RECENT PAST, FAR PAST
“It’s not fair,” I holler. “At Ben’s, we’re going to do schoolwork. I can’t babysit Ray and Leda, too.”
“You want your father to get better, don’t you?”
“He’s always ruining my life.”
“Dèja!” Ma looks fierce. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” says Pop, sitting on the bed, wheezing. “I’m sorry I’m sick, baby.”
I want to say I’m not a baby. I haven’t been a baby for a long time.
Ray stands on the bed behind him, his little hands massaging Pop’s head. Ray’s always helpful. Leda’s hugging Ma’s leg.
How come Pop never gets well? I want to scream. Other than aspirin, he doesn’t take anything. When we can afford it, he uses an inhaler. Yet he’s still sick. Headachy. Sad. Why doesn’t he go to the hospital if he’s getting worse?
I never talk with Ma about Pop. There’s no time. No privacy. Plus Ma really doesn’t want to talk. Makes me mad. She changes the subject. Like I’m too dumb to figure out what that means.
I’m tired of being responsible. It’s enough to take Ray and Leda to day care, watch after them, and put them to bed. When Leda gets startled, she wets herself; I have to clean her up. There’s a group of boys—seventh graders—who tease Ray, calling him “Shrimp.” Sometimes one of them grabs Ray’s arms and swings him like a tetherball. Ray’s too terrified to scream. I’ve got to rescue him. Punch the big kid on his shoulder, yelling, “Let Ray go. Better not drop him.”
It’s scary for me, too. There’s only one of me and four of them.
“We’ll be good,” says Ray, leaping off the bed. Leda’s pacifier wiggles in her mouth. She clutches my leg, saying, “Go.”
Ma’s eyes are pleading again. She’s tired. But if I can ride the subway by myself, Pop can, too.
Anxious is the only word Ma ever says about Pop. He’s anxious on the subway. Anxious about closed spaces.
I’m anxious living in Avalon.
Ray tucks his shirt into his baggy pants. I have on my blue jeans and a T-shirt that says I’M IRISH. Ma got it at Goodwill. I want to look nice. Leda’s in a too-tight red jumper with padded feet. The three of us are a mess.
I grumble, “Ray, you get the stroller. I’ll carry Leda.”
Ma rushes toward me, hugs me tight. “Thank you, Dèja.” I don’t want to be responsible, but I feel good when Ma thanks me.
I shut the door. Ma will ride the subway. Take Pop to the clinic. I hope they give him medicine (the yuckier the better).
Folks are yelling in the halls. Fighting about money. Or just grumbling to grumble. It’s hard to be nice when you’re crowded in small rooms. A man, snoring, is sleeping on the floor. A girl, not much older than Leda, is slurping juice from a baby cup. Where’s her parents?
Avalon is not pleasant. It stinks like soured food.
Ray bang-bangs the stroller down the metal stairs. I carry Leda. If she falls, it’s always bad.
We make it down the steps. I slide Leda off my hip. I stoop. “We’re going to Ben’s. Schoolwork. It’s important. No matter what—be good. Don’t bother anyone. Mind your manners.”
Leda plunks her butt into the stroller. Ray says, “I’ll push.”
“Whatever.”
I knock. Ben swings open the door like he’s been standing behind it waiting for me. His eyes widen at Ray and Leda.
“It’s cool. Come on in.”
Ray rolls the stroller inside, and Leda pushes herself out and down to the floor.
“Carpet,” I say, embarrassed. “She likes the carpet.”
“We don’t have any,” adds Ray, cartwheeling and rubbing the beige tufts, embarrassing me more.
“Enough, Ben,” a lady shouts. I see her pacing in the kitchen. “I’ve had enough. Enough.”
Bam. She slams the phone.
Ben looks embarrassed.
“Benjamin the second? Your dad?” I remember how proud Ben was to be Benjamin the third.
“Yeah. My parents are divorcing.”
“That’s why you came to Brooklyn?”
