“Knock, knock,” I say, peeking inside the door for my teacher.
I remember when I was in second grade, it was always kind of a shock to me when I found out teachers drove around in cars and went to the supermarket just like regular people. But even though I know teachers are just like everyone else, it’s still sometimes weird when you see them doing things like eating lunch or shopping. That’s why I feel a little shy, suddenly seeing Miss Salvato sitting there, eating her lunch with her buddy Mr. Lee, the music teacher.
“Hello, Maxie,” my teacher says, smiling.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” says Mr. Lee, because he’s like that.
“I just gotta get something out of my book bag,” I tell them.
I dig around inside the coat closet till I find it—the Kosovo book Mr. Littman gave me. Miss Salvato looks curious.
“What have you got there?” Miss S. asks.
I show her.
“The principal gave it to me so I can find out more about Kosovo for my social studies report.”
“What a great idea!” she says.
“I’m starting to be friends with Drita too.”
“How fabulous!” she says. The smile she gives me is so big, it lights up the place.
19
DRITA
WHEN MAXIE SITS BACK DOWN, I am so surprised to see what she is carrying, I almost fall off the bench.
“Qyqja!” I say in Albanian, when I see the book.
“Wachoo say?” says Maxie. Now she shows me the cover of the book. On it is a picture of the beautiful Balkan mountains, and the city Prishtina beneath them. KOSOVO, it says in English. You can tell this book was written by someone who was not Albanian because my people call my country “Kosova.”
“Mi hohm,” I tell her.
“I no,” she says.
I open the pages. Inside there are pictures of my homeland, and many words. I wish that I could read them all to know what the writer is saying.
When I came to this school, I never thought anyone would like my country or knows things about it. Now I find out I am wrong. Maxie reaches over and turns the page. There is a picture of a Serbian soldier pointing a gun. She points to it.
“Wot’s it like?” she says.
But I don’t think I know the English words for what she wants to know, so much.
“Ushtar,” I say in my language.
“Ushtar,” she says back. It sounds so strange to me to hear an American person pronounce an Albanian word.
“Ushtar, ushtar, ushtar,” Maxie says again. The way she says it, it makes the word “soldier” sound like a silly song.
“Ushtar, ushtar, ushtar,” she says more times because now we are both laughing.
Maxie takes out a paper. Then she says something to me that I do not understand.
“Ex-yuz mee?” I say back. Maxie pretends dial the telefon.
“Drita, rit yur nambur,” she says.
On the paper I write my name and our telefon number. Then I remember something else, another message to write.
Maxie watches me while I add some words to the paper. It takes me a little time because I want the spelling to be correct.
I put the paper in her hand. Maxie looks at it carefully. Then she gives me a big smile.
“Shur,” she says.
“Drita and Maxie. Friends, please” is what I am writing.
20
Maxie
“ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT TO COME WITH ME?” my grandmother asks, standing in the doorway. She’s got her purse and her new church hat on her head. “That’s okay, Grandma. I’ve got work to do.” Of course, I wouldn’t go to a Bible study class to save my life, but I’m not about to tell her that.
“Your daddy should be home in a little while. Now don’t you dare turn on that TV. And no phone calls either. Remember. You promised.”
“And a promise is a promise,” I say.
“That’s right,” she says like she’s finally satisfied.
Behind my back, I uncross my fingers. My grandma doesn’t know I made another promise today too. I promised I would be Drita’s friend, and the only way to do that right now is by going against my grandma.
“Of course, Grandma,” I say, not looking up.
My grandma pauses with her hand on the doorknob. I can tell she doesn’t one hundred percent believe me, but she got nothing to pin on me.
I wait until I can hear the door close and the elevator going down before I dial.
“A’lo?” a voice on the telephone says.
“Is Drita home?” I say.
“Cfa re?” the voice says.
I tell myself that I’m not breaking the law—I’m only bending it. Because I also have a school reason to talk to Drita. After all, I’m supposed to be writing that report.
“Drita. Is. Drita. Home?” I say again.
There’s a clank as Drita’s mom or whoever it is puts down the phone and a lot of yelling and somebody’s baby crying in the background. Then there’s a long pause and I’m practically falling asleep I’m waiting so long. Finally someone picks up the phone.
“Who?” a man’s voice says. That’s it—just “Who?”
“Hello. This is Maxine Nichols. Is Drita there?” I say.
“Maxine Nichols?” he says, sounding sort of confused.
“I’m her friend, from school,” I say slowly, and inside I’m starting to feel like this is a big mistake.
“What you want?” he says. I’m just about to ask if Drita’s there when I hear something that sends electric shock waves all over my body.
It’s the sound of the key in the front door.
Fast as I can, I hang up the phone, jump onto the bed and grab my book just as my grandmother comes back through the door.
“Get a lot of reading done?” she asks.
“Well, you’re back pretty fast,” I say. My heart is pounding so hard, it’s a wonder she can’t hear it. “Did you forget something, Grandma?”
My grandmother sits down and just looks at me.
