The Year I Flew Away

by Marie Arnold

  I go back to my room and try to remember that there is something in the place that I’m used to. And that everything isn’t new and strange. A while later, my aunt calls me to the dinner table; everyone is already seated.

  I look down at my plate: there’s a stick of meat on a long piece of bread, and there’s some red goop on top.

  “That’s a hot dog. You’re in America now, and you should start getting used to American food,” Uncle John says.

  I poke the meat log with my finger. I turn my nose up at it as my finger digs into the soft pink meat.

  “Don’t play with your food,” Uncle John says.

  “We made you hot dogs and fries; it’s a real American meal. Would you like something else, Gabrielle?” my aunt asks.

  “No, the family is having hot dogs, and that’s what she’ll eat. It’s better this way. She needs to get used to American food. No more rice and beans.”

  “But John—”

  “No, Carole. She needs to adjust. And the more time she spends doing everything the way the Americans do, the better for her.”

  Aunt Carole looks at me with a sad smile. “Give it a try, honey,” she says.

  “Yeah, try it,” Kayla says with a big, fat smirk.

  The meat log hasn’t gotten better looking since I last dug into it. But it’s rude not to eat what you are given, so I take a bite of something called a hot dog. It’s cold, salty, and tastes like rubber. I twist my face away from the food, and Kayla laughs.

  “You better get used to it,” she says.

  That’s when I start to think about mangoes and all the yummy foods I left behind. My heart hurts. And soon my stomach begins to dance. I have a funny feeling inside.

  “You better eat all of it,” Kayla tells me.

  “It’s okay if you need time to finish,” Aunt Carole replies.

  Kayla shakes her head. “You can’t even eat one hot dog—how are you going to make it here?”

  “Do they only have hot dogs in America?” I ask.

  “No, but the other stuff will be hard to swallow too. So you better start with the hot dog. Unless you can’t. In that case, you might as well go back home now.”

  “Kayla!” Uncle John scolds her.

  “I’m just kidding, Daddy,” she says. But she’s not kidding. I can see it in her eyes—she’s daring me to finish my dinner. Well, I can and I will. I shove the whole thing in my mouth at once. Bad idea. I throw up everything—even the peanuts from the plane.

  My aunt has to clean up after me, and I feel really bad about it. I was supposed to stay out of the way, and the first thing I do is give her more work to do. I offer to help, but she says it’s okay and that I can go take a shower.

  I stand under the warm water, and I marvel at how powerfully it flows. It’s as hard as the rain. I close my eyes and pretend I’m back home, playing in the rain. But when I open my eyes, it all goes away. No more racing around in the rain with Stephanie trying to keep up with the boys; no more rain dancing or laughing. I step out of the shower and dry off with the towel my aunt left me. I go to my room and put on the pajamas she brought me.

  “Do they fit okay?” Aunt Carole asks as she peeks into my room.

  “Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.” I look down. My pink pajamas have teddy bears and trains on them. It’s not my favorite, but it feels nice and warm on my skin.

  “Gabrielle, come. Sit beside me on the bed,” she says. I do as she asks. “Do you know how many jobs your uncle has?”

  “Ah . . . one?”

  “Nope.”

  “Um, two?”

  “No. He has three jobs!”

  “Really? How does he do them all?”

  “He works very hard. He works driving a taxi, he works for a company that cleans the parks, and he washes dishes at a restaurant downtown.”

  “That’s a lot of work.”

  “Yes, it is. And I too have three jobs. I work at a factory making belts, I look after an elderly woman, and I take care of you kids. We don’t have a lot of time or a lot of money. So, when we give you something, treat it with care, because we don’t have money to replace it. And that goes for your new pajamas. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  “Good girl,” she says. My uncle knocks on my door, and I tell him he can come in.

  “Someone wants to speak to you,” he says, handing me the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Ba-Ba, how are you doing?”

  “Mom!” I shout loudly.