Before Ben can answer, his mom glides into the room, cooing, “Your friends are here. So glad your friends are here.” She has short blond hair, blue eyes, and a stressed-out smile. Her lips are stretched too wide. Ma does the same thing when she’s pretending nothing’s wrong.
“I’m Dèja, Ben’s friend. This is my brother and sister, Ray and Leda.”
She claps her hands like I’ve given her a gift. “I’m Dora. Short for Dorothea.”
There’s another knock. Ben opens the door.
“Sabeen,” I shout, excited. Sabeen’s scarf is purple; her pants, red. The woman—her mother?—behind her is covered head to toe in black cotton. Only brown eyes show. Eyes exactly like Sabeen’s.
“Hello, I’m Dora.”
Sabeen looks at her mother, then speaks, “Hello, Mrs. Rubin. My mother wants to thank you.”
Sabeen’s mother speaks quick and sharp. She’s not angry; she’s bowing slightly. I can’t see her mouth, but I can tell from her eyes she’s smiling.
Sabeen translates. “My mother will pick me up in two hours.” Then she waves good-bye and steps inside the apartment.
The door shuts, and all of us—except for Ray and Leda, who are crawling over the couch—stare at each other.
“Full house,” says Dora. “How nice.”
Suspicious, I look at her. I think she means it.
“Sabeen, call me Dora.”
“My mother wouldn’t like me to.” Sabeen frowns then pipes, “How about Mrs. Dora?”
“Mrs. Dora it is,” she says, her smile more relaxed. “Well, get studying, Ben, kids. I’ll take care of these two.” Dora holds out her hands, and Leda climbs right into them like she’s climbed into a white lady’s arms a thousand times. Dora shifts Leda onto her hip. Ray clasps her other hand. “Let’s make snacks.”
Before I can holler, “Be good,” Ray and Leda are gone, disappearing into the kitchen.
Me and Sabeen follow Ben. “My room,” he says, opening a white door.
“Cool,” I deadpan.
Ben’s room is amazing. A bed just for him. A fluffy pillow. A desk with a computer, sleek and silver. A bookcase overflowing with books. There’s even a window with a view of sky and treetops.
The walls are covered with charcoal drawings. They’re Ben’s, I can tell. All brushed darkness, some shadows and light.
There’re dozens of drawings of his old home—a single-story house surrounded by grass. To the right, there’s a barn and a fenced pasture with horses. Ben drew the ranch from different angles: front, back, up high, down low. The sky is clear, sometimes not. Mountains are in the distance. Great peaks cut through clouds. I can’t believe there’s so much space.
I touch the edge of one drawing—a close-up of a horse with long eyelashes and clear, yearning brown eyes. His expression seems to say, “Stay. Ride me.”
Sabeen tilts her head. I can tell she wants to ask about the horse. I shake my head. I wouldn’t want to leave a horse. I’d be happy if one day I got a dog. Or a hamster.
“Sit,” says Ben.
I scan the walls again. There’s not a single drawing of Ben’s dad.
We adjust our chairs in front of the computer. As usual, Sabeen sits in the middle.
Ben isn’t poor, but I still feel sad for him. I’m not used to feeling sad for folks who have stuff.
Sabeen’s smiling, happy as usual.
“Why’s your mom dressed in black?”
“It’s a niqab. For modesty.”
Modesty, what’s that mean? I look at my jeans and tee. “Are you going to wear one?”
“Maybe.”
“If you did wear one, we’d know you anywhere. Wouldn’t we, Ben?”
Ben clicks on the computer. “Sure would. Sabeen glides, happy and nice. She does everything right. Even sits proper.”
“I do not.” Sabeen uncrosses her feet, unfolds her hands. Me and Ben laugh.
He taps, opening a page, and types:
BRAINSTORMING
Ben, Dèja, and Sabeen
I like how our names are alphabetical. Ben’s like that—always fair. His name isn’t first because he’s a boy.
What’s the difference between the past past and the recent past?
“Dumb question,” I say. “Past is past.”
