Towers Falling

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “Not always,” says Ben, scowling. “Some Arizonans don’t welcome Mexicans.”

  “They forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  Sabeen jumps up, grabbing Ben’s water bottle, raising it high. Her face is all serious, her cheeks sucked in.

  “What’re you doing?”

  Sabeen stomps her foot. Ben and me don’t get it.

  She poses again—her chin tilted up, her hand holding a stupid water bottle.

  “Clue, clue, clue,” hollers Ben. I’m thrilled. We’re playing charades.

  “Give me your tired, your poor…”

  “Statue of Liberty,” I blurt.

  Ben grins. “History taught you something, Dèja.”

  “Yeah, well, my family’s tired and poor,” I say, hands on my hips. “How can I forget?”

  Ben laughs. Sabeen tries to squash her giggles.

  I frown, then burst out laughing.

  “Sassy Dèja.”

  I snap my fingers. “You know it, Sabeen.”

  All three of us relax. No matter how sassy I am, Ben and Sabeen don’t mind. I don’t feel “less than” with them.

  “We’re different but friends,” I say.

  “Three Musketeers,” says Ben.

  “American circle,” says Sabeen. “Different but still American. Like the school map. Americans immigrate. Come from everywhere.”

  “All I know is Brooklyn. Wish I could go everywhere,” I say wistfully, looking at Ben’s drawings. “Arizona. Jamaica.”

  “Mom says we’re having ‘our New York adventure.’ I’d rather be in Arizona,” says Ben sadly, rubbing his eyeglasses clean on his T-shirt.

  “Divorce,” I whisper to Sabeen, but Ben still hears.

  “Brainstorming,” says Ben, pushing his glasses onto his nose. “We’ve got to generate ideas.” All three of us stare at the screen. A little black line blinks, waits.

  I shrug. “Okay, there’re differences between far past and recent past. That’s what Mr. Schmidt wants us to say. So, let’s say it. He’s the teacher. He’s grading us.”

  Ben deletes the title and retypes:

  “Differences: America’s Far Past and Recent Past”

  “Specifics?” asks Ben. “Oh, oh, I know, maybe make a time line? Like the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, the Louisiana Purchase, and Westward Expansion.”

  “Civil Rights Movement. Brown v. Board of Education.”

  Ben’s brows arch.

  Playful, I slap his hand. “I know stuff. Brooklyn Collective has good teachers.”

  “That’s right,” says Sabeen. Her fingers trace the letters on the screen. “But I think it’s a trick question. Miss Garcia always says, ‘Think.’ Mr. Schmidt always says—”

  “‘Challenge ideas, assumptions,’” we groan.

  “Why can’t we have true or false questions?” I ask. “Or multiple choice?”

  “I like multiple choice,” says Ben, his index finger tapping the desk.

  Sabeen juts her head. She has amazing focus, like a superwoman with X-ray eyes.

  They’re both so smart. But I’m smart, Pop said. I don’t know why I’m thinking of him.

  “Differences. Between Americans. In history,” ponders Ben. “Technology. Transportation.”

  “Education,” adds Sabeen. “More people are educated today.”

  I want to contribute, too. Not be lame.

  In my mind, I see the overlapping circles on the whiteboard. Like magic, the shared spaces shimmer. “Turn the question around,” I say. “Inside out. What unites us? Instead of differences over time—what’s similar? The same?”

  “Values,” says Ben.

  “Give me your tired, your poor,” squeals Sabeen.

  “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  “The Bill of Rights,” adds Ben.

  “Voting rights. Women, not just men.”

  “Not just white men,” I say.

  “‘Religious and political freedom,’ my father says. That’s why people come to America.”

  “My mom came for ‘a better life.’ I think she meant more money. Only money got worse.” This time no one laughs.

  Ben types. I peck with my fingers. He’s typing fast, hands stretched, racing.

  American principles, freedom, democracy, and justice for all, withstand the test of time. History changes. Relationships between Americans change.

  “Like my family changed,” Ben mutters, still typing.

  But America’s ideals remain strong or adapt and get stronger.

  Who knew Ben could write so well?

  “Ben just earned us an A, Sabeen. Isn’t that great?”

  Not moving, Sabeen stares at the words. It’s like the screen has hypnotized her. “I’m an American.”

