The Year I Flew Away

by Marie Arnold

  “Where were you?” I ask.

  “Had some stuff to do,” he says as he puts on his cape and disappears.

  “We’re going to eat. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of things to snack on.”

  I don’t need to see Rocky to know that he’s glad we’re headed for a meal. I can hear it in his high-pitched, excited tone. We enter the banquet hall, and it’s beautifully decorated with flowers, streamers, and balloons. They also have long tables with colorful pastel tablecloths.

  We all take a seat, and the women in charge of the lunch serve us tray after tray of food. It’s like everyone’s mom went into the kitchen and came back with their best meal. There’s sweet plantains, fried beef, pork, and rice and green beans. There’s also rice and red beans, rice and black beans, rice and black mushrooms—Haitians like a lot of rice. They also pass out trays of salad and veggies. I try to get out of taking any, but my aunt shoots me a look, so I put some salad on my plate.

  I bend down and secretly place food for Rocky under my chair. There are a lot of Haitians in Brooklyn, but this is the first time I’ve seen so many gathered in one place. It makes my heart ache that I can’t understand what they are saying, but at least I can watch them talk and have a good time. I wish my parents were here. They’d have fun too.

  I notice everyone falls into their groups. The men stick together and discuss the other religion they truly love and care about—soccer. The women gossip about how wrong it is to gossip, and the teenage boys are checking the girls out. The girls pretend they don’t notice—but they do.

  All around me there’s conversation and laughter. I get to hear my uncle laugh and watch my aunt be the center of attention. They never really get to hang out and talk because they, like most Haitians, are working too many jobs to stop and slow down. But today, they have the chance. Even my uncle has the whole day off. I hated getting up early, but now I’m glad I did. Today I got to be back in Haiti again—or close to it.

  * * *

  My uncle was right, spring is late. We’re two weeks into April and it’s still pretty chilly outside. It’s not as bad as when I first got here, but I still need a jacket to go outside. And to make things worse, it’s been three weeks since I talked to Lady Lydia. She was right—Kim Ashland is having a birthday party. She has invited lots of kids from school. Everyone is talking about it. I haven’t gotten my invite yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t get one. I speak perfect English, so I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before she hands me an invitation.

  “What do you think of this dress for the party, Rocky?” I ask as I twirl around in my bedroom. The dress I’m holding up to the mirror is one of my favorites. It has palm trees and snow. Yeah, I know it’s bizarre, but that’s why I like it.

  “It’s nice, but . . .” Rocky doesn’t continue. He looks worried.

  “Rocky, what is it?”

  “You have your heart set on going to this party, but what happens if Kim doesn’t invite you?”

  “She will; I’m delightful. And I don’t have an accent anymore,” I remind him.

  “Well, if she doesn’t invite you, we have a bowling night every Tuesday downtown. You can come bowl with us.”

  “I didn’t know you knew how to bowl,” I reply.

  “Well, I don’t. Rabbits aren’t great bowlers.”

  “Then why are you in a league?”

  “The uniform really brings out my eyes.”

  My aunt calls out for me to come to the kitchen. I leave my room and head for the kitchen, where an elderly woman with dreadlocks and glasses sits in front of a plate of food. My aunt uses her broken English to introduce me to the woman.

  “Mrs. Anderson, my niece is name Gabrielle.”

  My face gets warm from embarrassment. My aunt used the English words in the wrong order. I wish I could get my whole family something so they could speak English as well as I do now. But that would mean that they would no longer understand Haitian Creole, and I don’t think they would want that. They would miss their native language too much. I miss it too—a lot.

  “Hi, Mrs. Anderson.”

  “Mrs. Anderson lives two blocks away. We always take bus together,” my aunt adds.

  I smile, not sure what I’m supposed to say. Then my aunt tells Mrs. Anderson that it’s hard for me since I’m not from around here.

