9
No Boyfriends

If I had known, for even one moment, that the only reason Mary Agnes and Maricel have been pushing me so hard to come to this silly dance is to meet a boy, I never would have agreed to it in the first place.

I, Bijou Doucet, do not want a boyfriend.

Maman would kill me if I even smiled at a boy who wasn’t an immediate member of my family (and I might even get slapped on the wrist if he was). She may be far away now, but she would know—she really would. And she would fly here like an angry spirit to set me straight.

Where I come from, this is the way things are: Girls go to school, then we go straight home. We go to church with our families on Sundays, then we come straight home. We help our mothers and sisters and aunts buy the food at the market, then we come straight home.

Port-au-Prince priests speak of miracles, but for me, the real miracle would be to spend five minutes without an adult carefully watching every single thing I do.

Even now, at this dance, teachers hide in the darkness on the edges of the gymnasium and observe us, making sure that no one does anything bad or wrong. Mary Agnes, Maricel, and the others pretend, because we are in school while it is dark outside and because there is a DJ spinning Top 40 music in the same room where we play each other in basketball, that we are free here. But I know the truth: the adults are watching us, all the time, and we do only what they allow us to do.

Even while I was getting dressed, my tante, Marie Claire, refused to let me wear the outfit I chose: my nicest jeans, white flats, and a pretty lavender top, which was a Christmas gift from Maman.

“But it’s too small for you,” Marie Claire said, smiling at me in that way that makes me wonder whether she truly cares for me or just feels sorry for me because I am so far away from home. “And it looks a little bit … old.”

“This dress looks even older. It has a collar on it.” I do not know what American girls wear to a dance, but I know they would not wear this dress.

I could have told my aunt that the shirt was a Christmas gift from my mother, and that the soft fabric, washed so many times and left to dry on the clothesline, reminded me of her. But would it have made a difference? Marie Claire and I both knew the real reason she was making me change: Tonton Pierre, my uncle, didn’t want me going to the dance at all, and if he saw me come out of my room in anything less than a dress, he would refuse all over again.

“It’s very pretty,” Marie Claire said. Her eyes looked tired and heavy. She wanted to be done with this and see me on my way without any further argument. It had taken her forty minutes to convince Tonton Pierre, who has lived in America for almost thirty years but has never had any children of his own, that a dance is a perfectly acceptable activity for a young person here. “The child is only trying to fit in,” Marie Claire had said in a voice barely above a whisper. The teachers at St. Catherine’s and St. Christopher’s would not allow their students to run wild in the streets, she explained. And, she hinted, the entire world would not crumble to pieces if Tonton Pierre let me out of his sight for three hours on a Saturday evening.

My aunt had worked hard, I knew, to give me the chance to spend time with my new friends, and I wasn’t ungrateful.

She touched my cheek, gave me a sad smile, and said, “You said you wanted to go to this dance, and you know your uncle well enough to know that would come with certain … requirements.”

“I know.” I look up at her and try to smile.

“So, what’s the matter?”

“I do want to go. Everyone is going, so why shouldn’t I? But—” I shiver, even though it is not cold in this room.

“You wish your maman were here?”

“Oui, c’est ça.” Yes, that’s it.

Marie Claire pulls me in to hug me. “Ah, mon enfant. One day, you will be together again. Je te promets.” I promise.

“All right, tante. I will wear it,” I said. Even though I hate polka dots. She kissed me on the top of the head and pulled me into her chest again. Her shirt smelled machine-washed.

“So, do you remember that boy from Peas n’ Pickles?” Mary Agnes asks me as we put our coats on the bleacher seats, where only yesterday morning we sat for Friday assembly. She waves to someone, but there are flashing lights coming from the stage, where the DJ plays, so my eyes have not adjusted yet and I still can’t see a thing.

“The one who was looking at his shoes?” I ask. There were two: the Japanese boy with the big, round glasses, and the white boy who was so shy he couldn’t look me in the eye.

Mary Agnes raises her eyebrow. “Yes, that one. He’s cute, right?”

“How would I know? I never saw his face.”

Now Maricel is laughing, too. “Well, you can get a better look tonight. He’s staring laser beams at us right now.” She nods to her right.

I look across the gym, and even though it’s still quite difficult to see, I can tell that there are three boys looking right at us. One is the Japanese boy; another is the little one, Maricel’s brother. So the third must be this “cute” one. As soon as they see me returning their stare, all three quickly turn away and pretend to be in the middle of a very funny conversation.

“What was his name?” I ask. Ashley? Andrew? A typical American boy with a typical American name. I have not thought of him once since seeing him.

“Alex,” Maricel says.

“He likes you,” Mary Agnes says. “He’s a little shy, but he’s really nice.”

“Wait, why are we talking about—”

“He and my brother and Nomura have been best friends since practically kindergarten,” Maricel says.

