Metaphors
The first day of school, Mom drops me off on her way to volunteering at the Al Gore headquarters. She peers up at the big building on the hill, with its pillars and statues. “Don’t be scared.”
I gulp. “Maybe I should just go back to my old school.”
“This is free because of your hard work.”
“Work isn’t really hard,” I say, which is true. I’ve seen students sweating, rubbing their eyes, scratching their heads over math equations that seem as easy to me as brushing your teeth. It makes me feel guilty.
“It’s half an hour before school starts. Will you be okay?”
“No.”
“I promised I’d bring breakfast to our meeting and I want to get my points in about the canvassing strategy.”
“George Bush is going to win,” I say, because I’m angry at getting left here.
“Don’t say such a thing!”
“It’s just a feeling.” But I know it’s true. George Bush will win; it makes my stomach hurt.
“Well, change that feeling. Out.” She reaches across me and opens the passenger door. Nothing gets to her more than those two words: George Bush. “Have a good day. I am very proud of you.”
I wave until her car disappears, my stomach in my throat, my breath stuck in my chest.
Unlike the public school, which was in one brick building with a cement play area, my new school is in many buildings scattered across a park with rolling hills.
I wish that Sally could come here, too. She would be so excited by the two old mansions that house classrooms and the smaller buildings that fit right in with the trees. If Sally were here, I would feel safe and comfortable, even though it is my first day.
I find a bench and try to meditate, using the new mantra Obaachan has given me: Om Mani Padme Hum. I keep my eyes open so I don’t look weird.
A cardinal flies onto the bench across from me and we watch each other. Its red wings puff out; its tiny head tilts. See my peace, the cardinal seems to say. I know my place in the world. I am watching so carefully I almost feel I am the bird, the way years ago, I was the spider. Then the bell rings. My heart stops. I move slowly toward the building.
At the public school, I had about twenty-six kids in my class. Here, there’re only thirteen kids in the whole fifth grade.
First period is poetry. The teacher’s name is Karen; she never says her last name. Poetry is about the senses, she tells us, and metaphor, which relates unlike things in ways that make sense. It reminds me a little of koans.
We spend the class creating metaphors. Anger is a red sword. The mind is a shooting arrow. Memory is a kaleidoscope.
Second period is botany, where we examine leaves under a microscope and walk through the grounds of the school identifying plants.
The only problem I have is that no one knows that I’m invisible. So a girl compliments me on my pink coat. A boy asks me for directions to the greenhouse. In history, when Mr. Kraus calls on me, he expects me to answer. “Do you need me to repeat the question?” He walks up to my desk. “Why do we call America the melting pot?”
He has a kind face, with round, owlish glasses. I’d like to please him, but my voice is stuck.
“Why the melting pot?” His eyes are laser beams. Hands go up all around, but he sticks to me like a dentist to your mouth.
I picture a ship coming in to Ellis Island, the scared, poor people stepping off, not speaking English, hoping to start a new life, willing even to change their names. They are immigrants like my mom and like my dad’s parents. They climb a ladder and dive into a giant pot, offer themselves as ingredients, then dissolve into nothing. “Different races and religions came to this country for a better life,” I whisper.
“Louder, please.”
“Their ethnicity was lost as they tried to be American.”
“Not always lost,” Mr. Kraus says. “Sometimes muted.”
My face gets hot. I didn’t answer correctly. I sounded lame.
“The phrase actually came from a play by a Jewish immigrant. The play has now been forgotten, but the phrase lives on. And that is an interesting point about ethnicity, Lin. There was the need to assimilate, and there was resistance to assimilate.”
After class, he stops me. “Voice is power. We all need that kind of power.”
“Yes, sir.”
I look forward to orchestra and seeing Ms. Nga, the one person I know at this school. But she isn’t in the orchestra room. I hesitate at the door, then make my way to the front so there’ll be room for my cello. I hear whispers. “Ms. Nga is getting married.”
She told me last lesson that she was engaged, but hearing it again makes me feel sad inside, like the time I saw the Strausses’ orange cat lying in the street, unmoving.
The whispers grow into loud talking. Five minutes pass. A couple of students put their instruments back in their cases.
Finally, Ms. Nga comes in. She holds her finger up to her mouth and gives a fierce look at the students, who grow silent, immediately.
She passes out sheet music. The students lift their instruments, and we begin to play a simple piece, Musette, by Bach. Metaphor: the orchestra is an old man limping through a street.
I play lazily along with everyone else and focus on getting home to Obaachan.