  Kayla marches down the hall and enters my room. “Can I get some quiet, please? I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I reply. “Mom, I miss you!” I whisper into the phone.

  “Your dad and I miss you too. We will be there as soon as we can, but for now, remember, we love you. And we are counting on you.” Hearing my mom and dad’s voices reminds me just how far away they really are.

  “Mom! Did you make the fried pork and plantains I like today? What story are you going to tell the village next month? Is it the one about the ghost in the well? I love that one!”

  “Honey, listen. You can’t think about back home. Thinking about back home will only make you lonelier. You have to find new adventures in America. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  I’m about to tell her about throwing up, but that would make her worry, so I don’t say anything. And my mom is right: I need to stay focused on being here and being here to stay. I don’t care how many hot dogs I have to eat.

  Hot dogs. Argh!

  I get into bed and close my eyes. I should be asleep soon. But I’m not. I try to count the number of streetlights we saw on our way here, but I lose track of them. I sigh and sit up in my bed.

  It’s so hard to know when to sleep and when to wake up. My body wants to sleep, but there are just so many new things that I want to explore. How is a girl supposed to keep her eyes closed in heaven?

  Well, Mom did say she wanted me to have adventures in America now . . .

  Okay, I’m going to take a quick walk around the building. I won’t get into anything crazy. I will just take a nice, relaxing walk so that sleep might come to me. So that when I get back to this apartment, I will be all ready for bed. I tiptoe as quietly as I can out of the apartment. I look at the clock on my way out—it’s exactly midnight.

  I walk out of the apartment and go into the lobby of the building. A red door appears in the middle of the lobby. I swear it wasn’t there before. There are gold and silver butterflies etched all around the doorframe; they spring to life. I smile as I watch them dance.

  They land in the palm of my hand, and I bring them up to my face so I can get a closer look. They are so beautiful. They fly away and gather again in the air. They flutter around the door and motion for me to go inside.

  “I can’t go in. I promised to be good. I promised my mom and dad.” The butterflies are sad. But I walk away. It’s the smart thing to do. Then I hear someone humming from behind the door. It’s a song I know very well. And a voice I know too.

  “Mom?”

  I walk back and put my ear to the door. The humming gets louder. I turn the red metal knob and walk inside. It’s a dimly lit room with smooth walls and shiny black floors. And standing right in front of me, I’m fairly certain, is a witch.

  She’s thinner than a needle, her skin is the color of fog, and her dark eyes shine like moonbeams on the surface of water. Her lipstick is redder than red, and so are her long, curved nails. She wears a long cloak made up of crows that have gathered around her.

  “Hello, Gabrielle,” she says in perfect Haitian Creole. That doesn’t surprise me. I was told a long time ago that witches speak every language. I was also told that it’s a bad idea to speak to them at all. But I’m not afraid of witches—well, not too afraid, anyway. I swallow hard and tell my heart to stop jumping. I can handle this. I think.

  “Gabrielle, it’s rude not to return a greeting.”

  “Hello. I thought I heard my mom, b
ut I was wrong. I will go now.”

  “Wait, my dear, stay awhile,” she says. The crows that make up her cloak scatter and form a chair so that I can sit before her.

  Nope, not gonna happen.

  “Ah, thank you, but I have to go,” I reply. I know better than to turn my back on a witch; any fool can tell you that. So I walk backwards to the door. I turn the knob, but it doesn’t move.

  “I only wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. My name is Lady Lydia.”

  “You’re a witch,” I tell her.

  “Well, yes, dear, we both know that. Here, have some juice,” she says as a table appears out of nowhere with a pitcher of juice, cups, and wooden chairs.

  Whoa!

  “No thank you,” I reply, trying to sound normal.

  “I insist you at least sit while I drink, then,” she says. I take a seat, not wanting to upset her. In the meantime, I try to think of possible ways to escape.

