I see Miguel joshing with his pals, who crack up at something he says. He’s a prankster, I can tell. For a minute I fear they’re laughing at me, but then Miguel catches my eye, waves me over. “Hey, Kenan, come sit over here, with us!” he yells.
I rush to take the seat next to him. He introduces his gang. Kyle, on Miguel’s other side, says hi. He’s smaller than me and Miguel, with really long light-blond hair. That must be the style here. Across from me, Darren and John nod, and I nod back. I’m starving, so I pull out the turkey sandwich Mom packed and eat it quickly. I turn to watch Miguel, who has a feast going on in front of him: a cheeseburger that looks juicy and delicious, chocolate milk, an apple, and a brown vegetable on the side that he dips in ketchup. His lunch is so much better than mine. The other guys eat hotdogs and burgers from Styrofoam trays too, and I realize they’ve all bought their lunches. I feel stupid.
Miguel catches me watching, pushes his tray toward me, and says, “Take.”
Wanting to know what the brown stuff is, I pick one up and inspect it. I dip it in ketchup, the way he did, and take a tiny bite. It’s great. I finish it off.
“Vat is dis?” I ask.
“Tater tots.” He chuckles, amused that I don’t know, gesturing for me to take more. I eat another, then stop. I don’t want him to know I’m still hungry. But tater tots are now officially my new favorite American food.
After lunch, I follow Miguel out the back door to the playground. I’m ready for recess—a place I can connect with other kids without talking. Some boys are playing basketball on a paved court. I’m surprised to see girls kicking around a ball; in my country, they stick to jumping rope and hopscotch. As Miguel and I stand surveying the scene, he asks, “What do you like to play?”
“I vas best at fudbal,” I tell him.
“Here we say soccer,” he reminds me. “What’s your favorite team?”
“Sports stop in var,” I try to explain. “My team no more.”
“Oh, sorry, man,” he says as a bunch of guys gather around, adding, “You’re on my team now.”
Everyone splits into two groups of five for an impromptu soccer game on the other side of the concrete. Our team is me, Miguel, and his posse from lunch: John, Darren, and Kyle. The roles are pretty loose, but as a new kid, I figure I’ll play defense. I’m insecure that I’m out of practice.
Yet from the minute Kyle kicks the ball to me, I’m rolling.
I know Americans have never won a major soccer/fudbal tournament. They’re better at basketball, baseball, and hockey. So I figure this is my shot to stand out here, in my sport. The ball hits my foot, and I masterfully spin around, tapping it back and forth. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m determined not to make a mistake. I dribble down the court, showing off how fast I am, replaying the victory I won at recess right before the war that ruined my life.
I pass the ball to Kyle, who kicks it into the goal. Man, he’s a great player, like Vik times five. I notice a group of girls watching him and giggling. The next time I get the ball, I pass to Miguel, who scores too. We win the game, and they both give me fist pumps and say “Good game.”
“Vat your favorite team?” I ask Miguel as we walk back inside.
“Mine is Real Madrid,” he says.
I remember from geography class that Madrid is in Spain. “No USA?”
“Madrid, where I’m from,” he says. “My home.”
So that explains his accent. What’s he doing here? Do they have a war in Spain too? I’m frustrated that I don’t know his language well enough to ask him.
“Kyle is good player,” I tell him.
“Oh yeah, Kyle’s gonna go pro one day, I bet,” he says.
I don’t know what “go pro” means.
“You’re a great soccer player too,” Miguel adds.
“Thank you,” I say, getting the change clear in my head: my game isn’t fudbal, it’s soccer now.
After recess, Miguel walks me to my social studies class, then meets me in the hall again at the end of the period to take me to science.
At 2:40 p.m. the final bell rings, and I rush out into the hallway with everyone, with no idea where I’m going. I never asked Ellie how to get home, and I have a sudden vision of myself standing out in the parking lot all night. I’m relieved to see her in the lobby, waiting for me.
