Drita, My Homegirl

by Jenny Lombard

  “Pleez,” I say. “Where is.” The lady looks at the address.

  “Com,” she says, waving her hand. “Falloh me!”

  I almost have to pull my grandmother off the bus and down to the sidewalk.

  “Vat way,” the nice lady says, pointing in one direction. “Go varee far!” Standing next to her, the little boy blows his bubble. POP it goes, and the pink candy is all over his face. If we were not so lost, maybe this boy would be a good friend for Hashim.

  “Thank yue,” I say to the lady.

  Now we begin our walking. First we walk ten blocks, then twenty.

  “Oh bo bo, where is it?” my grandmother says.

  “I think it’s very far.”

  “But the sign says Bedford,” poor Gjyshe says, still confused.

  “Yes, but look—the numbers on the buildings are different,” I tell her. “That means we are far away.”

  Soon, Hashim becomes so tired, I have to carry him in my arms.

  “Zot!” my grandmother complains. “My feet are so sore.” Because it feels like now we are walking one hundred blocks. But then at last, we see the building that says 112. Our home.

  My grandmother groans going up the stairs. “This city is too big for an old woman like me!”

  I think my grandmother is right. This was too much walking for her—and for me too. If only my mother had come to meet me, we wouldn’t have had such a bad time.

  But when we open the door, I see that it is true: my mother is still too tired from the trip.

  Because she is lying on the bed just like this morning, wrapped in a blanket. And she is fast asleep.

  6

  Maxie

  WHEN I GET HOME AFTER SCHOOL, my whole house smells like chicken and dumplings.

  “Mmm, Grandma, that sure smells good,” I say, and I am real glad my grandma likes to baby me, after all.

  “How was school?” she says. “Was your teacher mad you were late?”

  “Not really,” I say, trying not to meet her eye. It’s best not to talk about anything else that happened today. Especially the part about back-talking my teacher.

  “Now about this morning. Maxie, I really think you ought to give your daddy’s friend a chance. Who knows, maybe you might decide that you—”

  “Grandma, I’m going to say hello to my mama now,” I say, cutting her off. If there’s anything I don’t want to do right now, it’s talk about someone named Lisa.

  My grandma’s face gets real soft for a second, but she don’t say nothing, just reaches her hand out to touch my chin.

  “Sure, baby.”

  In my room, I have a little corner that is just my mother. First I have some pictures of her, all standing up in frames. I have her watch and her rings in a little glass dish that was hers, and a bottle of her favorite Prince Matchabelli perfume that my father said I can start wearing when I get old enough.

  My mother died in a car accident three years ago. I was with her in the car, but I don’t remember anything about it. All I remember was waking up in the hospital. At first they didn’t tell me what happened, but then they did. I was seven and she was thirty-eight.

  I pick up my favorite picture of her. It’s the one of us together when I was a baby in the hospital. She looks tired and sweaty from having me and her hair is all messed, but her face looks so, so, so, so happy. I wish I could remember that day.

  “Hi, Mama,” I say, and I think about telling her the bad news—that my daddy has a new girlfriend maybe. But then I don’t want to. Because if my mother knew something like that, maybe she wouldn’t come back to me.

  I know it’s a stupid thing to think about. I know it’s never really going to happen. But sometimes I still like to imagine what it would be like if my mother came back. Maybe I’d be sitting around watching TV and I’d hear a knock at the door. When I open it, it’ll be her. Or one day I might be riding around on the train, and the lady next to me will smile and it’ll be my mama’s smile.

  “I just had to see you, baby,” she’ll say. “Because I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you more, Mama,” I’ll tell her. “I missed you so much sometimes it hurt.”

  “Maxie!” my grandma calls from the other room. “I got a surprise for you.”

  When I come home in a sad mood, there’s nothing can get me out of it, except one thing: sitting by my grandma’s big leg, watching TV and eating popcorn. But I would never tell my grandma that. There’s no telling how she would lord something like that over me. I think maybe she knows anyway because when I go in the living room there’s my grandma sitting on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn on her lap. She even gives me the clicker.