  “’Course you are.”

  “On 9/11, my family doesn’t leave the house much. Not unless we have to.”

  “What’re you talking about? Why wouldn’t your family leave the house?”

  Eyes tearing, her shoulders shudder like the wings of a baby bird.

  “Dèja, for someone so smart, you’re really dumb,” snaps Ben.

  “Why’re you mad at me?” I’m shocked. Ben’s usually nothing but nice.

  “I want to go home,” sniffs Sabeen.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Ben pats Sabeen’s shoulder, then yells, “Mom! Mom!”

  “What did you two do?” Fierce, Dora rushes to hug Sabeen.

  Leda and Ray, standing in the doorway, are covered in chocolate. Not fair, I think. They get chocolate; we get tears.

  “We didn’t do anything,” says Ben. “Just homework. About the towers.”

  Ben and his mom look at each other; they’re saying something without saying it. Another secret. I’m confused.

  “Sabeen wants to go home,” says Ben.

  Dora guides her toward the door. “It’s all right, dear. Everything’s all right,” she coos. “Shhh, shhh. We’ll call your mom.”

  “Here.” Ray offers Sabeen his spoon with chocolate goo.

  Sabeen cries harder; Leda wails. Shrugging, Ray licks his spoon.

  Dora and Sabeen leave. I want to leave, too.

  Ray bounces like a pinball. Chocolate stains appear on the wall, the bedspread, the desk.

  “Ray, stop it.”

  “We scooped the bowl clean.”

  “You need to wash your hands. Put down that spoon.” I lift Leda, bouncing her on my hip. “Shhh, shhh,” I say like Dora.

  “Let’s stay here until Sabeen leaves.”

  I trust Ben. He knows something. He sits on the edge of his bed and falls backward. Like something inside stunned him.

  Like Ben was Pop, Ray climbs onto the bed and massages his head. Ben doesn’t seem to mind, even though he’ll have to shower chocolate out of his hair and eyebrows.

  Leda on my lap, I sit before the computer. Leda bangs the keyboard, typing nonsense words. I’m feeling less again, not smart, just dumb. Like I’m missing a connection. Ben and Sabeen know something I don’t. Like they knew about the cowboy in boots and underwear in Times Square.

  The doorbell rings. Ben and me don’t get up and say good-bye. Just listen to murmurs. The two women are talking: one in English, another in Turkish. I hear Sabeen say, “Thank you. I thank you. My mother thanks you.”

  Ben’s room feels too small. He stares at the ceiling. Leda is asleep in my arms. Ray’s licked the spoon clean and he’s tapping it on the windowsill. The tat-a-tat-tat is driving me crazy.

  “Come on, Ray. Leda. Time to go home.” I lift Leda. Her head falls back as if she’s dead.

  “I’ll take her,” says Dora. “Come on, Ray.” She looks at me like she knows how disappointed I am. Like she knows kids get disappointed a lot. “I’ll make a bag of snacks to take home.”

  I bristle. Charity. Ben must’ve told her how poor we are.

  “Our brownies didn’t bake,” Ray says, pouting.

  Ma used to make brownies. Ray doesn’t know. He’s too li
ttle to remember.

  “Thank you,” I force myself to say. “Snacks are nice.”

  Leda rubs her eyes and extends her arms. Dora hugs her, clasps Ray’s hand.

  “I’ll get the stroller,” I call as they head toward the kitchen. Ray skips. Leda yells, “Snackies!”

  I don’t move. I feel overwhelmed, confused. Ray and Leda are happy. Sabeen’s gone. Me, I’m sad.

  Sitting up, Ben looks at me, dull-eyed, his face not-so-pleasant. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “What?” I ask, not hiding how miserable I feel. “I didn’t mean to make Sabeen cry. What’d I do wrong?”

  “Wow, you really don’t know.”

  Ben slips into the chair, taps his keyboard, and a picture magically fills the screen.

  Two tall, gleaming silver-and-glass towers. Two tall towers touching the clouds, reflecting sunshine, shimmering rainbows and diamond-shaped light.

  “Arizonans were far away from what happened. You’re a New Yorker—I thought you’d know more.”

  “More what?”

