At school, I learned to read and write and use spit in creative ways. I had a crush on a sweet-faced boy who looked like Randy from the Jackson Five. “Rhinestone Cowboy” was the big song. At school, I shined. Other than having the silver dollar that had been left by the tooth fairy stolen from the coat closet during recess, I loved school; it was big and bright, a gem in my pocket. Everything was just right. Until Zaida.
Zaida was the only girl poorer than me, and in an effort to be more like them and less like her, I agreed to help the other girls put a tack on her seat, pretend-laughing as she lowered her bony behind onto it.
Days later, my mother steered the car out to Zaida’s house. Sober rows of zucchini and eggplant lined both sides of the shack whose paint had faded and run gray. My mother shocked me by not only knowing Zaida’s family, but by stopping to drop off something for them.
The skinny girl with the apron dress and crane legs stood still as a giant bird in her dusty yard and did not look my way when my mother mentioned our being in the same grade. The air between us pulsed, though no one else seemed to notice. She flickered a bit, then faded; looking as tired as the dirt at her feet.
As we pulled away, I felt some of Zaida’s grit. Inside me. Grit and shame and dust. It got inside, and stayed.