I like this take-charge woman.
“Ellie heads Westport’s Zoning Commission and the League of Women Voters,” Barbara fills us in.
I don’t know what those groups are, but it’s clear that people follow Ellie. I’m bummed when she says goodbye without mentioning if she’ll return.
* * *
On Monday, Barbara leaves the house before eight a.m., but first she gives Mom some cash in case we need it.
“Where is she going? We can’t drive anywhere,” I whine.
“She has to work. She’s a secretary at the high school,” Mom explains. “She took time off to stay home and welcome us last week.”
So we’re stuck in Barbara’s house. During the long days that week, we stay mostly in the living room, trying not to take up too much space. Mom cleans and does our laundry, using only the tiniest bit of detergent and fabric softener. I’m embarrassed that we still can’t even afford our own food and cleaning supplies.
Eldin’s new radio won’t pick up international stations, but from watching TV all day we eventually learn that CNN’s World News runs updates on our war at ten a.m., noon, three p.m., six, six thirty, and eight. Then ABC’s International News is on at ten. The reports are all we look forward to, structuring our days. Crammed together on the couch, we wait to see the latest on how ravaged our homeland is. There’s footage of explosions, peace talks, and cease-fires that don’t take. I’m scared that Brčko will be totally gone by the time we get back. It’s already been twenty months since the fighting started.
“Šta kažu? “Šta kažu?” Mom always asks Eldin what Wolf Blitzer is saying, and Eldin translates.
When Barbara comes home, she pulls up a chair to watch with us, bringing popcorn, which she shares, like it’s a movie. “What’s happening now?” she asks.
“Wolf will tell us,” I say in Bosnian, pointing to him on the giant screen.
Wolf cuts to a dark-haired lady named Christiane Amanpour, reporting from Sarajevo, our capital. She has a British accent and is translating the words of a Bosnian Muslim girl my age who can’t leave her house because of sniper fire. Then, in a voice-over, Amanpour says something about the U.S. president, sounding angry.
“She’s asking why Clinton won’t bomb Serb supply lines and lift the embargo that’s preventing arms shipments to our people, like he promised to do,” Eldin says, nodding, impressed.
In that moment I decide I’m trading my crush on Beverly Hills, 90210’s Jennie Garth for the smarter, tougher Christiane.
* * *
“We gotta get you guys away from the TV set for an hour,” Barbara says on Saturday. At last, she takes us on our first outing: to a grocery store called Stop & Shop.
But this is more than just a food shop. The place is enormous. I’m awed by the mountain of endless apples. The cookie and candy sections span two aisles! There are chocolates I’ve never heard of, stuffed with caramel, marshmallow, peanuts.
Back home, supermarkets don’t have meat—you go to the butcher to buy steak, lamb, or chicken. Here, in the deli, they cut slices of different cold cuts and slabs of poultry for each customer. In the fish section, I stare at lobsters, shrimp, crabmeat, and tuna. But it’s the dairy section that excites me most: there are fruit yogurts in rainbow flavors that make my mouth water. Who knew there were so many different kinds of milk in so many different size bottles and cartons?
“Wow. I’ve never seen a supermarket with so many aisles,” Eldin says as Mom stares at all the different kinds of plums, pears, and peaches stacked in pyramids in the fruit section.
People around us pack their carts with food. I watch two kids grabbing whatever they want off the shelves as their mom nods, agreeing to buy everything. Then I wait to see what Barbara chooses, hoping for something I like. I linger in the cookie aisle near the Chips Ahoy, and she puts two packages in the cart. Yes!
After she’s done shopping, we go to an outdoor market across the street, where a man gives us free hot, spicy cider. Barbara buys another orange blob like the one she has on her porch, saying it’s a pumpkin. I think of the squishy pie the church ladies brought, and hope she’s planning to make more.
“You’ll love Halloween tomorrow night,” Barbara promises on the way back. When she explains it’s a night for ghosts and goblins, I picture real corpses coming back to life, but Barbara insists it’s just a fun holiday. Now I understand all the weird decorations.
On her front porch, she teaches Eldin and me how to scoop out the goopy insides of the pumpkin and carve a face in the shell, with triangular eyes and jagged teeth. I ace it—my “jack-o’-lantern” looks awesome. Eldin speaks more English, but I’m better than my brother at arts and crafts. Barbara says we can cook the seeds to eat, and that other kids will come over tomorrow, dressed in costumes.