“Hi, Kenan,” Ellie calls, waving. “Did you like school? Were they nice? How was the teacher?”
I’m glad she’s come to take me home, but she sure asks a lot of questions. I nod, smile, and say, “Thank you.”
When we get back to Barbara’s, Mom, Dad, and Eldin are sitting on the couch. They turn off CNN as soon as I walk in.
“We’ve been waiting for you to get back,” Mom says, leaping up to give me a hug. “So how did it go at school today?”
“What were your teachers and the kids like?” Dad jumps in.
I’m surprised by all their questions. “So far, it’s okay. The principal introduced me around. He was very respectful, and you could tell everybody listened to him,” I say, happy to finally be able to relax and speak in my own language.
“You figured everything out?” Eldin asks.
“Did you make any new friends yet?” Dad wants to know.
“I think so. A kid named Miguel walked me to my classes.” I show Dad my schedule. “At recess, we played fudbal, and he chose me for his team. Americans aren’t as good as we are, except for this one kid, Kyle, who had dangerous moves.”
“That’s nice,” Mom says.
“Good boy.” Dad messes up my hair. “You already made a new friend.”
“How was it different from back home?” Eldin asks.
In Bosnia, nobody asked about my school day. They weren’t very interested in my schooling in Austria, either. But here, I’m the first one in our family to be out in the world. I feel important, yet pressured to report on the Americans.
“They were nice; almost everyone looked rich. Each student had their own desk. The classes are smaller here than in Brčko, and the rooms were carpeted. They have lockers lining the hallway, like at the gym,” I say, talking faster than usual. “They eat lunch inside at a restaurant where they sell hamburgers, hotdogs, and cheeseburgers, like McDonald’s.”
“I’m sorry we can’t afford to buy lunch,” Mom says. She tells me to go change out of my Wrangler jeans and gray sweater so she can hand wash and lay them out to dry for school the next day.
Just thinking about doing it all over again is exhausting. But it’s better than being claustrophobic in a Connecticut house, watching Wolf on CNN all day.
“Any change in the news?” I ask, hoping to hear We won. We can go home now.
“It’s escalating.” Eldin looks bummed. “Far from over.”
* * *
The next morning, Ellie shows up with a blue backpack for me.
“Thank you,” I say, looking it over eagerly. I had one in Bosnia, but the American kind is much sharper, with more pockets. I place my notebook and pen in the zippered pouch and put it on my back, smiling.
She drives to the bottom of the hill, then pulls over. “You’ll take the school bus number one that stops here,” she explains, then waits with me to make sure I understand. “From now on, you’ll take the bus every day.” I nod and look for it in the distance nervously. I’ve always walked to school, and I don’t know what to expect.
When the yellow bus finally comes, I wave goodbye to Ellie, then climb up the high steps. As I reach the top, I realize I don’t have any money to pay the fare. But the driver lets me on anyway, gesturing that I should go sit.
I don’t know if the seats are assigned, and I choose an empty one up front, waiting for somebody to get mad at me and tell me to get up. But nobody does. I sit alone, studying my schedule. Which word is Tuesday?
When we arrive at the school building, I recall how to get to my first class. Turn left, then right. Okay, I’m ready. I can do this. I’m pumped.
Then I walk into the cla
ssroom, and a boy points at my clothes. “Hey, didn’t you have that on yesterday?”
That, I understand. I look down at the Wrangler jeans and sweater I’ve carried with me almost five thousand miles. They’ve been washed so many times, the elastic in my collar is limp.
I want to disappear. I don’t have the words to explain that, like him, I used to be well-dressed. I walk quickly to my seat, paranoid the other kids will notice I’ve repeated my outfit too. How will I ever afford new pants?
Luckily, Miguel doesn’t mention it. After English, he takes me to the gymnasium, where kids are playing something they call dodge ball. Everyone throws orange balls, trying to hit each other. If a ball touches you, you’re out.