  “Don’t worry, Gabrielle,” Mrs. Anderson says. “It’s always hard to make friends when you first come to America. I have an idea. My granddaughter goes to your school; why don’t you come over for dinner and the two of you can talk? She’s my little angel, and I’m sure she’ll help you out at school.”

  “Um . . . yeah,” I say. “Okay. But I already have some friends.”

  “You do? That’s good. But don’t let them tease you. My granddaughter, thank goodness, never went through that phase. She’s a sweet girl from Jamaica. And when she came here, she stayed just as sweet and just as nice as she was back in Kingston,” Mrs. Anderson says proudly.

  “She sounds so nice. What do you say, Gabrielle—you want to make a new friend?” my aunt asks.

  “Yeah, sure. I guess,” I say.

  “Good! Next week, you and granddaughter come for dinner?” my aunt says. The two of them get all worked up about planning a meal that will be both Haitian and Jamaican. I sneak out of the kitchen and go back into my room.

  “Okay, now where was I?” I ask Rocky.

  Silence. I look around the room, and there’s no sign of Rocky. We usually say goodbye before he takes off. I guess he had plans. I start to put my clothes in the closet and hear a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I reply. Carmen opens the door; I smile at her and start to show her my dress options. “Okay, what do you think? Too much? Maybe this white and green dress?”

  “That’s nice,” Carmen says. “Gabrielle, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “I know what it is,” I reply with my hands on my hips.

  “You do?” Carmen says.

  “Yeah, I know—I only have one good party dress. How can I get my aunt to get me a new one?” I ask.

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about—you won’t need a new dress. I’m sorry. You’re not getting an invite to the party.”

  I feel like someone punched me in the gut. My knees are weak. Thank goodness the bed isn’t too far away. I sit on the edge of the bed quietly as all my hopes sink to the floor.

  “Why doesn’t Kim want me at her party? Hasn’t she heard me speak? I can say even the hardest English words without stumbling. Listen: otorhinolaryngology, Worcestershire sauce, and here’s a big one—lasagna!”

  “That’s really good, Gabrielle,” she says as she sits next to me.

  “Then why won’t she invite me?”

  “Well, I heard that . . . Never mind. Who cares? We can have our own fun here,” Carmen says.

  “Wait, what did you hear? Tell me, please.”

  “Tianna told her not to invite you because you won’t fit in at the party because you’re not American.”

  Rocky appears in the window. “Sorry, I had to step out for a second. I spotted a rat who owed me money. Hi, Carmen!”

  “Hi, Rocky,” Carmen mumbles.

  “That’s it!” I say. “I’m gonna confront Tianna tomorrow, once and for all!”

  Rocky looks over at us and says, “Did I miss something?”

  * * *

  The next day, I take my seat in the cafeteria, next to Carmen. I take out the lunch my aunt made for me. Usually around lunchtime I’m starving. But today I couldn’t care less about the food. My stomach is in knots, and it will stay that way until I have it out with Tianna. I see her enter the cafeteria, her dolphins close behind her.

  I feel so many things all at the same time. I’m boiling over with anger, and yet my fingers are ice cold from nerves. There’s a lump in my throat because I have no idea what to say, but my mind is racing with all the words I want to spit at her. I get up to go over to Tianna, and Carmen comes with me.<
br />
  “You don’t have to go with me,” I tell her.

  “Yes, I do. Friends have each other’s backs.”

  We nod at each other and march over to Tianna.

  “Yes?” she says innocently.

  “What is your problem?” I demand.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you tell Kim not to invite me to the party? What did I ever do to you?” I roar at her.

  “Gabrielle, I did you a favor. I was looking out for your feelings,” she says.

  Carmen and I look at each other, confused. “You were looking out for me?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest like my mom does when she’s upset.

  “Yes, I was looking out for you,” Tianna says.

  “How?” Carmen asks.