* * *
The next day at sundown, I’m stationed on Barbara’s porch, holding a tray of candy. First a little kid dressed as Spider-Man comes by with his parents. Barbara introduces me, and I say “Hi” and give him a Snicker
s and a Kit Kat. He waves as he leaves. Next I greet a group dressed as Superman, Batman, and an alien creature. Then a princess, a butterfly, and a ladybug. Where are the ghosts and goblins Barbara mentioned?
There are tons of costumed neighbors out, and they keep coming. There must be fifty in a row. So this town does have lots of kids my age. Where have they been hiding? I wonder. I hope they’ll remember me as the one who gave out candy.
I love handing out treats, and the handmade outfits are my favorite—one kid comes as a shower, with his brother as a bar of soap. We don’t have anything like this holiday in Bosnia. I wish I had a costume, too. I decide that next year I’ll be a soldier with a bayonet and an AK-47, the kind Mr. Miran held against my head.
While Dad and Eldin watch TV, Mom looks at the costumes through the window, smiling and waving.
When nobody’s watching, I feast on sweets from the tray I’m holding. It’s candy I haven’t had before: Reese’s Pieces, Twizzlers, Skittles, and Sour Worms. I shove more into my pockets for later, and I save a mini Snickers, a 3 Musketeers, and some SweeTarts to give to Dad on his birthday next week.
* * *
I sneak candies in between meals every chance I get. A couple days after Halloween, some of the church ladies return with Ellie Lowenstein to talk about enrolling me in the local public school.
“What grade are you in?” asks Ellie.
“I’m in seventh. I finished sixth grade when we were abroad,” I lie, telling Eldin to repeat it in English, which he does. The truth is, between the war and moving around, I missed half a year, and barely understood anything at school in Vienna. But I really don’t want the Americans to put me in sixth again, where I’d be the oldest kid in class. Everybody will think it’s because I’m dumb, foreign, and can’t speak the language.
Mom, Dad, and Eldin agree I shouldn’t be held back. I hold up seven fingers to make sure Ellie and the church ladies get it.
* * *
On the morning of my first day of school in the U.S., Barbara gives me a notebook and pencil before leaving for work. Mom says I should wear my gray sweater and the Wrangler jeans I’ve outgrown. I worry that my ratty clothes will make me an easy target for bullies. I’m nervous and excited all at once. And I feel guilty leaving my parents and brother stranded at Barbara’s house.
“Go to school, learn English, make something of yourself—for all of us,” Mom says.
“Yeah, that’s what we came here for,” echoes Dad, making me even more nervous.
If I fail, I’ll be letting my whole family down.
Twenty-One
November 1993
At 8:30 a.m. sharp, Ellie Lowenstein shows up at Barbara’s house in her silver Honda to drive me to school. “Are you ready for your first day?” she asks. I nod and try to smile.
After a seven-minute drive (I time it on her car clock), Ellie parks outside a blue brick single-story building that has wide windows and a sign that says BEDFORD MIDDLE SCHOOL in block letters. Ellie says it’s grades six to eight, which she calls “junior high.” There’s elaborate landscaping, with shrubs and wide lawns, like the schools in Vienna. When we enter through the main door, I see that the floors are covered in blue carpeting, like someone’s house—it’s much fancier than my school in Bosnia.
Suddenly bells ring, and dozens of kids pour into the hallway, talking and laughing, opening and closing lockers. I wonder if I’ll get one too. I don’t even have a backpack. Everyone here looks taller and better dressed than me. The boys’ pants are baggier and longer than mine. Some of the girls wear leggings under shorts, which confuses me because aren’t shorts for summer and tights for winter? They all joke around with one another, using English words I can’t grasp. I look down at my worn, ratty clothes.
As we walk down the hall, a few students glance at me curiously. I wish I knew someone. These good-looking rich Americans probably won’t like a poor, short foreigner with choppy bangs and bad teeth who can barely communicate in English. Why should they even be nice to me? They haven’t known me since kindergarten like they probably all know each other. Nobody here shares my religion, my language, or my background.
“The principal is Dr. Glenn Hightower,” Ellie tells me as we step into the school’s main office. A tall man with glasses is there waiting for us.
“Welcome, Kenan. We’re pleased to have you here,” he says.
He bows his head, shaking my hand with both of his, treating me like I’m his special honored guest. He’s dressed in a suit, like Mr. Miran. I want to like this Dr. Hightower, but for years, Mr. Miran was nice to me too. How can I know this man won’t turn on me and my family one day?
“Let me show you to your classroom,” he says.
Ellie smiles at me encouragingly, then leaves. The principal takes me down the hall, which is quiet and empty again, and into a room where about twenty boys and girls my age are sitting at desks. The teacher standing at the blackboard looks older than my father, maybe in his sixties. He’s chubby and balding, with gray hair on the sides. He wears a button-down shirt, a green V-neck sweater vest, dress pants, and leather shoes.