  “Now don’t eat too much popcorn,” she says. “I don’t want you to spoil your appetite.”

  I’m just about to switch to Nickelodeon when the newscaster comes on to say: “Now we’ll be hearing from our foreign correspondent in Kosovo.”

  “Hey,” I say. “There’s a girl in my class that comes from there.”

  “Well, for goodness’ sake, turn it up!” she says.

  I have to say, what we see next is kind of a shock to me because it looks like that place where Drita comes from is nothing but a war. The camera just keeps showing a lot of people running and buildings falling down and babies crying. Then they show some kind of marketplace where a bomb went off and some people lying on the ground look like they’re dying, and that’s when my grandmother takes the clicker from my hand.

  “I think that’s plenty of TV for tonight,” she says.

  “Dang, Grandma, it’s not gonna upset me. I’ve seen worse stuff than that on MTV,” I say.

  “Don’t curse!”

  “I just said ‘dang.’”

  “Well, don’t say it! It sounds like cussin’,” she says, and I can tell there’s no arguing with her. When my grandma makes up her mind about something, you just can’t change it. She pulls herself up off the couch and goes into the kitchen, shuffling her feet across the rug in her old broken-down nurse’s shoes. My grandma always complains she’s got bad feet from almost thirty years of working as the head nurse at Roosevelt Hospital. That’s why I saved up twelve dollars at Christmastime to buy her a nice cushy pair of slippers. Only problem is, she never wears them. Secretly, I think she likes those funky old nurse shoes better.

  “Don’t worry, baby, I’m saving those new moccasins you gave me for a special occasion,” she says, winking at me.

  My grandma and me are about as close as we can be and in a lot of ways we’re just the opposite. For one thing, she always thinks the things you see on TV are going to stay in your mind for a long time and ruin your brain. I think the things you see on TV hardly stay in your mind at all and might even make you smarter.

  But tonight it seems like maybe she’s right after all because I can’t stop thinking about that news show all the way through homework time and then during dinner, so that I hardly taste my dumplings.

  Finally, when I am in bed, Grandma comes in to shut the light off.

  “Grandma, I made fun of her,” I say when it’s nice and dark.

  “Who, baby?” my grandma says.

  “That girl from Kosovo. But I’m not going to do it again.”

  “Is that why you got in trouble with your teacher?” she says.

  “I swear, Grandma, you got ESP powers. How’d you know that?”

  “Whenever my baby comes home telling me everything was ‘fine,’ I know it means no such thing.”

  “I’m glad you’re so smart, Grandma.”

  “And I’m glad you learned your lesson, honey. You always got to be kind to people. Always. That’s what your mama would want. Now, sleep tight,” she says, and shuts the door.

  I roll over on my side. Behind my eyes I see flashes of orange, look like bombs dropping, and I know my grandmother is right.

  “Good night, Mama,” I say, “good night.”

  7

  DRITA

  “HOW R YUE?” Mrs. Martinez says to the
Chinese boy, Yang.

  “Ah I fah,” Yang says. Even I can tell he is forgetting too many sounds when he speaks. Mrs. Martinez touches Yang’s face to show him how to make the sounds better.

  Speaking English is very difficult—like moving rocks around inside your mouth using only your tongue. That is why after two days in my new school, I discover that I must have a special teacher, Mrs. Martinez. At first I did not like Mrs. Martinez. I was afraid of her long fingernails and her funny smell. I did not like her classroom either, with the yellow paint and small chairs meant for babies like Hashim, not ten-year-old children like me. But now I know Mrs. Martinez is just as nice as Miss Salvato, because she always gives you candy.

  “How ah you today? I am fine,” I say to the mirror. I watch my mouth the way Mrs. Martinez shows me. If I work hard, maybe one day soon I can walk up to one of the American girls in my school and talk just like them.