  “Gabrielle, you’re nice enough, but you’re not like us Americans. I mean, yes, you speak perfect English. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re not American. You’re from some poor, faraway country with no lights, no food, and you sleep in huts. What would you know about a party? I didn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

  “You don’t know Haiti and what my life was like back there,” I protest.

  “No, but I know you’re not American,” she says as she walks toward my table. She stands by the food my aunt made and studies it like it’s a science experiment gone wrong. “Seriously, what is that?”

  “It’s rice and beans with goat meat.”

  Tianna says, “Goat! Ew, gross.”

  The other kids start to lean in and stare at my lunch.

  “You never heard of chicken in your country?” Tianna says.

  “For your information, we have chickens!” I shout.

  “But only, like, once a year, right? The other times your family eats goats. And what else? Bears, raccoons? Wait—do you guys eat dogs? Oh my gosh, Gabrielle eats dogs!” she announces to the entire lunchroom. Everyone except Carmen begins to laugh.

  Tianna shouts over the chorus of laughter, “That’s why it’s not a good idea to invite you to the party, Gabrielle. Kim has a dog—she doesn’t want to walk into the kitchen and see you eating him for a snack!”

  I do not tell my body to do what it does next. I don’t give my fist a command. It moves on its own. And before I know it, I deck Tianna in the face—hard. She slumps down to the ground. But then she gets up and hits me.

  “Fight!” someone in the crowd yells. It’s Carmen and me versus the rest of the school. Food is flying everywhere. The crowd is out of control. The security guards rush over to us and try to pull us apart. By the time they stop the fight, Carmen has a bloody lip, I have a black eye, and both of us are missing a shoe.

  * * *

  “What were you girls thinking?” Mrs. Bartell demands as we enter the library. It’s Carmen, Tianna, and myself. The rest of the lunchroom was forced to stay inside and clean up. They won’t be getting recess for a full week because of the brawl. Mrs. Bartell snapped us up, and now all three of us are standing in the library waiting with our heads down.

  “Gabrielle started it,” Tianna says.

  “That not true! She’s been tormenting me since I got here,” I declare loudly.

  “She’s just jealous that I’m from America and she’s not. She’s jealous of me and everything I have,” Tianna says.

  “Oh, please, no one is jealous of you—you’re a lunatic!” Carmen responds.

  “Okay, okay—that’s enough!” Mrs. Bartell says. “You are all in trouble. We do not condone violence of any kind in or outside of this school. Is that clear?”

  All three of us mumble, “Yes.”

  “And you, Carmen—” she begins.

  “It’s not her fault. She was just helping me,” I protest.

  “Gabrielle, is Carmen your friend?” Mrs. Bartell asks.

  “Yes, she’s my first friend in America,” I reply.

  “Then why do you keep getting her in trouble?” Mrs. Bartell says.

  “What? I . . . I didn’t mean to . . .” I reply as I look at Carmen’s bruised lip. “Carmen, I’m sorry.”

  Carmen smiles sadly and shrugs a little.

  “Carmen, I know you didn’t start this, but going along with it wasn’t right,” Mrs. Bartell says. “You should have called a teacher. Or better yet, you two should have talked out the problem. We never use our hands. And for that, you will stay after school for the next week doing extra class assignments. Got it?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bartell,” Carmen says.

  “Good, and the next time I hear about you taking part in a fight, I will call your parents, young lady. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” Carmen says.

  “Now go to the nurse’s office and then head back to class.”

  Carmen rushes off.

  “And as for you two . . . what is the issue? Why do you dislike each other so much?”

  “She hates that I’m from Haiti,” I reply.

  “Really, that’s so interesting . . .” Mrs. Bartell says as she studies Tianna. There’s a puzzled look on Mrs. Bartell’s face. Tianna avoids her gaze.

  “But that’s not true, is it, Tianna? You don’t have a problem with immigrants, do you?” Mrs. Bartell says.

  “No,” Tianna says.