  “As I said before, I’m Lady Lydia. I’m the witch of these parts, and I enjoy helping nice, innocent children like you, who just came to this country. I have treats that can really help newcomers like you. In fact, newcomers are my biggest clients.” She sips her juice.

  “I don’t need anything, thank you. I would just like to go home,” I reply.

  “Well, certainly.” She loses her grip on her cup. The juice falls and lands on me.

  I quickly jump up. “Oh no!” I shout. “I promised my aunt that I would take care of the things she gave me. My shirt is ruined!” I groan as I look down at my pajamas.

  “Oh, is that all?” She waves her hand, and the stain is gone.

  Wow. I always knew there were witches, but I’ve never seen one at work before.

  “Um . . . thank you. Thanks very much,” I mumble.

  “My pleasure. That one was a freebie. I have all kinds of treats that can help you in your time of need. Some of my treats are more expensive than others. But they are all very good and very reliable.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they are. But I want to go home. That’s all I want. And you will open the door. Now,” I demand.

  She smiles. “I like your brave spirit. I can see why you are so loved. But that’s only in Haiti, dear. You are in America now. And here, they won’t like you; they won’t love you. In fact, you’ll stand out and be ridiculed. And that’s when you will come to me like the other kids before you. And you’ll beg me for one thing.”

  “One thing? What is that? What will I beg you for?”

  “An elixir to make everyone like and accept you.”

  “No, I won’t need one. Open this door,” I shout. “Open this door now!” I scream as loud as I can. Suddenly, the door opens wide. I run away as fast as I can.

  I hear her footsteps clacking behind me. “You’ll be back! They always come back . . .”

  Chapter Three

  If Only

  I WAS GOING TO TELL MY FAMILY about the witch the next day, but I had to go get my hair braided. My aunt let me choose the kind of braids I want. I picked box braids because they are so pretty. But the problem is, they take forever. When I am finally done at the hair place, I’m too tired to talk about the witch. So, I go right to bed.

  The day after that, my uncle takes me to get a new coat. I tell him I won’t need it because the calendar on the wall in the kitchen says that we are at the end of winter; the month of February will be over in a week.

  “I looked it up, Uncle, it’s almost March, that means here comes spring. It’s going to be warmer.”

  He laughs and says, “Just because the calendar says winter is coming to an end doesn’t mean it won’t be cold or that it won’t snow. That’s how New York City works. The trains are late. And so are the seasons.” So we spend the day shopping for a winter coat. He buys me one that’s big and thick. It’s white and has a hood in the back of it. I look like a cloud with braids. I wanted something smaller and prettier, but my uncle said that winter is not the time to think about fashion.

  I should have told them about the witch then, but I was too busy admiring how my new stuff looked on me to worry about a silly witch. By the time I finally remember to tell them, a whole week has already passed. So I decide not to say anything because I don’t plan on seeing her again, so it doesn’t really matter.

  Also, I don’t have time to worry about Lady Lydia. My aunt and uncle tell me that my first day of school will be Monday, March fourth. I write it down on the calendar in the kitchen. It’s only a few days away, but I feel like it’s a hundred years. I try hard not to count the days because they make me too excited.

  The weekend before school starts, my aunt takes me shopping for school supplies. We buy so many things! We get rulers, markers, and three different kinds of folders. I wish Stephanie could be here. She’d never believe how many things we get to buy. Thank goodness my aunt said we could get a few small things to send to her. Her favorite color is blue, so I get her a set of blue pencils, a blue folder, and a notebook.

  My aunt told me to watch TV so that I can pick up some English. I’ve been watching, and it’s fun, but sometimes they speak way too fast for me. My uncle got me a tape to help me with English, but sometimes listening to it is really boring.

  I wish I could just wake up and suddenly know how to speak English really well. But everyone, including my parents, tells me that it will take time. That doesn’t seem fair. The weekend is almost over, and so far all I know how to really say is “Hello, my name is Gabrielle. How are you doing? I am good.” Is that enough to help me make friends?