  Brandee is one girl in my regular class. Some others are Kayla, Evaliz, Tiffany and Jordania. One day I am hoping we can all be friends, but I have to speak better English first.

  “How r yue?” I say, concentrating on the round “r” sound. I wonder why American has to be so different from my language.

  Yang looks over at me and gives me a big smile. It’s good to have boys as your friends, but as your shoge të ngushtë, your best friend, you must have a girl to tell your secrets to—secrets such as which boy in school is nicest, or what are your special dreams.

  Here is the first secret I would tell my shoge të ngushtë if I had one: I still miss my friend Fitore so much.

  In Kosova, Fitore lived in the same building with me. She has six brothers and with me there is only Hashim, so we became like sisters. Fitore’s father is a famous writer in Kosova, so when the war came, it was very bad for them. Now they live in Australia, where it is safe for Albanian people. When I go home today, I will write her a letter. Maybe one day I can visit her.

  Just thinking about Fitore makes me feel sad. I have not seen her for such a long, long time.

  Mrs. Martinez comes over. I think she is noticing the look on my face.

  “Drita, wot es va mater?” she asks.

  I look over to make sure Yang is not listening. Even though he does not speak well, I do not like talking about private things with a boy nearby.

  “Mrs. Martinez, I need bafroom,” I tell her. To me, it seems strange that in America when you need to use the tualet, you must ask for a banjë—a bath instead.

  Mrs. Martinez puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Ov curs, Drita. Take va pass,” she says, and points to the wooden board with words on it that hangs by the door. For some reason, in an American school you must always carry this strange thing to the banjë when you go.

  Mrs. Martinez smiles as I pass by her desk and slips a piece of orange candy in my pocket.

  I walk down the hallway to the girls’ room. But when I go in there, I see something that surprises me. There is a girl sitting on the lavarnan—the sink. She is a small, dark-skinned girl from my class whose name I do not know.

  “Stap, who gooz vere?” she says, and her voice sounds loud in the banjë.

  Quickly, I try to remember some American words to say back to her. But now I can’t think of any.

  “Moxee,” she says and points to herself.

  I try to smile at her.

  Now the girl does something strange. She jumps off the sink and goes to the box on the wall. Out of the box she takes many papers. Now she puts them in the sink and turns on the water. Woosh goes the water, filling the sink.

  I see what this girl is doing. She is making a flood. I am so surprised, I just stand there watching.

  “Giv me fihv,” she says and reaches her hand to me.

  This girl wants something, I think. But I have nothing to give her. Then I remember what it is in my pocket. I put the orange candy in her hand.

  The girl looks surprised.

  “Thank yue!” she says and smiles. For one moment, her smile makes this girl’s face very beautiful, but then the smile is gone because now we hear a man’s voice shouting “Moxee Nikals!” from outside the room.

  I run out as fast as I can. Near the door is the man who is the boss of the school, the principal. He looks very angry.

  I don’t even mean to, but I start to feel afraid. As fast as I can, I go down the hallway to the ESL room.

  “Moxee Nikals!” I hear the voice of the principal booming again, but I do not wait to see what will happen next. I slip through the door of my classroom and hang the wooden board on its nail. I take my seat again.

  This crazy girl Moxee, I don’t know what she’s doing. But I know I don’t like it.

  8

  Maxie

  “DO YOU WANT TO EXPLAIN YOUR BEHAVIOR?” the principal says.

  He’s as mad as anything and he’s got his hand right on the telephone. All I can think about is my daddy’s face when he answers the telephone at work and he hears I’m in the principal’s office again.

  “Please don’t call my daddy, Mr. Littman,” I say, trying to hold back my tears.

  “Do you realize the damage you could have caused? Who do you think would pay for that?”

  “It was a mistake!” I say.

  “A mistake? How can flooding the bathroom be a mistake? Are you saying you don’t have any control over the things you do?”

