36
Why Can’t We Be Friends?

Even as I squeeze out of the back row of the bleachers and down the steps to the gym floor—not an easy thing to do in the dark, even without three hundred people wondering who “Bijou” is, and what she is about to do—I have not decided whether to go to the stage or run to the exit sign to the safety of Pineapple Street. All I know is that I had to get out of that seat, sandwiched between my aunt and an uncle who forbade me from so much as moving.

All I knew was this: I needed the room to make a choice for myself.

Once I reach the floor, Alex is no longer standing at the edge of the stage, no longer calling for me to join him. He is seated next to Jou Jou on a plain metal chair, with the old, scratched-up rada in front of him, beating out the ancient vodou rhythm. The rhythm of my people. And through some miracle, he is actually good at it.

Like he was in the Rara Gran Bwa rehearsal and at his lesson, he is lost in the music, his eyes closed in concentration. And I don’t know whether he means it like this or not, but in his focus on the drum, Alex seems to be saying to me, I’m done trying to convince you; now you can make up your own mind.

Headmistress O’Biden stands less than ten feet to the side, shaking her head at Alex and my brother, and I have to admit, it is a funny sight: this worried old lady, so frustrated by a lovesick boy and the nineteen-year-old Haitian he has brought into her school to bang out this crazy-seeming music. She doesn’t know how to solve this rara problem, so she stands there, still as a statue.

Now that the stage and the exit sign are both twenty feet apart, I try to think about what Maman would do. Would she accept this sweet and handsome, yet absolutely embarrassing, boy’s invitation? Would she exhibit herself to all her classmates, once more, in yet another moment sure to be captured on video? Or would she escape into her own quiet space again, away from these well-meaning but unpredictable new friends?

Maman was a fun, exciting person who loved to laugh and dance and sing—lighting up the world each and every time she did—but she was also very private and had only a few people in her life who truly knew her.

So again I’m thinking, What would Maman do? Would she run to the stage or to the street?

Maman is not here, though. Only me. So, what would Bijou do?

The lights are so bright up here, I can see only Alex and Jou Jou. I strike the small cowbell with the stick I found lying next to my brother, playing the rhythm I have known by heart my entire life, and it is impossible not to return his smile.

Maman did choose the stage, I think.

She is here with us.

In Jou Jou.

In me.

And, just maybe, in Alex, too.

I dance to the raboday, and I don’t need to think any more about it than I think about striking the bell. As unexpected as it is to be introducing St. Catherine’s to the world of rara, the dance itself is the most natural thing in the world. It works best when you’re not trying at all, not even thinking at all.

Before long, the audience is clapping, quite loudly, along to the beat, and Ira has taken his position again behind the laptop, with Maricel by his side. They’re fiddling with something—I’m not sure what.

“What’s that, about a hundred and ten beats per minute?” Maricel asks Alex, who shrugs in response, still lost in the music.

“No clue,” he says, smiling, never losing the beat of the raboday.

“About a hundred and fifteen!” Jou Jou cries out. “What you got in mind?”

“Something cool,” Ira says as he and Maricel continue to tinker.

Suddenly, Mary Agnes and Nomura appear at the edge of the stage, and before I know I am doing it, I pull them onto the stage with me.

“Ack!” Mary Agnes says. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Yeah,” Nomura says. “We can’t dance Haitian.”

“Just follow me,” I say, demonstrating with arms, legs, and hips.

The crowd yells encouragement as the two of them start to copy my movements. And they’re not bad!

“Woo!” Alex yells, and I smile back at him.

I will still get you back for this, I think. But for now, this is fun.

Meanwhile, Ira and Maricel are bobbing their heads up and down, sharing a pair of headphones like DJs. They exchange a look with Jou Jou, who is nodding along with them. “One … two … three … four!” my brother calls out to them.

And out of nowhere, a song comes booming out of the sound system, perfectly matching the raboday tempo.

“Yes!” Alex yells.

“Perfect!” Jou Jou adds a loud, fast drum fill, using both sticks on the rada now.

“What is this?” I ask Mary Agnes, who, flushed with the dancing, is red as an apple.

“It’s a new mash-up, by DJ Riplo,” Nomura says.

I wonder if this DJ Riplo maybe has some Haitian blood in him. “It’s great,” I yell. “What’s it called?”

“It’s called ‘Why Can’t We Be Friends?’!” Mary Agnes says, bringing me in close for a hug so tight I almost fall over. Nomura laughs so hard, his glasses fall off, and he scoops them up quickly before any of us enthusiastic dancers steps on them.

Alex and Jou Jou are trading fills now, soloing over the track that booms out across the gymnasium. In the crowd, I can see the shadowy outlines of parents and kids spilling from the bleachers to the floor. Everyone is dancing now, singing to the raboday.

Then, something funny happens. It is like I am watching a video, and someone has slowed everything down—the rhythm of the raboday, the motions of the dancers, even the spotlights that sweep across the stage—so that I can see every bit of movement in this enormous room, frame by frame. As if something, someone is telling me, Bijou, pay attention. This is for you. Make sure not to miss anything.

I turn around and smile toward my brother, but he is so into the music, he doesn’t even notice. Alex, too, has his eyes closed, concentrating hard on the rhythm. Who ever thought I would meet an American boy who would have such a natural gift for rara music? It is like a small miracle.

Then Alex opens his eyes, notices me, and smiles. I cannot help but laugh, and Alex cannot, either. He leans his head back, looks from me to the ceiling and back, and shares this private moment with me. All the while, he never loses track of the raboday.

Looking out across the gym, I try to find Tonton Pierre and Auntie. The lights are so bright, there is no way for me to see them, even with this power I suddenly have, this ability to slow down time. Still, though, I know they are out there, somewhere, and that they must be enjoying this moment as much as I am. How could they not? A whole school—two schools!—dancing to the music of our people.

This is when I realize that the voice I’m hearing, the one telling me to watch, and notice, every single thing that is happening, urging me to store these details in my memory forever, belongs to Maman. She is the one helping me to see, and feel, and understand.

Maman is gone, but she is here.

In me. In my brother. In my aunt and uncle.

Maybe even, a little bit, in Alex.

“How awesome is this?” screams Mary Agnes.

“It’s awesome!” I yell, using another American word I learned on Tous Mes Enfants. “Totally awesome!”