In the middle of the song, Ms. Nga sets down her baton hard. If I didn’t know her, I would be scared, like my first day with Sister April, who ended up being nice. “You play as if you’re watching TV!” She stares into her space, her mouth hanging open, her hand mechanically playing an invisible violin. “Where is the feeling?” Her eyes dart to me. “Lin. Come here.”
I think, She noticed my laziness; now I will be in trouble.
“Bring your cello.”
I pick up my cello. She grabs a chair and sets it facing the class. “Play Bach’s Suite number 2. With feeling.”
I can feel all the eyes on me. My mouth goes dry. Anger makes my heart pound. This is my first day and Ms. Nga is calling attention to me! Doesn’t she know me?
I focus my eyes on the floor and say my mantra.
“Go ahead.”
I always dread that first note, but then I get caught up in the music, so I’m sorry when the song comes to a finish.
I look up. The class is applauding, smiling, nodding their heads at me, and I am permanently visible.
After school, I watch the kids pair up or become groups. I’m used to walking or taking the bus with Sally, but she gets out a half hour earlier than me.
“Hey.” I hear a voice behind me. “Cello girl! Wait up.”
I stop. Behind me, a girl is rushing. “Hi! Remember me?”
I don’t.
“Violin.” She holds up her case.
I nod.
“Keisha King.”
“Lin O’Neil,” I manage.
“That cello is almost as big as you are,” she says. “Your playing is wicked amazing.”
I smile to thank her.
“Which way is your house?”
I point.
“I go that way, too. Wanna walk together?”
“Okay.”
“What street?”
“Angell Street,” I whisper.
“I’m on Hope. Isn’t that something? Hope and Angel? Angels give hope. We sure hope there are angels.” Keisha walks with a bouncy step, swinging her violin case back and forth. “What do you think of Ms. Nga? She came last year to shape up the orchestra. But she is so strict. Did you notice that boy playing the timpani? Is he cute, or what? Did you find a boy you like yet? I try to pick one the first day. It makes the year more interesting. Not that I ever get together with the boy. I have relatives in this cemetery. I like to say hello to them when I pass. See that sculpture on top of that headstone. My brother made that and stuck it on top. It gets taken down, then he puts it back up. He thinks he’s an artist. My dad is from Providence and his dad, too. My mom’s from Louisiana. She hates it here. Do you have relatives in that graveyard?”
“No.”
“My mom says that if you meet someone, they’ll know people you know within six people. Anywhere in the world.”
I nod my head.
“Am I bugging you?”
I am so horrified that my voice comes out loudly. “No! It’s just I’m shy.”
“Don’t sweat it. There’s tons of shy people at that school, in case you haven’t noticed. That’s why they’re there. We’re a regular nerd herd. I’ve been here since third grade.”
“Do you like it?”
“Are you kidding? I love it. My school before was all about discipline. My teacher there would stand on his desk and yell at us through a megaphone. Do you like it?”
“Yes. Very much. I wish my sister could come here.”
“Why can’t she come? Her grades not good enough?”
“Maybe not.”
“My brother doesn’t go here, either. He’s only good at art. I’m on scholarship, but don’t tell anyone. Some kids kind of look down at you if you are.”
“Me, too,” I admit.
“Cool. You know how much tuition is to that place?”
“No.” It never occurred to me to wonder.
“Twenty thousand dollars a year.”
“Wow!”
“Yeah. Look, there’s Amelia, Erika, and Hannah. They are so stuck-up. They’re always together. Strength in numbers, my dad always says. Now there’re two of us; that’s a number. We can sit together at lunch.”
“Okay.”
“Want to come over to my house? My mom’s home today, so I can have friends over.”
It’s the first invitation to someone’s house I’ve ever had, but I think of Obaachan waiting with a snack all prepared. “Maybe another day.”
“Okay. This is where I turn. Want me to show you where I live? That way you can just come over, whenever.”
“Okay.”
As we turn onto Hope Street, I see a police cruiser parked in front of a two-story yellow house. “Who lives there?” My heart beats fast, because I know the answer: Matt Perino.
“I don’t know their name. There’s a policeman, a mom, a grandma, and three boys: two in high school, one about our age. We moved here a couple of years ago from the west side, but I still don’t know that many people. Here’s my house.”
Keisha’s house is a two-family like ours.
“Weird-looking, isn’t it?” Keisha says.
“I like purple.”
“You sure you won’t come in?”
“My grandmother will be waiting for me.”
“Well, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
If I weren’t in middle school, I would skip home; I’m so happy to have a friend, especially one who talks so much. That makes things easy.
I cross the street on my way back, walking past Matt’s house, noticing the basketballs, baseball mitts, and a couple of skateboards in the yard. As I reach the corner, I see Sally, Molly, and Heather hanging out in front of the minimart. All of them, even Sally, are smoking.