by Marie Arnold
Okay, Gabrielle, stop that! Try to make friends. You can do it!
I look around the crowds of kids and make myself walk up to one of the girls in line. She has pretty, long hair that hangs high above her head in a ponytail. She’s talking to a group of girls. I wait for them to finish before I start to speak. Okay, I can do this.
“Hello, my name is Gabrielle. How good you?”
Everyone at the bus stop laughs at me. Oh no! I think I missed a word. I try again. “Good you how?” They all laugh even harder. My stomach hurts. My fingers are numb, and not just from the cold. But I am not a coward. I try it again. “You good how?” I guess that’s wrong too, because the kids all laugh even louder.
They look at me and point. The bus comes and opens its doors so the kids can get on. The kids shove past me and enter the bus. I’m the last one to get on. I walk down the aisle and try to find a place to sit. But as soon as I walk by, students seated next to an open seat place their hands there so that I don’t sit down.
My heart sinks down to my toes. No one wants me next to them. They are whispering and giggling about me as I get closer. When I get to the end of the aisle, there is nowhere to sit at all. The bus driver, a big woman with a deep voice, yells at me. “Find a place, young lady. I can’t move until you sit down.”
I look over at the last seat and the girl who is seated there. She has short, shiny hair and glasses. She folds her arms in front of her and pouts as I move in to sit next to her. Is she going to push me to the floor? No, she doesn’t. But everyone knows she’s not happy with me being next to her. She keeps her eyes straight ahead and continues to pout.
My chest feels really tight. It’s like I have a snake wrapped around me, squeezing me. It hurts. I want to cry and run away. But there’s no way to get off the bus. And even if I could, I’d get in trouble for not going to school.
Maybe I don’t need school. Maybe I can run away and do something fun that also makes me a lot of money. That way, I can still send money back home. Yes! I will learn to fly planes and do tricks with them. People will pay me, and then I won’t need to be on this stupid bus where everyone is mean. But before I can make my escape, we arrive at school.
Once I’m off the bus, I follow the kids into the huge building. It’s twice the size of Haiti. There are so many kids, all of them speaking a thousand words every minute. I walk inside and watch as they whiz past me. The teachers hurry us along. But I don’t know where to go or what to do.
“You must be the new student, Gabrielle Jean . . . I was looking for you. I’m here to show you to your class,” someone says behind me. I turn around and see a tall woman with an Afro and pretty dangling earrings.
“I’m Mrs. Bartell. I’m the librarian here.”
“I am Gabrielle,” I reply.
“Your file says you are from Haiti. Is that true?” I nod but don’t speak. She smiles at me and says, “I am from Haiti too.” And then she begins to speak in Haitian Creole to me. I’m relieved. She tells me that there are a lot of families in Brooklyn that came from the Caribbean. There are kids whose families are from Jamaica, Trinidad, and the Dominican Republic.
“They don’t talk to me,” I say. “I said the wrong thing, and now they hate me.”
“No, they don’t. Give them a chance to get to know you. You’ll make friends; just keep trying. And if you need anything, you can come see me. I’ll be in the library. It’s on the third floor,” she says as she walks me to my class. I stand there in the long hallway looking into the class of kids who already don’t like me.
“Guess what, Gabrielle?” Mrs. Bartell says.
“What?” I ask, trying to swallow my fear away.
“I have a whole room full of books about little girls just like you who had to face their fears, and they won.”
“A whole room full of books about girls like me?”
“Yes, that’s right. Young women who had to face very hard times, and they found a way to beat the odds and win the battle. And they even ended up helping the world become a better place. They made history.”
“They were braver than me, Mrs. Bartell. I can’t go in.”
“I read your file, Gabrielle. I know the part of Haiti you come from. I have family there too. It’s a hard life, and yet you managed to survive. If you can do that, then you can do anything.”
“But I had my mom and dad then. And my friends.”
“Well, now you have me. And I am telling you—you’ll be just fine. In fact, you will do really well here. Just remember, you are just as special and just as amazing as the other kids. And don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
I nod back at her and place my hand on the doorknob. I open the door and enter the classroom. The teacher tells everyone my name, and they say hello in a whisper. Then my teacher tells me to take my seat. I go over to the corner where my seat is and try not to cause any problems. Maybe if I’m quiet, maybe if I don’t make a sound, no one will bother me. Maybe I will somehow be invisible.
I’m not. They all see me and dislike me right away. They pass around a note with my name on it. And when I open it up, it’s a picture of a monkey. They make fun of my clothes and my hair. They laugh when they see tears in my eyes. I run out of the class and into the hallway. I look until I find a bathroom. I go inside one of the stalls and cry.
“Hello?” someone says from outside.
I stop crying. I don’t want anyone to hear me. The person says hello again. I come out of the stall to see who’s there. Someone just left. I walk out to see who it was, but there’s no one in the hallway. I’m about to go back in and wash my face when I hear her humming my mom’s song—Lady Lydia.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I came to see how your first day was going. Well, actually, I already saw it in the leaves, dear. Your first day has gotten off to a rather bad start.”
“It’s going to be fine. I don’t need your help. Now go away.”