“Well,” she says at last, “are you going to ’fess up now, or later?”
I put my face in the pillow, and concentrate on that book. Too bad it wasn’t a little bit more interesting, then I might not be in trouble.
“What do you mean?”
“I called from the phone in the lobby.”
I’m so shocked, for one second I forget that it was me breaking my promise. My own grandmother, spying on me!
“Maxine. The line was busy.”
“It was a wrong number,” I say, thinking fast. My grandmother just looks at me, with that face of hers.
“It was!” I say.
“You are grounded, Maxine. That is not allowed. And you promised,” my grandmother says. Loud.
“It was school-related.”
“Maxine, I never thought I’d see the day that I’d say this to you, but I just don’t believe you.”
“It was. I was calling that girl Drita. For my report,” I tell her, almost crying.
My grandmother just sits there, her big face like a rock, turned against me.
“It was that Kayla.”
“It wasn’t, I swear!”
“You sure?” she says. My grandmother doesn’t like Kayla too much after we got in trouble last year for sneaking into the auditorium.
“Absolutely positive,” I say, ready to swear on a stack of Bibles.
“All right, then. Go ahead. Make your call.”
Even though I’m feeling like a real jerk for hanging up on Drita’s daddy like that, I’m not about to argue. I dial the phone. Drita picks up on the first ring, like she’s been waiting.
“Jam Drita,” she says.
“Hello, Drita, this is Maxie,” I say.
“Oh, Maxie,” says Drita, “hello.”
If you think it’s hard having a conversation with someone who doesn’t speak English in person, try doing it on the phone while your grandmother is sitting right beside you, mad as a
nything, listening to every word. I ask her a few questions like how old she is and where she comes from and all of that. But then finally we run out of things to talk about.
“Well, I got to go now. Good-bye,” I say, and I hang up the phone. Now my grandmother really starts with me.
“That’s the problem with a lie, Maxie,” she says. “It covers up your bad stuff and your good stuff too. That was a kindness you did, calling that girl. I would have let you call her if you’d just asked me. Why do you have to hide things, Maxie? It’s not like you.”
I can’t really think of no answer to that, so I say, “That’s just the way I am, I guess.”
“Don’t go telling me that’s just the way you are. I know exactly how you are. You only started acting like this since you lost your mama. You got to start to let her go, Maxie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, playing dumb. I hate it when my grandmother talks like this.
“That’s only ’cause you don’t want to. Let me ask you this. In the two years since the accident did you ever tell even one of your girlfriends that your mama passed? And don’t say ‘none of your business,’ because I’m making it my business.”
I shut my mouth because “mind your business” is exactly what I was going to say.
“It’s not right, you hanging on to her like that. She wouldn’t want it. Neither do I.”
All of a sudden I feel like crying.
“So what do I do?” I ask my grandmother.
“Let someone in, Maxie. It don’t have to be me or your daddy, but somebody.”
I don’t think I know exactly what she means, but then again, maybe I do, because now I can’t stop crying. I know my grandma must be loving this, makes her feel like Oprah or something. She takes off her hat and puts it on the hook by the door.
“I thought you were going to church,” I say, through my crying.
My grandma looks at me and smiles, which is a good thing because the thought of my grandma hating me is more than I can take.
“Baby, I just did,” she says.
21
DRITA
“KOOL!” Maxie says when we are in the school library. On the table is a big round globe. I spin it around, looking for Kosova. This map is so old, it only shows one big country, Yugoslavia. It does not show how the world is today with the Balkans divided into many small countries. But this does not matter to me, I can still find my homeland easily.
“Here,” I say, pointing to a small space near the center of Yugoslavia. On the map, my country is so small, it can fit underneath my finger. To me, it seems strange that such a little place has so many troubles.
On the other side of the world, Maxie touches New York City. It is a long way between our two fingers.
I think for a moment until I remember the right number that my father teaches me.
“Tree thowzand kilometre,” I say.
Maxie makes a whistle noise. The bibliotekarja looks at us.
“Quiet, girls!” she says. With her curly hair and round glasses, our librarian looks like a type of bird—the owl. Maxie must think so too, because now she whispers “whoo” like an owl and soon we are laughing so hard, we can’t be quiet.
“Sssshhhh!” the library lady whispers, but I think she is only pretending to be angry, because now she is handing us another book, with many colorful pictures of kittens. Like me, Maxie likes animals, especially cats.
“Kool!” I say. Maxie smiles.
At first I thought Maxie and I are too different to be friends, but now I know in many ways we are the same. The biggest way is that Maxie likes things to be funny just like me.
Then the bell rings. Almost as soon as we begin to have fun together, lunch hour is over.
That night, when I am home with my family, I tell them about this.
“In my school, there is not so much time for friendships,” I complain to my father as we finish dinner.
My grandmother puts some dishes in the sink. “That’s all right,” she says. “You need to concentrate on your lessons.”
I do not understand why my grandmother says this. I thought she wanted me to make friends with Maxie.