It’s the dumbest game ever: there are no real teams, you’re basically just in it for yourself. Still, I want to win, so I dive, jump, slide, anything to avoid getting hit. It’s like dodging bullets and shrapnel from Serbs back home. If I can survive gunfire, this is nothing.
Miguel and I are on the same side of the room, so we don’t have to throw the balls at each other. We’re the smallest and fastest, and we outlast everyone. Eventually we’re the only ones still standing. The teacher blows his whistle. We win!
At the end of gym I pull the schedule out of my pocket to see the room number of my next class. Miguel reads from the paper and says, “Shop.” Doesn’t that mean going to stores? We’re in this class together too, and I follow him into a room filled with wooden tables, pieces of plywood, and big cutting machines that look dangerous. The students all go to the shelves along one wall, which they call cubbies, and pull out projects they’ve been working on, small sculptures made of wood and glue.
I stand in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do. I want to go sit next to Miguel, who’s already cutting wood with an electric table saw. But the teacher leads me to another table saw and gives me a small, blank slab the size of a hardcover book along with a pair of goggles.
I’ve never carved anything before, and I’m scared I’ll cut my finger off and no American hospital will treat a foreigner who can’t pay. I picture getting sent home with a bloody bandage, and I think about how Mom will kill me for ruining my chance in America.
I glance around to see what the others make: a tiny baseball bat, a picture frame, a treasure chest. I look down at the slab of wood, and for some reason I remember the day our mosque was blown up. I can still hear Viktor laughing. I decide to make a replica of what we lost.
First I take a black Sharpie pen to draw it on the wood. I outline the entrance door, windows, and a minaret high above the roof, then add the small balcony where the imam stands to say a prayer over the loudspeaker during the holy month of Ramadan. Next I maneuver the saw attached to the table to carve out the shape. To smooth out the rough edges, I use sandpaper. I color the entrance doors and windows black. It feels like my hands are making it without my brain even telling them what to do.
When I’m done, I place my mosque upright, proud of my work. Then I look up, glance around, and see that everyone is staring at me.
“What is that?” asks a kid in a skateboard T-shirt. The teacher comes over to my table, also wanting to know.
I don’t know the English word for mosque, so I say, “House.”
“Oh, that looks more like a church,” says a nerdy-looking boy with glasses who’s sitting next to me.
Church? I wonder if there is only one English word for all of God’s houses.
“Before var,” I try. But I can’t explain the complicated story behind my mosque. How, after World War II, my Majka Emina donated money to rebuild the Christian Orthodox church in our town that was damaged by bombs. And how the Serbs repaid it by bombing the place where we prayed. How, when Eldin and I went there with our uncle on Ramadan, I was in awe of all the believers. And now the mosque is gone. Our home is gone. Our people, gone.
Miguel walks over with his own masterpiece—a painted wooden mask that looks scary. As he inspects my sculpture, the room goes silent, awaiting his verdict.
“Hey, that’s pretty cool, dude.” He high-fives me.
I’m not sure what dude means, but I high-five him back.
The teacher gives me a plastic bag to wrap my mini mosque in, and I carefully place it in my backpack and carry it with me for the rest of the day. On the bus, I hold it in front of me to make sure the narrow minaret doesn’t break off.
“How was your second day?” Mom asks the minute I walk into Barbara’s house.
“Look what I made in shop class.” I hold it up to show my family.
“Oh, our mosque!” Dad says, delighted, recognizing it immediately and clapping his hands like he does when I win a sports game.
“Majka would be so proud.” Mom kisses my forehead as everyone examines my creation. “You’re an artist. You should stop chasing after balls and keep drawing and sculpting.”
“Yes, that’s really something!” Barbara agrees when she comes home later. “The kid’s got talent.”
That night, I stare up at the attic ceiling, thinking. I can’t dress well, speak English, figure out math, or recite any American history. But I won a prize for my art once, and I can ace sports and shop. So maybe that’s how I can be somebody here.