  It’s Sunday night, the night before school, and I can’t eat anything because I’m so nervous about my first day. I knock on Kayla’s door and ask if she will let me in. I hear her sigh like I just asked for the last slice of pizza.

  “Fine. Come in,” she says.

  I enter her room. It’s bigger than mine and has a lot of posters on the wall. I don’t know who LL Cool J is, but she must really love him, because his poster hangs over her bed and is twice my size. There’s also a guy sitting on a motorcycle wearing a purple suit and more hair gel than Kayla.

  I’m so busy looking at all the posters on the wall that I almost forget why I came.

  “Gabrielle! What do you want? I’m busy,” she says as she adds another layer of eye shadow.

  “Is your dad going to let you leave the apartment like that?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong with it? I look good.”

  “Okay.” I shrug.

  “I’m not going out like this. I’m just trying it out. My friends are having a sleepover, and we’re doing each other’s makeup. I don’t want to mess up my friends’ makeup, so I’m practicing.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I say as I wander over to her dresser. I pick up a metal comb with a cord at the end of it. I’ve seen these in Haiti, but not with the cord attached. “What is this?”

  “You came in here to ask about my straightening comb?”

  “Ah, no.”

  She snatches it out of my hand. “Then ask your question and go. You know I don’t like people touching my stuff.”

  “Yeah, okay. Sorry. I’m going to school tomorrow—my first day. I wanted to know what your first day of school was like when you came to America. Was it good? Was it bad? Did they like you? Do you think they’ll like me?” I don’t stop to take in air; that’s how fast I throw out the questions.

  She rolls her eyes and goes back to her makeup. I guess that means she’s not gonna help me. I look down at the floor and feel my stomach ache. I’m alone in this.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I say as I head out the door.

  “Gabrielle, wait!”

  I turn back to face her. “Yeah?”

  “Whatever you are thinking of wearing, don’t. It’s wrong.”

  “You haven’t even seen what I’m gonna wear.”

  “Doesn’t matter. No matter what you wear, they’ll make fun of it.”

  “Oh.”

  She sighs and says, “Listen, no matter how bad
it is, you only have to do your first day once. And if you get past it, the other days will get better.”

  I nod sadly. I’d give anything, anything at all, to have Stephanie here with me.

  “All right, you don’t have to look so sad. You can hang out with me for a little while.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Have you ever heard ‘How Will I Know’?”

  I shake my head.

  “I have so much to teach you.” Then she goes over to her stereo and plays a song that makes me move and act crazy—just like back home.

  * * *

  The next morning, when my aunt comes into my room to wake me up, she’s surprised to find that I have already showered, dressed, and eaten breakfast. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with my backpack next to me. I’m ready to go—the only trouble is I can’t get my legs to work.

  “Wow, I see someone is excited for their first day of school,” my aunt says.

  I look up at her, worried. She smiles and says, “Everyone gets nervous on the first day. Don’t worry; you’ll make friends.”

  That’s not what Lady Lydia says . . .

  “Gabrielle, get up!” my aunt says.

  My legs do as they’re told. I get up from the bed, take my backpack, and head out of the apartment. My aunt walks me down the block and across the street to where the other kids are waiting for the school bus. There are about twenty kids, all of them speaking really fast. I can’t catch most of what they are saying. I hold my aunt’s hand even tighter.

  “I don’t like this, Auntie.”

  “It will be just fine. Remember how you didn’t like hot dogs when you tried them at first?” she says.

  “I still don’t like them,” I tell her.

  “Yes, but you tried other things, and you found some things you do like. You like pizza, Cheetos, and apple pie. This is the same thing. You have to give things a try. Now, I have to get ready for work. So, you go stand in the line and wait for the bus, okay?”

  I nod, but I don’t talk because my mouth is too dry to form words. I watch as my aunt walks away. I miss home. I miss Haiti. I miss my parents and Stephanie. I would give anything to be back there right now.