STUCK INSIDE MY HEAD
I don’t take the subway. I want to walk. Ray’s quiet, holding on to the stroller, popping potato chips into his mouth when we come to a stop. Leda has fallen back asleep.
I should wake her. She’ll be up all night, meaning I’ll be awake all night as she twists and turns. I should tell Ray, “Stop eating, you’ll get a stomachache.”
But all I can see is the plane slamming. Two towers burning. I look up, around me. Brooklyn doesn’t have such big buildings. But that doesn’t stop my imagining. Any second it could happen here.
I should’ve let Dora and Ben walk us home. I remember her hugging me, smelling of roses. She scolded Ben, “You’re not the teacher.”
“It’s okay, Dora. Ben knows I don’t like not knowing stuff.”
“Sorry, Dèja.” Ben offered his fist, and I bumped it.
Then, quick, he whispered, “It was terrorists. Muslim terrorists. That’s why Sabeen’s upset.”
The words strike like they never did before. Before the words were flat. Now I hear them—understand in a new way.
I maneuver the stroller across the street, tilting Leda back to get the wheels onto the sidewalk.
I mean, I know about terrorists. America’s been fighting them in Iraq.
But terrorists and the two towers?
How could I connect what I didn’t know? Nobody told me.
Why would I need to know? It’s history. I blink. Moving pictures flicker inside my brain. Fire, smoke, crumbling walls, and shattering glass.
History is alive. Especially if there’s video.
I look at Ray. He’s eating chips like there’s a hole in his stomach.
Would I tell Ray about the towers? No, it’s too scary. He’s too little.
It happened fifteen years ago. 2001. By the time Ray’s my age, ten, I’ll be sixteen. The towers will have been gone for twenty-two years. Why care? It doesn’t matter to me. Not day to day.
I see the whiteboard circles.
It happened here. In my country. My state. Right across the river, near my neighborhood.
Sabeen’s Muslim. She’s not a terrorist. Why doesn’t her family feel safe?
My head hurts. I don’t want to think anymore. Like shutting off lights, I want my thoughts to end. Stop.
I want the burning towers out of my head.
Avalon looks like a jail. But I wouldn’t want terrorists to bomb it. People live here, too. Families. Social groups. My family.
Ray and me push through the door. Some folks move aside; others, some drunk, some space cadets, I’ve got to push.
I turn backward and pull the stroller up the steps. Bang-bang. Ray tries to lift the bottom so it doesn’t clang as much. He’s not too strong. Leda’s heavy. “Thanks, Ray,” I say when we get to the top of the stairs. “Ray,” squeals Leda, awake since the first bump. “Dèja.”
I open our room’s door. Ma and Pop are sitting on the big bed, holding hands. It feels good to see them. They seem happy.
“Ray and Leda did.”
Worried, Ma looks at me. I shrug. She doesn’t ask.
Ma hides her feelings; it’s gotten worse at Avalon. She’s taught me to hide my feelings, too.
Pop’s relaxed, smiling. Maybe the doctor gave him medicine?
“We should get washed. Get to the showers before everyone else does,” says Pop. “I’ll take little man.” Ray clings to Pop; Pop gathers fresh pajamas from a box; he opens our door, then stops and looks back like he’s forgotten something. “I love you, Bea.” Then he steps back inside, hugs and kisses me. I almost cry. Instead, I blurt, “I didn’t know planes hit the two towers.”
“What?” Happiness slides off Pop’s face. He looms over me.
“Ben’s got a computer. One plane hit, then another hit the towers.”
“You’re never going over there again. Do you hear me?”
“He’s my friend. My homework partner.”
“Calm down, Jim. She was bound to find out.” Guilty-like, Ma looks at me.
Pop pulls Ray back into the room and slams the door. He’s stomping, thundering. “Schools should leave it alone.”
“Kids need to learn,” Ma keeps repeating.
“Not this.” Pop spins toward me. “You’re too young to know. Too young.”
“I’m old enough,” I shout. “The school’s teaching me.”
Stooping, Pop grips my arms.
Ma tries to calm him. “Let her go, Jim, please.”
“You’re too young to know about”—Pop swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs—“the towers falling. What kind of school are you going to?”
“It’s a good one,” says Ma. “The best she’s ever gone to.”
“I don’t care. She’s out. I want her transferred. Another school.”
“Pop, you can’t. I like my school. I like Ben. Sabeen. Miss Garcia.”
“You’re my child. I’ll say what you learn or don’t learn. You’re too young to know about—”
“—terrorists?”
“The World Trade Center. The Twin Towers.”
“I’m ten.”
“Until you’re eighteen, you’re under my roof. You’ll do as I say.”
“This isn’t your roof.”
Ma gasps. Pop’s stunned, looking like he’s going to fall down.
I’m sorry I said it. Ray and Leda are frightened, clinging to Ma. Ma, her face frozen, reaches out to comfort Pop.
Me, standing, on one side; my family, on the other.
I’m alone.
There’s not even a spare room to cry in.
No one says anything.
“I’ll take Ray and Leda showering,” I say, picking up Ray’s pajamas, gathering nightgowns for Leda and me. “Come on.”
Ray and Leda don’t want to go with me. I’ve scared them. I know, too, given a choice, they’ll always want to be with Pop and Ma instead of me.
“Dèja?”
“Yes, Ma?” Pop’s curled on the bed now, holding his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. Ma tucks his sheet.
She doesn’t say it.
I answer. “I know. Stranger danger. Make sure Ray’s safe in the shower. He can come into the girls’ shower.” I’ll punch anyone who complains.
“Come on.” Ray and Leda drag their feet; holding their hands, I tug them out the door and down the hall.
I hate my life.