Twenty-Two
On Dad’s birthday, I sing “Happy fifty-four” during breakfast and give him the treats I’d saved for him. I wish I had money to buy him real gifts, a fishing rod or a new woolen sweater, since it’s getting colder outside. But he says all he wants is a hug, so we all hold him close. Mom kisses him on the forehead, pretending everything is fine. But we’ve been at Barbara’s for almost three weeks now, and we’re afraid she’ll throw us out.
Instead she surprises us that night with a wonderful birthday dinner for Dad, sautéed chicken and rice, and then announces that a dentist named Dick Sands is coming by. I assume he’s just another church member who’ll shake our hands and maybe offer us gifts or cookies. Sure enough, after Mom clears the table, a frumpy old man shows up, smelling of cigarettes, like Mr. Miran. But he doesn’t have any food or gifts.
“I’d like to help you with any dental problems you have,” he tells us. He says he’s heard about us through Don Hodges.
“We really need to get Kenan braces, Dr. Sands,” Mom jumps in, with Eldin translating.
But wait, she’s the one with tooth pain. The cavity she had filled during the war has been keeping her up at night again.
“You can call me Dick,” the dentist says, smiling. He has very white and very even teeth—a good sign. “Open your mouth so I can examine you.” He gestures that I should stand under the light in the kitchen.
I do as he says, ashamed of how much my front teeth stick out. I don’t want him to think I don’t take care of myself. Before the war, I wore my retainer every night at home.
Half the kids at my new school wear braces, but I don’t know how we’ll ever get enough money to fix my buckteeth. Mom smiles, but still doesn’t say anything about her own toothache.
After his examination Dick says, “I know just the person who is going to make him look perfect.”
Eldin translates, and we all laugh.
“And don’t worry,” he adds. “It will all be free of charge.”
I can’t believe my ears. I want to hug him! I can’t wait to not look like Bugs Bunny anymore.
* * *
The next day, Dick picks me up after school. He’s friendly, talking through the entire half-hour drive while he chain-smokes Camel cigarettes. I open the window and nod, pretending I understand what he’s saying. I wonder why this stranger is willing to help without charging us, even though he doesn’t know me, while back home, our supposed friends and neighbors betrayed and stole from us. Maybe he’s another nice American man, like Reverend Hodges, who feels bad that he’s rich while we’re refugees with nothing.
Dick takes me to a modern office with impressive sci-fi video games in the waiting room that they let me play. Then a man in a white coat appears, and Dick introduc
es me. He’s the orthodontist, Dr. Sanford, and he shows me “before” and “after” pictures on the wall. Pointing to the photo of a smiling boy my age, he says, “Your teeth are going to look that good.”
I grin, following him into the examination room.
* * *
Two weeks later I have braces like Miguel. Goodbye, Bugs Bunny!
But the day after Dr. Sanford puts the metal on, I wake up with a throbbing ache in my gums. Mom says that means my teeth are already shifting to where they belong. It hurts way more than my retainer did. In the bathroom mirror at Barbara’s, I stare at the wires, looking for progress. Then I examine the little blue rubber bands Dr. Sanford attached to each side of my mouth. They’re supposed to pull my teeth in more when I speak or eat. I keep opening and closing my jaw to get the process rolling. It feels like I have a slingshot in there. Mom kisses and hugs me, overjoyed that my teeth will be fixed.
At school, when Miguel sees that the wires in my mouth match his, he high-fives me again. In the cafeteria, I intentionally talk more around Miguel’s posse to show off my metal, even though I’m not sure I’m making sense. A bunch of kids come up and say, “Oh, you got braces too.” I’m pleased to be part of the crowd and not made fun of.
By the time the war ends, my teeth will be all fixed. I’m excited for my classmates back home to see the special present from the Americans that I’ll always carry with me—my new smile.
* * *
That weekend, Barbara drops us off at the office of Ronald Silverman, yet another kind dentist who takes care of us. It seems like we have three magic musketeers out to fix our mouths for free. Dad breezes through magazines in the waiting room. Eldin and I stay with Mom as the dentist examines her.
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