“Why is he looking over here?” I ask.

Mary Agnes gives me a funny look, as if I should already know the answer. “Because he wants to … get to know you better,” Mary Agnes says.

“Alex is sweet,” Maricel says.

“Beautiful eyes,” says Mary Agnes.

“Kind of a blue-green,” Maricel says. “Really pretty.”

“I don’t want to meet him, if that is what this is about. That wouldn’t—”

“Let’s just go talk to them,” Mary Agnes says. “That’s all we’re doing. Talking. Is that illegal?”

“Nope,” Maricel says, giving me a light jab in the arm. “It’s totally legit. Come on, Bijou.”

Before I even have time to protest, Mary Agnes and Maricel are walking across the room. I can’t stay here alone; I have no choice but to follow them. What are they getting me involved in?

I, Bijou Doucet, want nothing to do with boys at all.

If Tonton Pierre finds out, he will go crazy, and I will never be allowed out of the house again.

The next moments are a blur. First, Mary Agnes is introducing me, my first and last name, both. Very formal-sounding. The white boy’s eyes go wide, and then, like last time, he looks down to his feet.

He is not my concern, though, not for the moment. I am looking around the room to see whether or not any teachers are watching us. I don’t mean to seem rude, and I try to look like I am paying attention to what the others are saying. But if the adults see me being introduced to a boy, will they tell my aunt and uncle? In my old school, the nuns would have considered reporting this information a sacred responsibility!

Soon, it gets worse. Before I know it, Mary Agnes and Maricel have left me alone with this boy, with this Alex! He is smiling at me, looking me full in the face, but saying nothing. Waiting. But for what? For me to do something? I was not the one who created this scenario; I can only assume that he and my supposed friends did. And now I must come up with things to talk about?

But finally Alex reaches into the pocket of his black pants and pulls out a short stack of index cards. He looks up at me, smiles in an embarrassed way, cheeks red like apples, and reads from the card: “Depuis combien de temps vivez-vous aux États-Unis?” How long have you lived in the United States?

He’s speaking to me in French! But why?

“Je suis arrivée ici il y a deux mois,” I say. But he doesn’t seem to understand, so I translate: “I have been here since two months’ time.”

“C’est tout?” he asks. Is that all? He must know I speak English, doesn’t he? How would I go to St. Catherine’s if I didn’t?

“Oui,” I say. “Je suis arrivé à Brooklyn un dimanche, et puis j’étáis déjà à l’école dès lundi.” I arrived in Brooklyn on a Sunday and was already in school by that Monday.

I look toward the dance floor. Nomura, Maricel, and Mary Agnes are dancing and smiling. Maricel’s brother is just standing there, his hands in his pockets. But then he pulls out—what is it with these boys and their pockets?—a video camera and begins to film them. Immediately, Maricel, annoyed, swats at it. Then the brother walks away, toward the bleachers, where small groups of boys and girls talk among themselves without mixing.

Alex points to my cup of punch and asks, “Admirezvous votre liquide?”

I can’t help but laugh; it’s funny. Do I admire my liquid? Maybe he’s trying to make me laugh?

He turns red again, though, and says, “Excusez-moi. Je suis désole.” Excuse me, I’m sorry.

I smile to let him know I am not offended, sip from my punch, and say, “Oui, c’est assez bon.” Yes, it’s good. Then, in English, “I should not have laughed; it’s very rude. You just said, ‘Do you like your liquid,’ and it strike me as funny for a moment.”

“Do you guys speak English in Haiti, too? I thought it was Kreyol and French.” He looks so relieved and lets the index cards rest by his side.

“Well, not everyone speaks English, but we have a—how do you say—satellite? For television? So I watch Sesame Street when I was little, and I learn English from this.”

“Really? You grew up watching Sesame Street? Me too!” Then, one more time, he colors and looks at his shoes. “Not anymore, though. I haven’t watched it for a long time.” What is he embarrassed about now? Doesn’t everyone here grow up watching Sesame Street?

“Also, my mother, she watch Tous Mes Enfants every day,” I continue. “You know, the opera?”

He pauses for a moment, looking confused. “You mean All My Children?” he says. “The soap opera?”

“Oui, I love this. I watch with my mother at home, all the time, from the satellite. Do you like it, too?”

“Well, it’s okay, I guess. It’s mainly … for women here.” Well, this is one thing that is true in both our cultures; my uncle would never watch Enfants unless he was forced into it by Marie Claire.

But I tease the boy anyway. “Ah, so it is not, how you say, ‘cool’ for you to watch it, then?”

“No, it’s not that—”

“Not manly enough for a growing American boy?”

He colors again, and I feel badly. “I’m sorry. Je rigoles.” I’m teasing.

But he recovers more quickly this time. He seems to have forgotten his cards for good now. “I like the way you speak French. I like … the sound of it. It’s cool.”