“Mr. Schmidt won’t like that answer,” says Sabeen.
Mr. Schmidt is about a hundred years old. He wears bow ties.
“Sabeen, do you always get A’s on homework?”
“Yes. I pay close attention. Mr. Schmidt said exactly, ‘What are the differences between America’s far past and its recent past?’”
What are the differences between America’s far past and its recent past?
“Who cares? The past is past. Mr. Schmidt doesn’t know about life. About what’s important here, now. I’m trying to make my future.”
Sabeen shifts, turning toward me. “What are you going to do in the future?”
Sometimes Sabeen drives me crazy. She’s looking at me bug-eyed, trusting, and sweet, like Leda does when she first wakes. If she’d asked me earlier, I would’ve said, “Buy a house.” Since kindergarten, I’ve wanted to live in the biggest, best house in the whole world. But the house doesn’t matter.
What matters is not feeling bad, less than somebody else.
How can I say, “In the future, I don’t want my family to feel bad. I don’t want to feel bad”? I squirm on the chair, bite my bottom lip.
Ben rescues me. “Soon as I can drive, I’m going back to Arizona. I don’t like it here.”
Sabeen sighs, “I like you here.”
“Me, too, Ben.” I grin. “If you leave, can I have your room?”
“It’s not about the room, Dèja.”
“I know, Sabeen. I’m not stupid.”
Sabeen murmurs.
“What, what did you say?” I say loudly, thinking, here comes the disrespect.
Sitting tall, hands clutched together, Sabeen speaks, “Ozur dilerim. ‘Sorry,’ in Turkish. America welcomed my family. I welcome you.”
“Wait, is that why you like us—the new kids?”
“You’re not new anymore,” says Sabeen, intent, fussing like a kitten. “It’s been three whole weeks. I like you because you’re Dèja. Ben, I welcomed you because it’s what Americans do.”
“Not always,” says Ben, scowling. “Some Arizonans don’t welcome Mexicans.”
“They forget.”
“Forget what?”
Sabeen jumps up, grabbing Ben’s water bottle, raising it high. Her face is all serious, her cheeks sucked in.
“What’re you doing?”
Sabeen stomps her foot. Ben and me don’t get it.
She poses again—her chin tilted up, her hand holding a stupid water bottle.
“Clue, clue, clue,” hollers Ben. I’m thrilled. We’re playing charades.
“Give me your tired, your poor…”
“Statue of Liberty,” I blurt.
Ben grins. “History taught you something, Dèja.”
“Yeah, well, my family’s tired and poor,” I say, hands on my hips. “How can I forget?”
Ben laughs. Sabeen tries to squash her giggles.
I frown, then burst out laughing.
“Sassy Dèja.”
I snap my fingers. “You know it, Sabeen.”
All three of us relax. No matter how sassy I am, Ben and Sabeen don’t mind. I don’t feel “less than” with them.
“We’re different but friends,” I say.
“Three Musketeers,” says Ben.
“American circle,” says Sabeen. “Different but still American. Like the school map. Americans immigrate. Come from everywhere.”
“All I know is Brooklyn. Wish I could go everywhere,” I say wistfully, looking at Ben’s drawings. “Arizona. Jamaica.”
“Mom says we’re having ‘our New York adventure.’ I’d rather be in Arizona,” says Ben sadly, rubbing his eyeglasses clean on his T-shirt.
“Divorce,” I whisper to Sabeen, but Ben still hears.
“Brainstorming,” says Ben, pushing his glasses onto his nose. “We’ve got to generate ideas.” All three of us stare at the screen. A little black line blinks, waits.
I shrug. “Okay, there’re differences between far past and recent past. That’s what Mr. Schmidt wants us to say. So, let’s say it. He’s the teacher. He’s grading us.”
Ben deletes the title and retypes:
“Differences: America’s Far Past and Recent Past”
“Specifics?” asks Ben. “Oh, oh, I know, maybe make a time line? Like the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, the Louisiana Purchase, and Westward Expansion.”