“Okay, if you need me, you know where I am.” She laughs as she disappears into thin air. On my way back to class, I walk past a large room with rows of white tables. The smell of hot food fills my nose. It actually smells pretty good. I peek inside, and there are endless trays of food on top of the tables. I watch as people with hairnets throw the trays of food into large black bags.
“What are you doing out of class?” Mrs. Bartell says. Her voice startles me.
I turn around. “Where are they taking the food?” I ask.
“That was from the breakfast rush. Many of the kids don’t like eating school food, so a lot of it gets thrown away.”
“Thrown away?” I shout.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Can I take some?” I ask.
“Well, I’m sure if you are hungry, they will let you have a tray.”
“No, I mean can I take all the trays and send them home—to Haiti?”
“Gabrielle, that’s very nice, but that’s not how it works.”
“Why not? There’s a lot of food, and no one is eating it. So let’s send it someplace people will eat it.”
“I don’t think the food will survive the trip. But it’s nice that you want to help.”
“But I’m not helping. I’m only making this worse. I don’t have any money to send back to Haiti like people are supposed to do when they leave the village, and the kids are teasing me. I ran out of class, so I know I’ll get in trouble, and I promised my mom . . . Everything is awful, Mrs. Bartell.”
“You can help Haiti by staying in class no matter what the other kids say to you. And you need to keep trying to make a new friend. If you stop trying, you won’t ever find one. Now, let’s get you back in class. Okay?”
I shrug and mumble, “I guess.”
The rest of the day isn’t any easier. I have to go to ESL. That means “English as a second language.” It’s a special class for kids who just came to America and need extra help in English. English is much harder than you think. I can’t believe that there are
three words that sound exactly the same but mean totally different things. These are the words: merry, marry, and Mary. Yup, I don’t get it.
And then my ESL teacher asks me to say the word bathroom, and I do—I say bafroom. She says that’s not the right way to say it. It’s not my fault that the th sound is so hard to make. And when school is over, I have to get back on that stupid bus again, and again, no one wants to sit next to me.
When I get home, all I want to do is get under my covers and never come out. Well, if my aunt gets us pizza again, I will come out, but only long enough to take two slices and get back under the covers. But dinner isn’t pizza, it’s liver and onions. Yuck! I don’t want any, but my aunt says I can’t leave the table until I eat something. I guess I should just be happy that the school didn’t call to tell them about me running out. I sigh and poke the liver with my fork.
A few minutes later, my uncle comes home, and, well, things just get worse. We hear him enter before we see him. He’s stomping around so hard that it makes the water glasses on the dinner table shake. He enters and slams the door behind him. He’s yelling about work, and how they never give him a chance to advance because English is not his first language. I wonder if he knows the difference between merry, marry, and Mary.
Well, even if he does, now is not the time to ask. It takes him five minutes to take off his coat because he’s wearing so many layers. When he finally sits down, he plops down on the chair and sulks.
“Honey, everything will be just fine,” my aunt says as she gets up, then kisses him on the cheek. She puts his dinner in front of him, but he just grumbles and pushes the food away.
“You’re not the only one who had a bad day. Gabrielle did too. Want to share with us, honey?” Auntie says.
I shake my head. I’m just waiting for dinner to be over so I can crawl into my bed.
“My friend’s sister goes to Gabrielle’s school, and she told me that everyone at school laughed at her,” Kayla says.
“Don’t pay them any attention,” Auntie replies.
“It’s her fault. She talks weird,” Kayla says. I glare at her. I have decided I am never going to be a teenager. They are really annoying.
“Everyone has bad days,” Auntie says.
“Can I go now, please?” I ask.
“Help the twins with their dinner, Gabrielle,” Auntie says. I sigh and go over to the twins, who are making a fort out of their food. The phone rings.
“Leave it!” Uncle says to Auntie as she goes to pick it up.
“It could be important,” she replies.
“It’s Haiti calling—it’s always Haiti calling. They need money. And I understand, but we just don’t have any right now. So, don’t pick up,” he says.
She rolls her eyes and picks up the phone. “Hello?” She’s quiet for a moment and then hands the phone to my uncle.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“Haiti,” she says.
He groans and takes the call. I help feed the twins and then go to my room. A few minutes later, the phone rings again. I guess Haiti is calling once again. But I’m wrong. It’s my school. My aunt and uncle enter my room. “Gabrielle, did you storm out of class today?”
“Ah . . . today . . . kind of,” I reply in a small voice.
My uncle begins to yell—very loudly. His eyes grow extra wide in his head. The picture frames in my room shake. The bears printed on my pajamas run for cover and hide behind the printed trains.
“School is not optional, young lady! If I ever hear of you missing class again, I will call your parents. Is that clear?”
“But Uncle, everyone was laughing at me. They didn’t want to be friends—”
“No buts, missy! You came here for school, not to make friends. So if no one wants to be your friend, you will have to learn to be your own friend. You are here for an education, not a social life. And you will never walk out of class again. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now go to bed. You have school in the morning, and so help me, if you are late . . .”
I get into bed, and he closes the door behind him.
