True friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable.
~David Tyson
Wheeling, Illinois, summer of 1997. It didn’t seem that unusual when my mother told us a Somalian family was going to stay with us for a few weeks. My mother liked taking care of people. Not only did she make cookies for the school bake sale and help us with homework, but she also took in foster children from time to time. They’d stay for a few days, even a month, and then move on.
Like most fourteen-year-olds, I knew Somalia was a country in Africa where no one had food, but I couldn’t point it out on a map. I asked my mom some questions about the whole situation, and I learned a few things:
• The family consisted of five people: mother, father, and three kids — a little boy about five, and two girls about nine and twelve.
• They spoke mostly Arabic. The dad spoke a little English.
• No, I didn’t have to share a room with the girls. They were all going to sleep in the guest room.
• Yes, she was positive I didn’t have to share my room.
When the family showed up, I watched them from down the hall. The father had a large mustache. He shook my stepfather’s hand with a firm grip. The females had scarves covering their hair and necks. The little boy and nine-year-old girl clung to their mother’s skirt, but the twelve-year-old girl peeked around at everything. She was scared, though. They were all scared.
I asked Mom about it later. She told me they were escaping a war in Somalia. Some of their family members had been killed, and they were scared for their lives. They ran away first to Russia, and then to America.
A few days after they arrived, I found myself in the living room trying not to make eye contact with the sisters. Mom had told me their names, but I didn’t remember them, and I felt stupid asking. In my mind, the older one was Twelve, the younger was Nine. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t speak their language anyway. I couldn’t stop thinking about how hot they must be in long sleeves and headscarves in the summer. They sat on the floor next to each other, talking quietly. It was odd to me to see siblings who were so gentle with each other. My brother would yell at me if I put my pinkie on his side of the couch.
Mom told me they could use a friend and suggested that we all play a game together while she was in the kitchen doing kitchen things. I rooted through the pile of games in the corner, finally settling on Connect Four. I sat on the carpet by Twelve, dumped the box out in front of us, and started sorting the reds from the blacks. Twelve saw me sorting and shooed Nine away so she could help. Once we were done, I scooted in front of her, set up the stand, and dropped my first black piece in. She looked at the faded box cover, saw the illustration, and dropped in a red one.
We played for a few minutes, making patterns, until I made four in a row. I pointed with my finger and wordlessly counted one, two, three, four markers before hitting the switch to release them. Twelve looked at me with a gleam in her eye as I set up the game again. Nine scurried over and tried to push Twelve out of the way, but Twelve said something to her, and Nine sat down next to us, huffing. Nine watched very carefully as Twelve and I played another game. By the end of that second game, Nine kept pointing at places for Twelve to drop her chip. Sometimes, Twelve would put her piece there, sometimes not. After a third game, Nine scooted in to try. She wasn’t as deliberate as Twelve, but she played with the enthusiasm and drive that only a nine-year-old can.
About a week into their stay, it was stiflingly hot. Twelve, Nine, and I had been chugging water while we played. After three games, I grabbed a ponytail holder and threw my hair up into a messy bun. Twelve nodded empathetically and carefully unwrapped her headscarf. She laid it on the floor next to her. Mom had told me they wore those scarves for modesty, so I felt awkward looking at her. I looked down and touched the scarf; it was lighter and more delicate than I thought. Twelve said something to Nine, and the sound of her voice made me look up. I saw her hair. It was . . . hair. There was nothing interesting about it, other than that it was hers, and she chose to share it with me. Nine also unwrapped her head and dumped her scarf on the ground next to her sister’s. Twelve glared at her. Nine sighed and straightened it out, like making a bed.
An hour or so later, we heard keys scraping in the lock at the front door, most likely my brother coming home from summer school. Nine and Twelve took their scarves and gently wrapped them around their hair. They did it as smoothly and calmly as I put on socks.
When it was time for the family to leave, there wasn’t much preparation or ceremony. As they pulled on their shoes, I gave my Connect Four game to Twelve. She looked down at the faded box cover for a few moments before reaching under her scarf and pulling out a barrette. It was a white and gold plastic clip with flowers all over it. Twelve pressed it gently into my palm and smiled at me. Her gesture said, Thank you for being my friend.
I clipped the barrette in my hair and smiled back.
~Lauren B. H. Rossato