  “I do but…”

  “But what? I don’t understand how you could do that!”

  Neither do I. Ever since second grade, I’ve had a problem in my school. I’ll be going along every day, doing my work and having fun. But then one day I wake up and I get a bad idea in my head. In second grade, the idea I got was to write some words on the wall in permanent marker. Last year, my bad idea was to get Kayla to sneak into the auditorium with me. I was trying to teach her how to play “Chopsticks” on the school piano.

  “Well?” he says. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “I was trying to talk to her, Mr. Littman.”

  “Who?” he says.

  “That new girl. Drita. Miss Salvato said I should find out about her for my social studies project. But she doesn’t speak English. I thought maybe she’d laugh.”

  “Your job in school is not to make other people laugh, Maxie. We’ve discussed this before,” he says.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Now are you going to call my father?”

  Mr. L. takes a deep breath and sits back in his chair. He looks at me for a long time, like he’s sizing me up.

  “How is your dad? I haven’t seen him much lately,” he says finally.

  I forget, sometimes, that Mr. Littman really helped my family a lot after the accident, and sort of got to be friends with my daddy. He even came to Mama’s memorial and got me extra help in school when I was having a hard time concentrating on my work. That’s why my daddy says Mr. Littman is tough, but fair. I just think he’s tough. Either way he’s the kind of teacher you better tell the truth to or else you’ll really be in trouble.

  “He has a new girlfriend named Lisa,” I tell him.

  “That’s nice,” says Mr. L. He doesn’t look surprised at all. “Do you like her?”

  “I didn’t meet her yet. But I don’t think so.”

  “Really? Why is that?” he asks.

  I try hard to think of a reason why I wouldn’t like someone I never even met before. I can only think of one.

  “Usually I don’t like people with that name,” I say, but that’s not really true. My third cousin is named Lisa and I like her just fine. But Mr. L. thinks about that for a minute.

  “You know, Maxie, this school has rules.”

  “Yes, Mr. Littman.”

  “I’m not in the habit of bending them for any child,” he says.

  “I know, Mr. Littman.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you are on probation. That is not a good thing.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “I have a book I�
��d like you to read.” Now that surprises me.

  “A book. You mean like for a report?”

  “Maybe. But mostly I’d just like you to read it.”

  I can’t believe my ears. Reading a book? That’s so easy! Mr. L. reaches into his bag and puts the book on the table.

  “Is it fiction or nonfiction?” I say, looking at it.

  “Nonfiction. It was something I bought for myself. It’s not really a children’s book, however.”

  “I’m a pretty good reader, Mr. Littman,” I say.

  “I know. That’s why I’m asking you. Think you can handle it?”

  I pick up the book. It doesn’t look so hard. There’s lots of maps and photographs.

  “Okay. But I got to ask you this—why?”

  The principal just looks at me over his glasses, with that smart face of his.

  “So you can learn something, of course.”

  9

  DRITA

  “NËNË,” I say when I am coming home from school, “are you all right?”

  It is still daytime outside, but in the living room of my house it feels like night with all the windows closed and dark. My mother lies on the old orange couch in her nightdress and slippers. Even in the dark, I can see her face looks like she’s crying. I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “I did a good job in school today, Nënë,” I tell her, but my mother doesn’t even seem to hear me, just lies back on the pillows and closes her eyes.

  “I got a new math book. I think I know as much as anyone else. Maybe more. My teacher thinks I’m a smart girl,” I tell her, but her face stays sad. “My English teacher says ‘eggsellent’ to me, Nënë. This is a word for good work.”

  I do not know what is wrong with my mother now that she is in America. I do not know what is making her so different. Maybe in Kosova she was not so happy, but now that we are here, she lies on the couch all day, just wrapped in a blanket. Crying and sleeping, this is all she does now.

  For a long time I cannot think of anything else to say, but finally I do. Too bad it is only a lie.