I want to go home. I want to be back in Haiti where it’s warm, and the people are nice. I want to be home where the aroma of my mom’s rice and beans fills the house and makes it smell wonderful. I need to hear Stephanie shouting my name to come play and challenge the boys. I miss home so much I ache.
Someone knocks on my door. It’s my aunt. She asks if she can come in, but I don’t say anything. It’s her house; she’ll come in anyway. She enters and comes over to my bed. She gently rubs my back and speaks in a soft voice.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s all gonna be okay.”
“Uncle is mad. He yelled at me,” I reply.
“Yes, I know. But he’s not really mad at you. He’s upset because we have so many mouths to feed back home. It seems like no matter how much money we make, it’s impossible to help send things back home and take care of our family here.
“Every time the phone rings, it’s some family member from Haiti who needs something. And while they really need it, sometimes we don’t have it.”
“I thought everyone in America was rich,” I say.
“Yes, that’s what many people think until they get here. America isn’t as hard to live in as Haiti can sometimes be, but it still has its challenges. Being an immigrant, Gabrielle, is hard. That’s why your uncle wants you to do your best and focus on learning. You are your parents’ only hope at a better future. You have to try your absolute best to make things work at school. Everything depends on it.”
I try to put the first day of school out of my head as I fall asleep. I keep telling myself that tomorrow is a brand-new day.
* * *
I wake up to the sound of my uncle and Kayla in the middle of an argument. Their voices carry out into the hallway and right into my room.
“But why, Daddy?”
“Because I said no.”
“It’s just a sleepover! Why can’t I go? My other friends are going.”
“I do not care what other people do. You are my daughter and I will not let you sleep at someone else’s house!”
They continue to argue as I go into the bathroom to wash up. After my shower, I get dressed and fix my hair, and still the two of them are arguing. My aunt comes into my room and tells me to hurry or I won’t have a chance to eat before I have to catch the bus.
“Are they still fighting?” I ask.
“Yes. They are worse than the twins.”
I finish getting dressed and follow my aunt to the kitchen. My uncle and Kayla are looking at each other the same way I look at Paul from my village before we race against each other.
“What is the big deal? It’s what they do here. It’s what everyone does in America,” Kayla says.
“When you come through that door, you are not in America. You are in Haiti. This apartment is Haiti. And in Haiti, we do not let our kids sleep in a stranger’s house.”
“That’s not fair!” she shouts.
“Hey, watch your tone with your father,” my aunt warns as she stuffs the twins into their coats.
“Tell me, what is wrong with your bed?” my uncle asks. “It cost a lot of money, and now you don’t want to sleep in it? Why?”
“It’s not about the bed. I want to spend time with my friends,” Kayla says.
I make my way over to the pot of oatmeal on the stove and serve myself. I want to go before my uncle really loses his temper.
“You go to school with them, you talk to them on the phone, and you want more time together? What craziness is this? You have a bed here, and here is where you will sleep, every night!” he shouts.
“You don’t understand. You are ruining everything!”
“That is my job. I am your father, not your friend.”
Now I have my oatmeal, but I need a spoon. The only way to get to the spoons is to get past my uncle and Kayla. Oh no . . .
“If you are going to make this ap
artment like Haiti, then you should let me sleep over at my friend’s house. Mom said sometimes she would do that as a kid in Haiti.”
“When we have to sleep in other people’s houses, we do not do it for fun. We do it because there’s a revolt. When there is a revolt in Brooklyn, you can sleep at your friend’s house.”
“I hate this place. It’s a prison!” Kayla shouts.
He looks her over. “Prison doesn’t have hair gel! It cost me four dollars!”
Okay, I don’t need a spoon. I put the bowl to my lips and drink as much as I can, then quickly drink the juice on the table. I say goodbye to both my uncle and Kayla. My aunt does the same, then she grabs the twins and we flee the war zone.
When I get to the bus stop, I stand in line and keep my head down. There’s a girl standing next to me, a girl I don’t remember from yesterday. She seems nice. I try to talk to her.
“Hello, I am Gabrielle. How are you doing?”
Yes! I think I got that right. But judging by her face, she can’t understand me. But unlike the other kids, she doesn’t laugh; she just looks confused. It’s my accent. It’s thick and hard to understand. The rest of the day goes by pretty much the same way. Even if I am able to get a smile from one of the kids, my accent gets in the way.
“Argh! If only I could get rid of my accent. Then everyone would like me,” I shout to no one as I make my way down the school hallway.
“Funny you say that. I believe I have just the thing . . .”
I follow the voice behind me. It’s Lady Lydia! My eyes grow to the size of melons and my jaw drops. I quickly look around the hallway to see if anyone else has spotted her. Thankfully, the hallway is clear. In Haiti, witches aren’t bold enough to appear in the daytime. But Lady Lydia is in the school again!
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I check the hallways once again to make sure we are alone.
“Dear, only you can see me—so long as that’s what I want,” she says.
Phew, no one else can see her. Thank goodness. I look her over. She’s wearing the same outfit and has the same shrill laugh. The only different thing is me—this time I don’t want to shoo her away. This time, I want to know more . . .
