I open my locker. There’s nothing in it. I don’t even have a lock.
“Dèja. I told Mr. Schmidt I’d find you.”
I slam the locker. “I don’t want to be found.”
“Come on. Outside. You’ll feel better.”
I think I won’t, but it’s Ben asking with his glasses and wide blue eyes. He doesn’t even blink. I want to tell him that I hate him. That would be a lie.
“I don’t like your boots.”
“Yeah. I know. They don’t fit New York.”
“Oh, Ben. I’m such a jerk.”
The school bell rings. Recess.
Doors open, and yelling, screaming kids dash everywhere.
“Come on.”
The school yard actually has equipment—swings, a sandpit, and a jungle gym. It’s fun seeing the littlest kids run and play. Most fifth and sixth graders try to look cool. ’Stasia and Angel practice cheers. We don’t have a team, but they practice anyway. Michael dunks a ball.
Ben pulls me toward the chain-link fence. There’re picnic tables beneath huge oak trees. He sits on the table. So do I. We’re not supposed to. But we do it anyway.
My old school didn’t have trees.
“In Arizona, trees are everywhere. Even ones with green trunks. Mesquite. There’re green cacti, too.”
“I thought Arizona was a brown desert.”
“It is. But it’s like a layer cake. Brown earth or rock on the bottom, green trees, then blue sky. Did you know cacti bloom flowers? Every color except blue. We’ve even got roadrunners.”
“Like in the cartoon?”
“What’s that?”
“Like big pigs.”
Sabeen sees us from afar. She’s standing still. I can tell she’s thinking whether she should walk over. Me and Ben watch her.
Palm open, she lifts her hand. Ben does the same, like we’re in a secret club with energy passing between our hands.
Sabeen nods, turns toward the sandbox kids. She likes helping second and third graders build castles.
It’s not so bad here in the school yard. Weird—this is the best my life has been in a long while. No worry about getting poorer, falling down the ladder. We’re already at bottom. Can’t get any worse. I’ve got friends. Good teachers. I like Brooklyn Collective Elementary.
Am I going to mess things up?
“Ben, I’ve got to go see it. I’ve got to walk across the bridge.”
Ben stares at his boots. “Folks did that. Walked out of New York. Over the bridge.”
“It’ll take all day.”
“I don’t care. Pop worked in a tower.”
“There’s nothing to see, Dèja,” Ben whispers.
“There’s that new building. I’ll see that.”
“The Freedom Tower. It’s called the Freedom Tower.”
“How do you know so much?”
“My dad talks about the towers all the time—it’s why he joined the Marines. Why he went to Afghanistan.”
I rub my forehead. It hurts. Too much information, too many pictures cloud my mind.
“Wait until Saturday, Dèja.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s only two more days.”
“Saturday, I’ll have to bring Ray and Leda.” I inhale, deep. “I’m going to skip school. I’ve never done it before. Honest. But I’m going to do it tomorrow.”
Head slowly bobbing, Ben declares, “I’m coming with you. We’ll take the subway.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Sure. Rich boy.”
Ben elbows me. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m sorry.” I am.
“My dad was going to come to New York for my birthday.”
“You had a birthday?”
“He sent me fifty dollars. Mom says he loves somebody else. Not a kid. A grown-up. He might get another wife.”
I want to hug Ben. But he might think I like him, like him.
I just like him.
I pat his back. “I’m sorry, Ben.” On the last pat, I let my hand stay for a few seconds. I can feel the bones in Ben’s back. He’s thin, a cross between a sidekick cowboy and a weak soldier. But he’s strong inside.
Ben pushes his glasses high onto his nose.
“I’ll meet you at nine a.m. After school starts. We’ll take the subway. I’ll buy lunch.”
“Thanks, Ben. It would’ve taken hours to walk.”
He grins. “Too bad we don’t have a horse.”
“Trust you on a horse?” Ben lightly punches my shoulder. “You’d get me thrown off.”
I run. Ben chases me. “Sabeen, help,” I yell. She stands, waving. I stop. Ben crashes into me. We both laugh. He pulls my arm. I twist, dash; he catches me. Like crazy windmills, the two of us smack each other’s palms.
It’s been weeks since we’ve acted silly.
Is this growing up? Less silliness?
Maybe I’m already grown, even though my body’s small.
All I know is, I’m more grown than my parents and teachers think I am.
What I feel and know and my body don’t match.
It isn’t just the video’s fault. It’s my whole life.
I’m ten, eleven next year. I’ve got to know enough to help Ray and Leda. To help Pop.