  “Good, I’m so glad to hear it. Now, I spoke to the principal, and he agrees—you two are in serious trouble. Tianna will be losing all her recess time getting the school ready for Culture Day. And as for you, Gabrielle . . . according to the kids in the lunchroom, you marched up to Tianna. That means you started it.”

  “But I—”

  “No buts. I’m taking you to the principal’s office. We will call your aunt and uncle and tell them the news.”

  “What news?” I ask.

  “You’re suspended from school.”

  * * *

  My uncle is mad; his face is turning tomato red. And since he has dark skin like me, that’s a very hard thing to do. And yet he’s doing it—he’s turning bright, shiny tomato red. There is a good chance his head might actually explode.

  Rocky translates everything my aunt and uncle are saying in Haitian Creole. But to be honest, I don’t really need the translation—anger, like love, is pretty easy to figure out, no matter what language.

  “How dare you get into a fight?” my uncle shouts.

  “How could you do this, Gabrielle? You know better than to be so reckless!” my aunt says. There are veins in her forehead that get bigger and bigger by the second.

  “Do you understand how much sacrifice has been made so you could get to America and make a better life for yourself?” Uncle asks.

  “Well, I—”

  “Don’t speak, young lady! Do not dare open your mouth!” I nod and remain quiet. But then he says, “What was going through your mind? Huh? What were you thinking?”

  I don’t say anything because he said not to talk.

  “Answer me when I’m talking to you!” he shouts.

  “But you just said—”

  “Never you mind what I just said! Tell us what you were thinking!”

  “She has been mean to me since I got there. And you guys don’t care. You don’t care how awful she made me feel,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  “Did she touch you? Did she hit you in any way?” my aunt asks.

  “Well . . . no . . .” I reply.

  “Then you should have just paid her no mind. Ignore her,” my uncle says.

  “That never works.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us? We could have gone down to the school,” my aunt says.

  I roll my eyes and drop my head into my hands.

  “Why didn’t you tell us things had gotten this bad, Gabrielle?” my uncle asks. “When we asked you before, you said things were better.”

  “I thought they would be better, but . . . Forget it. You don’t know what it’s like to be different and have everyone hate you for it. I was finally making friends and then . . . she embarrassed me, and . . . Just forget it.” I make a run for my room, hoping t
o get there before I burst into tears.

  “I did not dismiss you, Gabrielle,” my uncle calls out.

  I stop in my tracks, and the tears fall. I didn’t want them to, but my body isn’t really taking orders from me today.

  “I know it’s not easy being new in this country. But you have to find a better way to handle things than fighting. That’s not the way you were raised.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I reply softly. He hands me a tissue.

  My aunt hands me the phone. “It’s time we call your parents and let them know what’s been happening.”

  My heart stops. Just like that, it just stops beating. I feel an icy-cold wind rip through me. I would give anything, anything, not to make that call.

  “Do I have to?” I ask.

  “Yes, you do,” my uncle says.

  I start to dial. My mom picks up after a series of long clicks and strange connection noises.

  “Mom” is all I can manage before tears flood my eyes. My uncle takes the phone from me and tells my parents about my suspension. Mom yells so loudly that the whole house can hear her. And thankfully so can Rocky, who translates for me.

  Mom says, “We have all our hopes and all our dreams tied up in you. You are our better tomorrow. We work until our backs break and our fingers bleed. We do that so you can be someone someday and you waste that chance?

  “Do you know how many children go hungry because their parents had to choose between school and groceries? There are girls—just like you—who will never know the inside of a classroom because their families can’t afford it. You come to America, go to school for free, and you waste that chance? You waste that opportunity?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  My dad takes the phone. “How can you break our hearts like this? How can you hurt us like this?”

  “I wasn’t trying to . . .” I say.

  “Gabrielle, listen to me. Everyone makes mistakes. And although we’re upset right now, we will forgive you. It’s okay. But we need to know that you have learned from this and that you will behave.”