  “Dèja, don’t you know what they’re teaching us? Where our assignments are going?”

  I don’t speak.

  Frustrated, Ben sighs, double-clicks the mouse. “Terrorists attacked the Twin Towers on 9/11. Except our teachers are taking baby steps. Teaching pieces. Treating us like we’re five instead of ten.”

  The screen comes alive.

  Images aren’t moving, but I can see one tower is ablaze. There’s a gaping hole, high up, like soaring, flying dragons had attacked the building, leaving a jagged tear of broken glass, bent metal, and concrete. Smoke—white, gray, and pure black—streams and billows. Flames—yellow, orange, and red—bubble and lick.

  This isn’t real, I think.

  “Click to play,” Ben says, shutting the bedroom door. “I don’t want to see it again.”

  I’m not sure I want to see it, either. I sit in Sabeen’s middle chair.

  I can tell it’s a disaster. A horrible disaster. One tower is on fire. What happened to the other?

  Is this why Sabeen cried?

  All I have to do is tap the space bar for the video to come alive.

  I tap.

  Smoke grows, clouding the silver building and blue sky. Flames streak. It’s horrible. There’s no sound, but I know there must be people inside the tower hurt, screaming.

  How come I didn’t know?

  Right across from Brooklyn, something left a gaping hole in the tower.

  I lean forward. No sound makes the moving images scarier. High up, not even where birds fly, there must be wind sounds. Inside the building, folks must be coughing, choking from smoke. Fire would be roaring, snapping, crackling.

  A plane. A huge jet, a silver bird, is flying, flying. Straight toward the second tower.

  I grip the bottom of the chair. NO. NO. NO. “Stop,” I scream. Boom. Crash. Into the building. Sliding, ripping a diagonal line through metal, concrete, and glass.

  The plane is inside the building—breaking apart, exploding, melting, burning furniture and people.

  “No,” I scream. I bang the keyboard. The video stops.

  I turn away from the screen and look out Ben’s window. It’s beautiful. Birds, trees, sky, and clouds. What would it be like having a plane crush through like a missile? Destroying the world?

  STUCK INSIDE MY HEAD

  I don’t take the subway. I want to walk. Ray’s quiet, holding on to the stroller, popping potato chips into his mouth when we come to a stop. Leda has fallen back asleep.

  I should wake her. She’ll be up all night, meaning I’ll be awake all night as she twists and turns. I should tell Ray, “Stop eating, you’ll get a stomachache.”

  But all I can see is the plane slamming. Two towers burning. I look up, around me. Brooklyn doesn’t have such big buildings. But that doesn’t stop my imagining. Any second it could happen here.

  I should’ve let Dora and Ben walk us home. I remember her hugging me, smelling of roses. She scolded Ben, “You’re not the teacher.”

  “It’s okay, Dora. Ben knows I don’t like not knowing stuff.”

  “Sorry, Dèja.” Ben offered his fist, and I bumped it.

  Then, quick, he whispered, “It was terrorists. Muslim terrorists. That’s why Sabeen’s upset.”

  The words strike like they never did before. Before the words were flat. Now I hear them—understand in a new way.

  I maneuver the stroller across the street, tilting Leda back to get the wheels onto the sidewalk.

  I mean, I know about terrorists. America’s been fighting them in Iraq.

  But terrorists and the two towers?

  How could I connect what I didn’t know? Nobody told me.

  Why would I need to know? It’s history. I blink. Moving pictures flicker inside my brain. Fire, smoke, crumbling walls, and shattering glass.

  History is alive. Especially if there’s video.

  I look at Ray. He’s eating chips like there’s a hole in his stomach.

  Would I tell Ray about the towers? No, it’s too scary. He’s too little.

  It happened fifteen years ago. 2001. By the time Ray’s my age, ten, I’ll be sixteen. The towers will have been gone for twenty-two years. Why care? It doesn’t matter to me. Not day to day.

  I see the whiteboard circles.

  It happened here. In my country. My state. Right across the river, near my neighborhood.

  Sabeen’s Muslim. She’s not a terrorist. Why doesn’t her family feel safe?

  My head hurts. I don’t want to think anymore. Like shutting off lights, I want my thoughts to end. Stop.

  I want the burning towers out of my head.