“Mr. Sullivan, this is Kenan,” says Dr. Hightower, leading me up front.
“Oh, welcome, welcome, Kenan. We’re so happy to have you here,” Mr. Sullivan says in a chirpy, warm voice, like we’re old buddies.
After Dr. Hightower leaves, I can’t make out what Mr. Sullivan is telling the class about me, but I imagine a humiliating announcement, like Kenan is our new foreign student. He’s poor, doesn’t speak English, and he’s a basket case. Please help him.
Everyone stares. I smile with my mouth closed so they won’t see my bad teeth. Looking down at the floor, I feel like a stray mutt waiting to be adopted. I miss my home, my relatives, my clothes, my old school, and my friends—that is, before they wanted me to die. I pretend not to care about that, but I do. I can’t stop thinking about Vik and Mr. Miran turning on me.
“He can sit here,” says a small kid in front, pointing to an empty desk to his right. I feel relieved, even though I’m not at all psyched about sitting in the front row near the teacher.
“That’s nice of you, Miguel,” Mr. Sullivan says as I take my seat.
Miguel is even shorter and skinnier than me, with long blond hair and bangs parted down the middle, like one of the Baywatch surfer guys I saw on television. When he speaks, I hear that he has an accent too. He has a kind of braces I’ve never seen, with a square hook on each tooth. His teeth are uneven, but they don’t jut out as much as mine. I bet nobody calls him Bugs.
For the rest of the hour, everybody takes turns reading the papers they’ve written out loud to the class. I make out a few verbs like talk and walk, but I have no idea what their essays are about. I just hope the teacher won’t ask me questions. Then the bell rings, and everybody gets up. Miguel packs his things into a green book bag.
“Vat class this?” I try to ask. He seems to understand.
“This was Mr. Sullivan’s seventh-grade English,” he answers.
I don’t know where I’m supposed to go next, but Dr. High-tower appears in the doorway and beckons to me, asking questions too fast for me to decipher.
So I just nod and say, “Thank you.”
He hands me a schedule, then says something else to the rest of the students. He must be asking if anybody will assist me, because Miguel glances at my class list and says, “Come,” gesturing for me to follow. I nod, relieved that I won’t be lost for the next hour at least.
I trail Miguel to his locker, where he switches books. Some kids he knows come up to me and say “Hi.” A few shake my hand.
“Thank you,” I keep saying.
I’m stunned by everybody being so kind to me, especially Miguel. Why is he being so helpful? Has someone assigned him to be my guide?
He shows me where our next class is, and for the next hour a chubby teacher with a long mustache makes jokes in different voices as he scribbles math numbers on the chalkboard. The class laughs a lo
t, and I gather he’s popular. I open my notebook and copy every equation the teacher writes, pretending I know what he’s doing. My country has the same numbers as the U.S., but I’ve fallen behind in school, and I’ve never been good at mathematics. I’m completely lost, and I wish I knew what everyone was laughing at.
When the bell rings, I’m relieved. I get up to follow Miguel to the next class.
“No,” he says. “I have history now, but you’re in art.”
I don’t know the word art. I must look clueless, because Miguel walks me there, giving me a thumbs-up before I go into the room. I’m afraid I’ll mistakenly take someone’s chair, so I wait until all the students sit down, then sit at an empty desk. I look around at the collages and paintings on the walls and supplies on the shelves, happy I’m in a drawing class. Something I’m good at! I might not even have to speak or try to interpret fast foreign talk this period.
“Oh, you’re Kenan. I’m Miss Jones,” the teacher says. She’s young, with dark curly hair.
“Thank you,” I say.
She gives out charcoal pencils and lets us draw whatever we want, and I’m elated. I try a battlefield, with a tank and missiles dropping from the sky. Miss Jones looks at my work and nods. I hope my drawing skills will get me an A, so at least I won’t fail every class.
When the bell rings, I understand it’s lunchtime. I follow the crowd to a big room filled with long tables and plastic chairs, where everyone is chomping away. In my Bosnian school, I’d buy minced beef ćevape from the meat truck lady or bring a salami and cheese sandwich, apple, and chocolate bar in a brown bag to eat with my pals on picnic tables outside. Now I glance around the crowded, noisy cafeteria, my heart pounding.
I don’t want to sit by myself. I close my eyes to hold in tears. If I survived a war, I should be able to handle a lunchroom. But I don’t know how it works here, if they’ll make fun of the food Mom prepared or of how I chew with my big front teeth.
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