“Merci, monsieur.” Thankfully, he gets the joke of my calling him “monsieur,” and we both laugh.

“So, you had satellite TV in Haiti?” As if this is the most incredible thing he has ever heard.

“Sure, of course.” He probably thinks, like most Americans, that Haiti is all shacks and tents, and people starving to death. “We had more channels in Port-au-Prince than my aunt and uncle have in Brooklyn.”

“And you learned English just by watching shows?”

“Well, yes, but I also visit New York almost every summer since I was a little girl,” I say. “To see my aunt and uncle. So I speak English then, also. And take some lessons for writing, too.”

“Well, you speak really well,” he says.

“Which you like better, my French or my English?” I don’t smile; I want to see what he is going to do.

He stammers, “I … I … they’re both—”

“I’m only teasing, Alex. It is a bad habit of mine. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it means I have to stay on my toes with you.”

“What does this mean, ‘to stay on my toes’?”

“Oh, it just means I have to pay attention.”

Ah, very true. But he might want to stay on his toes also because, while he is tall, I may even be a bit taller!

“So, is that where you live now, in Brooklyn?” he asks.

“Yes, we live in Flatbush. Many Haitians live there.” I smile. “Is that one of the questions on your cards?”

“Umm, yeah, it is.” He looks not so embarrassed this time. Maybe he is okay with teasing, now that he knows I mean nothing bad by it. “So, we’re neighbors,” he continues. “Sort of, anyway. I live in Ditmas Park.”

I’ve never heard of this Ditmas Park, but this is only because Tonton Pierre barely lets me go anywhere but school and church. “Is that close by?”

“Yes,” Alex says. “Very close.”

I look around to make sure no adults are looking at us. Then I lean a tiny bit closer to him and ask, “What else is on the cards?”

“Oh, nothing. Just some … notes.”

“Notes on what? Things to talk about with the strange new girl from Haiti?” I hold out my hand. “Show me.”

“No,” a girl’s voice behind me says. “Show me.”

It’s Angela Gudrun, with Jenna Minaya. Two boys, a short one with dark hair, and a tall, handsome one, are standing with them.

“What?” Alex says. “No.”

I really don’t like these two, Angela and Jenna. On my first day at St. Catherine’s, Jenna was very friendly, asking me questions about my life, my family, my friends from home. And I tried to be friendly in return. But for her, friendship meant following Angela and her around everywhere they went. And they were very rude to the other girls, making fun of them and calling them names behind their backs. I don’t want this kind of person for a friend. I have kept my distance ever since.

“Come on, Schrader, what are they?” asks the short boy, taking a step forward. His hair is shiny and greasy. “Show her.”

And the two boyfriends are nearly as bad, with their expensive phones and fancy clothing. They have everything. So why do they need to treat other people like this?

Suddenly, Nomura, Maricel, Mary Agnes, and Ira have returned. Now everyone is staring at Alex and wondering what his cards say. Why won’t they mind their own business? Can’t they see the cards are private to him?

“They’re just notes!” Alex cries. A bit too loudly, almost yelling.

“They’re jokes,” Nomura says. “Alex wants to be a stand-up comic. He needs to practice.”

“Come on, let’s have a look,” says Angela, stepping forward and ripping the cards from Alex’s hand. She starts to read the cards. Alex looks like he wants to disappear.

Jenna looks me up and down. “Nice dress, Bijou,” she says. “Looks about a hundred years old. Is it a hand-me-down from your grandma? Or something one of your little friends picked out for you?”

I see. If I am not friends with this girl, she is determined to make me an enemy. I don’t bother to answer. What is the point of wasting my breath on a girl like this?

Jenna turns her attention to Angela. “Come on, Angela, what do they say?” she whines. “We’re wasting our time here.”

“Hold up,” Angela says. “I’m enjoying this.”

“All right, out with it,” says the tall boy. “Read ’em, already.”

Angela suddenly explodes with laughter. “No … way!”

“What?!” all her friends say at once, like robots.

“They’re questions … for her”—she gestures toward me—“in French!”

“Let me see,” the short boy says, and Angela hands the cards to him.

“Don’t, Rocky,” Alex says.

The one called Rocky puts on a French accent and screams out, “Mademoiselle, where do you leeeve? How long have you beeeeen in les États-Unis?”

Jenna rips the cards away from Rocky and jabs the tall boy. She is really having fun. “Check it out, Trevor: ‘I hope your family is okay! I pray they did not get hurt in the earthquake!’”

I look over at Alex, who is now holding his head in his hands. Was he really going to ask me about my family? Mary Agnes and Maricel were right. This is a very sweet boy.

The tall boy, Trevor, grabs the cards. “Wait, here’s the best part,” he cackles. “ ‘Do you want to go see a movie with me on Saturday?’”

