SAM
“I can’t go to France. I’m American, and I don’t speak French,” I tell the lady again when we get back to the little room after lunch.
“A clever boy like you will learn quickly. At least it’s the same alphabet.”
I stare at her.
“Chinese would be much harder,” she adds. “Sit down, I’ll get you some comics to read.”
I do as I’m told because the man is watching me. I’m scared to be left in the room alone with him, and I look down at the table when she leaves so I don’t have to see his cold eyes. But I hear him step toward me. I bury my head in my hands, wishing the lady would come back.
“Listen, lad.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re gonna have to toughen up. No more of this cryin’. We have work to do here and you’re makin’ it difficult.” He squeezes my shoulder hard. It hurts. I hold my breath so I don’t make a sound.
The door clicks open. I let out my breath and look up. It’s kind of a relief to see the lady again, beaming away, with a stack of comics in her arms. She spreads out a collection of Captain America and Batman and Robin. I want to say thank you, but the words won’t come.
“I’ll stay with him.” She turns to the man. “You can get on with your work.”
I pretend to read Captain America, waiting for him to go.
“Remember what I said, lad,” he says as he closes the door.
The lady sits next to me and takes out some papers. “What did he say to you?” she asks without looking up.
“I dunno.” I pretend to read my comic again.
“I’m not a psychologist, Samuel, but you can talk about it. It might help.”
I shake my head, watching as a fat tear falls onto the comic, smudging the print.
“I just wanna see my mom.”
“Samuel.” She exhales a long breath. “You’ll be okay. You have your real mom and real dad now. You must be excited to be meeting them soon.”
“I don’t wanna meet them. I wanna see my mom. Is she comin’ back soon?”
“Please, Samuel, stop saying that.”
“My name’s not Samuel! It’s Sam!”
“It’s Sam here in America, but I think you’ll find they call you Samuel in France.”
I stare at her. What does she mean?
“Samuel’s your real name, and they don’t shorten names in France. The psychologist told me. She’s been looking into it. It seems there are a few differences you’ll have to get used to.”
“But I’m not going! I told you I’m not goin’.”
“Okay, okay.” I wonder if she’s finally understood. But then she says, “They have great schools in France, you’ll soon make friends.”
“I don’t want new friends. I want my old friends.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Samuel, you’ll stay here tonight, then Mr. Jackson will take you to France tomorrow.”
“No! Please, no! I’ll be good. I promise.” I jump up. “Please don’t send me away. Please.”
“Shh, shh.” She stands up, putting her arms around me.
I can’t help it. I fall against her big soft chest, hiding my head in it. Tears come quickly. This time I don’t try to stop them. It hurts too much inside. I feel snot running from my nose onto her clothes.
“Shh, honey,” she whispers, her hand on the back of my head. “Let it out. Better out than in.”
I hear the door click open again and someone’s footsteps as they come into the room. This person touches my arm lightly, then squeezes it. “This won’t hurt. Just a little prick.”