by Silas House
Mamaw rushed over to me and held me real close to her, and then she squatted down and looked me in the eye. Her lips were trembling, and not from the cold. “That was a real brave thing, River. Now none of us will have to get arrested, which will save everybody a whole lot of money.”
“Why not?” I said. I was a little disappointed, to tell you the truth. I had been scared of getting arrested, but now it seemed like we had failed somehow by NOT getting arrested.
“Because what you did will get us more attention than the getting arrested. You did things the most peaceful way of all, by just standing up and asking a question. And every photographer here took a picture of it.”
It was a long day. We stood out in the cold and listened to lots of people speak against MTR, and then some people sang songs and led us in chants, and some people went in and talked to the legislators. People kept coming by and shaking my hand and telling me I had done a brave thing.
By the time we got back on the bus, I was freezing and so tired that I fell asleep even before we got back on the interstate. At some point I woke up and my head was in Chandra’s lap and she was singing a pretty little song. I may have just dreamed it, though. I don’t know. Then later I was aware of Mom and Mamaw walking me into the house and putting me into my bed. I had never been so tired in my whole life.
First thing this morning I got up and went right to writing you, because I felt like you were with me the whole time, and I wanted to put it all down on paper while it was fresh in my mind, hoping you could see it, too.
Yours,
River Dean Justice
March 22, 2009
Dear River,
I have a gigantic maths test tomorrow but I just had to stop by the library and type to you. Thank you so much for your beautiful letter. I felt like I had been to the rally WITH you. You’re a really good friend to Mark and a really good friend to the mountains and you’re the bravest boy EVER. I’m proud to know you.
I hope Mrs. Patel’s brother is OK.
When I picked up your letter from the post office box just now, I saw an interesting old man. I have seen him walking around the neighborhood, but this is the first time I have seen him at the post office. He is Chinese, and he walks with a cane and is so bent over that he is always looking at his shoes. Well, I watched him open up his post office box. It took him a long time to twirl the dial and he had to lean on his cane with one hand before pulling the little door open. Then he looked into the mailbox. There was nothing in there but he stuck his hand inside and moved it around just to be sure. I felt sad for him and wondered who he was waiting to hear from. It made me think how you and I are lucky to have each other. Maybe we can start writing to that old man, too, so he will have some letters in his mailbox.
I want to tell you about Kiku’s birthday present to me. I had to wait a whole month for it because the weather was too cold. But it was worth it! Kiku installed two sturdy foot pegs on the back of his bike so I can stand there and keep my hands on his shoulders and ride around the city with him. It’s kind of scary, which is I guess what makes it fun. Anyway, yesterday afternoon, Kiku rode me all the way across town to the Hudson River. He weaved in and out of traffic, and when we went past buses I had to close my eyes so I wouldn’t scream. When we got to the edge of the city, to the river, where there is a long park with no cars, we got off the bike and walked along the water. Kiku showed me all kinds of secrets, like where the Italian men go to fish with scraps of butcher meat. And where the old piers have sunk under water and left little bits of rotten pole for the seagulls stand on. And how to rent a kayak. And the willow trees where homeless people sleep. It was very warm, strangely so — 65 degrees Farenheit. Kiku said it was because of global warming. There were so many people out, enjoying the day after the long winter.
Under one tree was guess who . . . Ana Maria! Kiku’s secret girlfriend. She was standing next to a cart full of mangoes. He said, “Girl, you look good today,” and she said, “You should have seen me yesterday,” and then they kissed right in front of me! Ana Maria gave me a hug and said, “I was sorry to hear about your grandmother.” She called me Mee-Mee because that is how she hears Kiku talk about me. I really liked that. It made her feel like family.
She explained to me how after school and on weekends, in the spring and summer, she sells mangoes on sticks with her uncle. She took a knife from her belt and peeled the mango in a few seconds with big strokes. Then she stuck the mango on a stick and slashed at it, all around, then sprinkled salt, lemon, and red chili pepper over it. She had cut the mango in such a way that I could bite large pieces of it off the pit very easily. And my hands didn’t get slimy, because I was holding the stick. She said this is the Mexican way to eat mangoes. I love it. It is the best thing ever. When you come to New York, we will have to eat some together.
After we ate mangoes, I sat on Kiku’s bike, and Ana Maria put her iPod in my ears and played M.I.A., and she held one handlebar and Kiku held the other and they ran up and down the esplanade by the river and said it was my very own birthday roller coaster ride. It was so much fun. Then Ana Maria called Kiku mi amor and kissed him again and said she had to keep wheeling her mango cart up and down the river. I think she gets so many customers because she is so pretty. People just like to be near her. She’s also really smart. She’s the one who helped Kiku with his college essay. He never listens to anybody but he listens to her.