“Civil Rights Movement. Brown v. Board of Education.”
Ben’s brows arch.
Playful, I slap his hand. “I know stuff. Brooklyn Collective has good teachers.”
“That’s right,” says Sabeen. Her fingers trace the letters on the screen. “But I think it’s a trick question. Miss Garcia always says, ‘Think.’ Mr. Schmidt always says—”
“‘Challenge ideas, assumptions,’” we groan.
“Why can’t we have true or false questions?” I ask. “Or multiple choice?”
“I like multiple choice,” says Ben, his index finger tapping the desk.
Sabeen juts her head. She has amazing focus, like a superwoman with X-ray eyes.
They’re both so smart. But I’m smart, Pop said. I don’t know why I’m thinking of him.
“Differences. Between Americans. In history,” ponders Ben. “Technology. Transportation.”
“Education,” adds Sabeen. “More people are educated today.”
I want to contribute, too. Not be lame.
In my mind, I see the overlapping circles on the whiteboard. Like magic, the shared spaces shimmer. “Turn the question around,” I say. “Inside out. What unites us? Instead of differences over time—what’s similar? The same?”
“Values,” says Ben.
“Give me your tired, your poor,” squeals Sabeen.
“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
“The Bill of Rights,” adds Ben.
“Voting rights. Women, not just men.”
“Not just white men,” I say.
“‘Religious and political freedom,’ my father says. That’s why people come to America.”
“My mom came for ‘a better life.’ I think she meant more money. Only money got worse.” This time no one laughs.
Ben types. I peck with my fingers. He’s typing fast, hands stretched, racing.
American principles, freedom, democracy, and justice for all, withstand the test of time. History changes. Relationships between Americans change.
“Like my family changed,” Ben mutters, still typing.
But America’s ideals remain strong or adapt and get stronger.
Who knew Ben could write so well?
“Ben just earned us an A, Sabeen. Isn’t that great?”
Not moving, Sabeen stares at the words. It’s like the screen has hypnotized her. “I’m an American.”
“On 9/11, my family doesn’t leave the house much. Not unless we have to.”
“What’re you talking about? Why wouldn’t your family leave the house?”
Eyes tearing, her shoulders shudder like the wings of a baby bird.
“Dèja, for someone so smart, you’re really dumb,” snaps Ben.
“Why’re you mad at me?” I’m shocked. Ben’s usually nothing but nice.
“I want to go home,” sniffs Sabeen.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Ben pats Sabeen’s shoulder, then yells, “Mom! Mom!”
“What did you two do?” Fierce, Dora rushes to hug Sabeen.
Leda and Ray, standing in the doorway, are covered in chocolate. Not fair, I think. They get chocolate; we get tears.
“We didn’t do anything,” says Ben. “Just homework. About the towers.”
Ben and his mom look at each other; they’re saying something without saying it. Another secret. I’m confused.
“Sabeen wants to go home,” says Ben.
Dora guides her toward the door. “It’s all right, dear. Everything’s all right,” she coos. “Shhh, shhh. We’ll call your mom.”
“Here.” Ray offers Sabeen his spoon with chocolate goo.
Sabeen cries harder; Leda wails. Shrugging, Ray licks his spoon.
Dora and Sabeen leave. I want to leave, too.
Ray bounces like a pinball. Chocolate stains appear on the wall, the bedspread, the desk.
“Ray, stop it.”
“We scooped the bowl clean.”
“You need to wash your hands. Put down that spoon.” I lift Leda, bouncing her on my hip. “Shhh, shhh,” I say like Dora.
“Let’s stay here until Sabeen leaves.”
I trust Ben. He knows something. He sits on the edge of his bed and falls backward. Like something inside stunned him.
Like Ben was Pop, Ray climbs onto the bed and massages his head. Ben doesn’t seem to mind, even though he’ll have to shower chocolate out of his hair and eyebrows.
Leda on my lap, I sit before the computer. Leda bangs the keyboard, typing nonsense words. I’m feeling less again, not smart, just dumb. Like I’m missing a connection. Ben and Sabeen know something I don’t. Like they knew about the cowboy in boots and underwear in Times Square.