But I am happy when my father agrees with me.
“Nonsense,” he says. “This friend can probably teach Drita English faster than any school. It’s only through conversation that one learns a new language.”
I think about what happened in the library.
“Maxie did teach me some new words today. And we like to talk to each other very much,” I tell him.
“See? Drita knows this already,” he says to my grandmother.
From inside my mother’s room, I can hear the television playing. Today, Nënë did not come out of her room even one time to talk to me. Maybe I can think of one thing that will cheer her up.
“Maybe I can invite Maxie over?” I ask.
“No,” says Gjyshe.
“Yes,” says my father.
“My son, are you forgetting something?” Gjyshe argues.
“Oh, Mother, Drita must enjoy her life too,” he says.
“This is not the right time, Adem,” my grandmother says, using my father’s familiar name. But my grandmother knows she will have to agree with him. In Albania it is always like this: the father is in charge of the family.
“Të shtunën is the only day she should come. At least Miss Mirfue will be here to translate,” my grandmother grumbles at last.
I am so happy, I climb on my father’s lap and kiss him. Then, with my father translating, I call Maxie’s number and make the arrangements.
From the way she is putting the dishes in the sink, I know Gjyshe is upset, but when she sees how happy my friend will make everyone, I think she will change her mind.
I am so excited, I can’t wait to tell my mother. When I finish on the telephone, I run into her room. She is asleep.
“My shoge e ngushtë is coming for a visit, Nënë! Isn’t it wonderful?” I whisper.
My mother just shifts in the blanket and pulls her cover over her head.
Inside, I hope she is smiling.
22
Maxie
AFTER DRITA CALLS ME, I go straight into the kitchen.
“Who was that?” asks Grandma, drying off a plate.
“That girl Drita,” I say, trying not to sound excited. “She invited me to her house.”
Grandma doesn’t say nothing, just reaches up into the cabinet and puts the plate on the rack.
“Well? Can I go?” I ask her even though I know I’ve got no chance. But Grandma surprises me.
“It’s not up to me,” she says.
“Who’s it up to, then?” I ask.
Grandma looks at me like I’m the world’s biggest dummy. “Who do you think?” she says.
I always thought that when my mother died, my grandma took over the job of being boss of the family. But sometimes, my daddy’s more the boss than my grandma.
“Why don’t you ask him?” she says, nodding her head toward the den. Suddenly, that door looks like the mouth of a lion’s cave to me, and I don’t want to go in case I get my head bit off. I pick up the dish towel from the edge of the sink.
“That’s all right,” I say, “I got chores to do.”
Grandma takes the towel right back. “No, you don’t,” she says. “Go on in.”
I sigh. My daddy’s been so busy with his new job, it seemed like he was never going to get around to talking to me about that fight. Or that’s what I was hoping, anyway.
I knock on my daddy’s door, soft as a mouse. Maybe I’ll be lucky and he’ll be taking a nap or something.
“Yes?” my daddy growls. I can tell from the way he’s got papers and things spread all over, he’s been paying the bills.
“I need to talk to you,” I say.
“So talk,” he says without looking up.
“Drita invited me over to her house. I’m supposed to be writing my social studies report on her. For school.”
; “When?” my daddy says.
“On Saturday,” I say.
“I see,” he says, but the way he says it makes it sound like he doesn’t see anything at all. Or even want to.
“Please, Daddy. It’s for school.”
“Drita was one of the girls involved in the fight, wasn’t she?” my daddy says.
“Yes, but it wasn’t her fault. Brandee was picking on her. She even hit her when she was down, Daddy.”
“Your grandmother told me that part.”
“See, Brandee wasn’t playing fair. She broke the rules and then she was being a bully. Brandee was just mad because she couldn’t show off.”
“That didn’t give you the right to hit her, Maxie.”
I never understand why grown-ups always talk about “having the right” when they should be talking about “having the wrong.” Everyone knows that slapping your former best friend upside her head is a bad idea.
“You think I don’t know that?” I say.
“Frankly, Maxie, I don’t know what’s going on in your mind anymore.”
It really makes me feel bad when my daddy says that. I can’t help it when the waterworks start.
“I thought I was doing something nice for once, but instead all I did was make a big war between Drita and the rest of the girls in my class. I never even hit anyone before, least of all someone I once considered my friend. I think Brandee hates me now,” I tell him, feeling about as bad as I can be.
“Come over here a second,” Daddy says, kind of gruff.
“Why?”
“You got an eyelash.”
In my family whenever you lose an eyelash, you get to make a wish. I go over to him and my daddy takes it off my face.
“Make a wish,” he says, and the next thing I know, my wish comes true ’cause I am sitting on his knee just like old times.
“Daddy. I don’t fit no more,” I tell him, but I’m just playing like I’m embarrassed.
“Yes, you do. And it’s ‘anymore,’ not ‘no more.’ You know that. If there’s one thing that gets on my nerves, it’s hearing my daughter use slang,” he says.
Drita, My Homegirl Page 6
