24

KARIN, FIGHTING GIRL

When Marc and I were together, we spoke French. We said everything we wanted without hesitation. I dreamed in French, too. But Trudi, Marika, and I had our own way of speaking, a mixture of Greek, French, Italian, and American. I always spoke American with Peggy, of course.

“Your accent is so cute,” Peggy said. But not everyone thought so, especially Peggy’s friend Zoey, who gave me long freezing looks.

Sometimes I made funny mistakes, sometimes stupid ones. One day I read a composition out loud in English class. “My brother, Marc, is my best fiend.”

“Stupid or funny, Peggy?” I asked afterward.

“Stupid,” Zoey said.

“Shut up, Zoey,” Peggy said. “It’s funny, Karin. Everybody laughed.”

“At me.”

“No! Don’t be so sensitive.” She grabbed me in a hug. “It’s okay. We think it’s cute!”

Everything was easier around Peggy. With other people, I had to concentrate more, work harder to get things right. Sometimes I couldn’t find the words I wanted, or I’d find the wrong ones. I knew I was as quick as anyone else, but that didn’t always help me.

Some boys followed Marika and me home one day, mimicking the way we talked. Marika flirted with them. “Cute boys,” she called out. “What you say, cute boys?”

“Stupid boys,” I said. I remembered jumping on the back of the boy who had attacked Marc in the hills in Italy. I didn’t want Marika to speak to the boys or even look at them. I showed her my hand in a fist.

“What, Karin, fighting girl? No!” she said. “The boys like this teasing, they like to see so mad a girl.”

Trudi wasn’t with us. She had been put back into third grade, in the elementary school. She was embarrassed and cried a lot. Marika and I tried to comfort her. We kept telling her she was as smart as anybody and not to be discouraged. She would catch up.

One day, someone called me a frog.

“That’s what we call the Frenchies,” Zoey said at lunch.

“It’s a dumb insult,” Peggy said. “Don’t feel bad, Karin.”

A few days later, I heard someone talk about being “Jewed down,” and Peggy explained that meant getting cheated by someone cheap.

“That’s what you think about me?” I asked.

“No, no! It’s just an expression.”

And then a few days later, two girls came up to me in the hall and said, “Dirty Jew.”

I kept a blank face and kept going down the hall. I was surprised—shocked, really. I didn’t think Americans were like that. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t even think I was that upset.

After supper, I sat down at the table in our room and worked on my homework. I had to memorize ten spelling words and learn five vocabulary words: Mundane, mercenary, mammoth, formidable, frantic. Vocabulary was harder than spelling. Then I read one chapter in my history book and, hardest of all, outlined a story called “The Red Barn” from my English book. The last thing I did was math homework. Last, because Marc had told me I should always do the hardest things first, then the easy ones.

I got ready for bed. I went down the hall to the bathroom to change into my pajamas and brush my teeth. Marc was still reading when I returned. I put my doll on the pillow near me. “Good night, Marc.”

I closed my eyes and turned onto my favorite side, but I couldn’t fall asleep. For a long, long time, I tossed around. And, then, I started thinking. I thought about Paris and my friend Sarah Olinski. I remembered how we had loved each other, how we planned our lives together, how we were always going to be best friends. And I wondered where she was now. Was she alive?

Then I thought about Papa, and I shouldn’t have. My throat swelled. I buried my head in the pillow so Marc wouldn’t hear me cry.

After all you’ve been through, to let any of these people at school bother you … It was Maman’s voice. She was speaking to me. Why be upset, even for a moment, over such stupidity? No, darling, do as well as you can; be honest, be loving, and the rest will take care of itself.…