  Avalon looks like a jail. But I wouldn’t want terrorists to bomb it. People live here, too. Families. Social groups. My family.

  Ray and me push through the door. Some folks move aside; others, some drunk, some space cadets, I’ve got to push.

  I turn backward and pull the stroller up the steps. Bang-bang. Ray tries to lift the bottom so it doesn’t clang as much. He’s not too strong. Leda’s heavy. “Thanks, Ray,” I say when we get to the top of the stairs. “Ray,” squeals Leda, awake since the first bump. “Dèja.”

  I open our room’s door. Ma and Pop are sitting on the big bed, holding hands. It feels good to see them. They seem happy.

  “Have a good time?”

  “Ray and Leda did.”

  Worried, Ma looks at me. I shrug. She doesn’t ask.

  Ma hides her feelings; it’s gotten worse at Avalon. She’s taught me to hide my feelings, too.

  Pop’s relaxed, smiling. Maybe the doctor gave him medicine?

  “We should get washed. Get to the showers before everyone else does,” says Pop. “I’ll take little man.” Ray clings to Pop; Pop gathers fresh pajamas from a box; he opens our door, then stops and looks back like he’s forgotten something. “I love you, Bea.” Then he steps back inside, hugs and kisses me. I almost cry. Instead, I blurt, “I didn’t know planes hit the two towers.”

  “What?” Happiness slides off Pop’s face. He looms over me.

  “Ben’s got a computer. One plane hit, then another hit the towers.”

  “You’re never going over there again. Do you hear me?”

  “He’s my friend. My homework partner.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Calm down, Jim. She was bound to find out.” Guilty-like, Ma looks at me.

  Pop pulls Ray back into the room and slams the door. He’s stomping, thundering. “Schools should leave it alone.”

  “Kids need to learn,” Ma keeps repeating.

  “Not this.” Pop spins toward me. “You’re too young to know. Too young.”

  “I’m old enough,” I shout. “The school’s teaching me.”

  Stooping, Pop grips my arms.

  Ma tries to calm him. “Let her go, Jim, please.”

  “You’re too young to know about”—Pop swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs—“the towers falling.
What kind of school are you going to?”

  “It’s a good one,” says Ma. “The best she’s ever gone to.”

  “I don’t care. She’s out. I want her transferred. Another school.”

  “Pop, you can’t. I like my school. I like Ben. Sabeen. Miss Garcia.”

  “You’re my child. I’ll say what you learn or don’t learn. You’re too young to know about—”

  “—terrorists?”

  “The World Trade Center. The Twin Towers.”

  “I’m ten.”

  “Until you’re eighteen, you’re under my roof. You’ll do as I say.”

  “This isn’t your roof.”

  Ma gasps. Pop’s stunned, looking like he’s going to fall down.

  I’m sorry I said it. Ray and Leda are frightened, clinging to Ma. Ma, her face frozen, reaches out to comfort Pop.

  Me, standing, on one side; my family, on the other.

  I’m alone.

  There’s not even a spare room to cry in.

  No one says anything.

  “I’ll take Ray and Leda showering,” I say, picking up Ray’s pajamas, gathering nightgowns for Leda and me. “Come on.”

  Ray and Leda don’t want to go with me. I’ve scared them. I know, too, given a choice, they’ll always want to be with Pop and Ma instead of me.

  “Dèja?”

  “Yes, Ma?” Pop’s curled on the bed now, holding his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. Ma tucks his sheet.

  She doesn’t say it.

  I answer. “I know. Stranger danger. Make sure Ray’s safe in the shower. He can come into the girls’ shower.” I’ll punch anyone who complains.

  “Come on.” Ray and Leda drag their feet; holding their hands, I tug them out the door and down the hall.

  I hate my life.

  BOGEYMAN DREAMS

  Leda sleeps with Ma and Pop. One night in how many?—hundreds?—I get to sleep by myself.

  I should be nice and invite Ray off the floor, but he’s burping from too much junk food.

  We live, sleep in a tiny, dim square. Dark shadows. Hidden feelings.

  I don’t know why Ma babies Pop. He doesn’t cough all the time but still acts sick. I wish I could see where. Understand why. It’d make everything easier. If he had a cast, I’d write my name on it.