“He did not actually write that out in French, did he?” Rocky says. “That’s so pathetic.”

“I can’t believe he asked her about the earthquake,” says Angela.

“I know,” says Rocky. “Kid does not know how to talk to a girl.” They all laugh.

“That’s enough, guys,” Mary Agnes says. “Give them back.” They ignore her, though; all four of them are laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

“Wait, the queen geek is right,” Rocky says, taking the cards back from Trevor. “We’re being really rude. We should give these back to their rightful owner.”

He holds the cards out to me. “What’s your name, again?”

“Bee-something,” says Jenna. “I can never remember.”

“My name is Bijou,” I say, loud and clear, looking dead into Jenna’s eyes. What a liar she is!

“Very nice to meet you, Bijou,” Rocky says, holding the cards and bowing to me as if he is a European gentleman (far, far from it). “I believe these are yours. That is, unless you want to keep reading them out loud to her, Alex?”

Alex tries to grab them from Rocky, but the greasy-haired boy easily steps to the side, holding the cards above his head.

“Oooh, feisty,” Rocky says. “You must really be into this chick, huh?” Then he turns to me and says, “You know, you can do much better. Yesterday this guy didn’t even know what the West Indies were. He was like, she’s Haitian, man, not West Indian. Funny, right?”

“Shut up, Rocky!” Alex yells.

But Rocky just laughs. “I think we should give Bijou here a little present. You wrote them for her, after all, didn’t you?” Blocking Alex with his arm, he hands the cards to me.

But Alex can’t take it anymore. He twists Rocky’s arm behind his back and gives the boy a hard shove. Rocky rocks back on his heels but is still standing. “Whoa, looks like I hit a nerve.” He laughs, not hurt at all. “Although with Schrader, that’s pretty easy to do.” He turns to me again, a sneer on his lips; I wish he would stop doing this, addressing me directly as if we are having a private conversation. I would never speak privately with a person like this. “Dude is very touchy.”

Nomura steps between us. “Rocky, why don’t you guys take off.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s sure and confident. “Come on.”

Rocky considers for a moment and says, “Not that you’ve got any say in this, Nomura, but I think our mission’s accomplished here.”

The four of them walk back toward the dance floor, snickering. Rocky trips Trevor, and the girls laugh. They’re on to have fun somewhere else, at someone else’s expense.

But then Trevor turns around and comes up to me. “Hey, I’m sorry if we got a little carried away,” he whispers. “Rocky’s … kind of an idiot sometimes. But he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Jenna, on the edge of the dance floor, calls out, “Trev, you coming or not? Mission accomplished, remember? What are you still talking to her for?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, anyway,” Mary Agnes tells him.

Everyone seems to know what I want before I even have the opportunity to open my mouth.

“Fine,” Trevor tells Mary Agnes. Then to me, “I’ll see you later, Bijou.”

When I turn back to our group, Alex is gone.

“Where did he go?” I ask.

Nomura looks to the side and behind him. “I don’t know,” he says. “He … slipped away.”

“That was so awful,” says Maricel. “Why do they always have to ruin everything?”

“Come on, Ira, let’s go find him,” Nomura says. And the two boys jog off to look for their friend.

I see Miss Williams, our math teacher, walking in this direction. I hope she is not coming to talk to us!

Mary Agnes approaches me, takes my two hands in hers. “I’m so sorry, Bijou. I had no idea something like that would happen. I just wanted to—”

“I suppose you meant well, but don’t you think it is more, how do say, courteous to talk to me before putting me in such a situation?”

Mary Agnes is apologizing, but I’m not listening. I’m looking over her shoulder, where Miss Williams is standing patiently. She waits for Mary Agnes to finish her apology and comes to stand in front of us.

“Looks as if we had a bit of drama here, didn’t we, girls?” she asks, although it is clear that this is a question she does not want us to answer.

“No, ma’am,” says Mary Agnes. “Just the boys being silly, is all. Nothing serious.”

What she means, of course, is, nothing you need to tell our parents about.

“A tempest in a teapot, eh, Ms. Brady?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, it’s nice that you’ve taken Bijou here under your wing, but perhaps you should take a bit better care of her in the future than you did tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary Agnes and I both say, although I realize the response was not mine to give.

“I wouldn’t want to have to tell either of your families that there was a bit of a … skirmish, shall we say?” She clasps her hands together and looks down at us over the top of her glasses. “One involving a number of rather unpleasant boys?”

“No,” we say in unison.

“That’s what I thought.” She claps her hands together, imitating joy. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, girls.”

A part of me would like to tell her that I, Bijou Doucet, want nothing to do with any sort of boys at all. But another part of me would like to tell her that not all the boys I met tonight were so unpleasant. Alex was quite sweet and fun to talk to, and yes, he has very pretty eyes.

But of course, I say nothing of that. I say only, “Yes, ma’am.”