The doorbell rings. Ben and me don’t get up and say good-bye. Just listen to murmurs. The two women are talking: one in English, another in Turkish. I hear Sabeen say, “Thank you. I thank you. My mother thanks you.”
Ben’s room feels too small. He stares at the ceiling. Leda is asleep in my arms. Ray’s licked the spoon clean and he’s tapping it on the windowsill. The tat-a-tat-tat is driving me crazy.
“Come on, Ray. Leda. Time to go home.” I lift Leda. Her head falls back as if she’s dead.
“I’ll take her,” says Dora. “Come on, Ray.” She looks at me like she knows how disappointed I am. Like she knows kids get disappointed a lot. “I’ll make a bag of snacks to take home.”
I bristle. Charity. Ben must’ve told her how poor we are.
“Our brownies didn’t bake,” Ray says, pouting.
Ma used to make brownies. Ray doesn’t know. He’s too little to remember.
“Thank you,” I force myself to say. “Snacks are nice.”
Leda rubs her eyes and extends her arms. Dora hugs her, clasps Ray’s hand.
“I’ll get the stroller,” I call as they head toward the kitchen. Ray skips. Leda yells, “Snackies!”
I don’t move. I feel overwhelmed, confused. Ray and Leda are happy. Sabeen’s gone. Me, I’m sad.
Sitting up, Ben looks at me, dull-eyed, his face not-so-pleasant. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“What?” I ask, not hiding how miserable I feel. “I didn’t mean to make Sabeen cry. What’d I do wrong?”
“Wow, you really don’t know.”
Ben slips into the chair, taps his keyboard, and a picture magically fills the screen.
Two tall, gleaming silver-and-glass towers. Two tall towers touching the clouds, reflecting sunshine, shimmering rainbows and diamond-shaped light.
“Arizonans were far away from what happened. You’re a New Yorker—I thought you’d know more.”
“More what?”
“Dèja, don’t you know what they’re teaching us? Where our assignments are going?”
I don’t speak.
Frustrated, Ben sighs, double-clicks the mouse. “Terrorists attacked the Twin Towers on 9/11. Except our teachers are taking baby steps. Teaching pieces. Treating us like we’re five instead of ten.”
The screen comes alive.
Images aren’t moving, but I can see one tower is ablaze. There’s a gaping hole, high up, like soaring, flying dragons had attacked the building, leaving a jagged tear of broken glass, bent metal, and concrete. Smoke—white, gray, and pure black—streams and billows. Flames—yellow, orange, and red—bubble and lick.
“Click to play,” Ben says, shutting the bedroom door. “I don’t want to see it again.”
I’m not sure I want to see it, either. I sit in Sabeen’s middle chair.
I can tell it’s a disaster. A horrible disaster. One tower is on fire. What happened to the other?
Is this why Sabeen cried?
All I have to do is tap the space bar for the video to come alive.
I tap.
Smoke grows, clouding the silver building and blue sky. Flames streak. It’s horrible. There’s no sound, but I know there must be people inside the tower hurt, screaming.
Right across from Brooklyn, something left a gaping hole in the tower.
I lean forward. No sound makes the moving images scarier. High up, not even where birds fly, there must be wind sounds. Inside the building, folks must be coughing, choking from smoke. Fire would be roaring, snapping, crackling.
A plane. A huge jet, a silver bird, is flying, flying. Straight toward the second tower.
I grip the bottom of the chair. NO. NO. NO. “Stop,” I scream. Boom. Crash. Into the building. Sliding, ripping a diagonal line through metal, concrete, and glass.
The plane is inside the building—breaking apart, exploding, melting, burning furniture and people.
“No,” I scream. I bang the keyboard. The video stops.
I turn away from the screen and look out Ben’s window. It’s beautiful. Birds, trees, sky, and clouds. What would it be like having a plane crush through like a missile? Destroying the world?