Sometimes it isn’t about what you do, it’s about what you see. The cafeteria is bustling with little kids opening superhero or My Little Pony lunch boxes. They’re sitting at tables, legs swinging off the ground, giggling, unwrapping sandwiches while teachers watch them. Older kids—fourth and fifth graders—are in line as women with hairnets pile their trays with spaghetti, a fruit cup, and a cookie. Sabeen grabs a carton of milk. Ben’s got a paper sack, but he goes through the line and grabs an apple and an orange juice. Then they pay.
I spin around, push through the flapping doors, and walk into the hall. It’s quiet. Everybody’s at lunch, including the teachers. These halls are calm, clean.
My stomach rumbles. I sip from the water fountain.
I like the hallway walls—painted sky blue and bright yellow. No curse words or graffiti. Most of the walls are blank, but there’s a sign for each grade.
FIRST GRADE, MR. BRENNAN
SECOND GRADE, MRS. SHEAR
all the way up to:
FIFTH GRADE, MISS GARCIA
I think the classes are going to decorate the walls with art and class projects. Fifth grade will probably post “Summer Vacation” essays. My page will be blank.
I walk farther down, and on the wall across from the girls’ bathroom, there’s a world map with colored pins. At the top, the sign reads:
BROOKLYN COLLECTIVE ELEMENTARY
WHO WE ARE—WHERE WE’RE FROM
Blue pins poke New York, then there’s thread like spiderwebs cutting across the map to new pins, all different colors, poking at England, the Dominican Republic, Africa, India, and more.
“Where are you from?” asks Sabeen, appearing next to me.
I try to ignore her. Go away, I think. She’s munching a breadstick.
“I’m from Turkey. See, that’s my string. I’m not really Turkey Turkish. That sounds funny, doesn’t it? But my grandparents came from Istanbul. Ben, where are you from?”
I groan. “Can’t you two leave me alone?”
“Arizona.”
To the side of the map, there are extra pins with strings. Sabeen picks a new pin and punches it into New York, then stretches the dangling thread far west to Arizona. “Where next?”
“What do you mean?” asks Ben.
“Your people,” I say, grouchy. “She means where do your people come from?”
“Your heritage,” mumbles Sabeen, her mouth full of bread.
“My grandmother was from Mexico.”
“Do you speak Spanish?” asks Sabeen, hopeful.
“No.”
“Too bad.” Sabeen pokes another pin in Arizona and pulls its thread down to Mexico.
Ben and Sabeen just stand and stand, saying nothing, driving me crazy. Ben’s blinking, his palm touching Mexico.
“This is stupid,” I say. “Sappy like syrup.”
“Better than sour,” quips Sabeen.
“Dèja, I bet you’re from Africa.”
“No, I’m from Brooklyn.”
“Muntu is from Africa,” says Sabeen. “Nigeria, I think. He’s a fourth grader.”
“I meant long ago,” murmurs Ben.
“You mean slavery. How come every white person sees a black person and thinks slavery?”
“You’re African American, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But I’m Jamaican, too. My ma is from Jamaica.”
“Oooh,” says Sabeen. “We don’t have Jamaica. Let’s stick an orange pin. There.”
Ben holds out a sandwich. “Tuna,” he says, not looking at me, just studying the map.
I lick my lips. I didn’t have breakfast.
“You can have my cookie,” says Sabeen, pulling it from her pocket. “Chocolate chip.”
Ma says I’m not supposed to take anything from anybody. But I don’t think Ben and Sabeen count. They’re kids. Nobodies.
I bite the sandwich, tasting sweet pickle in the tuna.
“Immigration,” Ben murmurs. “Fourth grade. ‘America is a land of immigrants,’ our book said.”
I scowl at know-it-all Ben. “Some were forced.”
“Slaves,” Sabeen nods.
“Apache. They were overrun. Killed. Their land stolen.”
Sabeen and me both look at Ben.
With his index finger, he pushes his glasses high on his nose. “At my old school, we always talk about who was already here. In America.”
“I never thought about that,” I say. And I haven’t. Why should I care, anyway? Knowing about Apache doesn’t buy me lunch.
“Lenape,” says Sabeen. “Third grade, we did a study unit. Lenape first settled what we call New York.”
“Any Lenape go to this school?” I ask, scowling.
“No,” says Sabeen.
“But it seems like everyone else in the world does.”
I stare at the map. Pakistan. Germany. Japan. The world is so big. Kids from all over.
I pluck another orange pin. Orange, for me. I push it into Africa’s coast and angle the thread to New York.
“Thanks for lunch,” I say. The bell rings.
“Come on,” says Sabeen. Ben walks, his cowboy boots clack on the linoleum. I trail behind, gobbling the rest of my sandwich.
I hate Avalon Family Residence. I like here—walking these halls, amazed that Ben and Sabeen, for no reason, decided to be my friends.