When I asked Kiku what “mi amor” means, he got embarrassed and said, “Nothing, stupid.” Tomorrow I am going to ask Carlos what it means. He speaks Spanish, too.
So I thought all that was my present, but it turned out there was more. I got up on the bike behind Kiku and he rode me all the way up to the George Washington Bridge. We rode a loooong, loooooong time, six whole miles, up to 237th Street. We stayed along the river where there aren’t any cars, just people biking, jogging, Rollerblading, walking their dogs. Usually Kiku is protective of me and doesn’t let me do anything that he does. I knew the fact that he was treating me like a friend, not a little sister, was part of his present. I couldn’t stop laughing, standing behind him on the bike. I probably looked like a crazy person, but I didn’t care. The river stretched out silver to our left. The wind was so strong that Kiku’s tears flew back at me. They felt sharp as needles on my cheeks. It was fun to see the bridge getting closer and closer and then to be right under it.
When we got off the bike my legs felt funny, almost like I couldn’t walk, because I’d been balancing for so long. I followed Kiku down a dirt footpath that led even farther under the bridge, and there, right in front of us, was a red lighthouse! I’d never seen a lighthouse before. It was the best surprise ever. There was a plaque in front of the lighthouse and we read all about it.
It was built in 1890, which is very old for America, and there is a children’s book about it called The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge, which was written in 1942. The plaque said that in 1951, the city was going to tear down the lighthouse, but a lot of people got very upset (mostly people who loved the book about the lighthouse) and they fought the city and won. So the lighthouse stayed. That all made me think of your mamaw and you and Black Banks. It’s nice to think of a bunch of people getting together to do something good for something they love.
Me and Kiku sat by the water, on big cool rocks, next to the red lighthouse, the bridge spanning above us. The river made a long swirly circle around the jetty, and there were lots of boats going by. Across the way were little hills, almost like Garhwal mountains, but much smaller.
Kiku said to me, “I thought this was a place you and Dadi would have gone to together.” I felt sad missing Dadi, but I was also happy to be there with Kiku. The river was louder than everything — except the occasional truck on the bridge thumping heavy and loud. No ambulances or garbage trucks or honking cabs. No subway. We could hear the sound of cars on the West Side Highway, but somehow it was so far away and mixed with the river’s voice that the cars sounded like tre
es swaying in a forest. I had not seen hills or sat on a big rock in many years. The city, the skyline, looked blue and distant. It made me feel like we are all very small and unimportant. It is just when you are inside something that you forget that. But when you are outside of it and looking from far away, you can see. Kiku says that’s called “perspective.”
Kiku said across the river, over the bridge, was New Jersey — a whole other state. He said he’d ridden his bike over it once and then gone twenty miles into New Jersey to meet Daddy at his restaurant. It’s a secret that even Mum doesn’t know. She would be really mad if she knew Kiku had ridden so far on his bike. He said he skipped school one day when he was worried about Mum and went to see Daddy to ask him what to do. Then he told me about the houses in New Jersey, how everyone has a lawn and lots of trees and it’s peaceful.
My parents work so hard. I want to get a good job and get them a house in New Jersey. I said that to Kiku and he said, “We’ll work hard, too, and then we’ll take care of them.” We shook hands on it and I felt very grown-up. I was thirteen years old, sitting under the GW Bridge, in New York City, with my brother, who trusted me with his secrets. Sometimes Kiku can be mean, but mostly he is sweeter than a big bag of gummy bears.
When we started riding home, it was getting dark. I felt bad for Kiku having to take us all the way home, but he said I was light. The city looked twinkly, lit up against the dark. It got cold. My hands felt stiff on Kiku’s back. The warm spring day had disappeared.
By the time we got home it was 9 o’clock and Mum was mad. She pressed her lips together like she does when she is about to say no. She said that Mrs. Lau had come by and told her two more people in the building had been evicted that morning. Mum ran her hands through her short hair. She looked worn-out and bitter. She said, “We should pack a suitcase in case we have to leave here quickly.” Kiku said, “Mum, it’s late and Mee-Mee’s tired.” Mum sighed and put her hands on either side of my face. She stared at me and started to say something but then stopped. I said, “It’s OK. Let’s pack tonight.”
I put a few outfits in the suitcase and my box of Special Things and the three books Mum gave me for my birthday and all of your letters and all of Dadi’s letters and a paperweight from Mrs. Lau and the lucky buckeye. Kiku put in some of his stuff and Mum added hers and Daddy’s and also some food and water in plastic bottles. The bag is still right by the front door, just in case.
I better get off the computer now. There’s a line of people waiting for it.
Meena
27 March 2009
Dear Meena,
Can you believe they put that picture of me holding that jar of dirty water out to the governor on the cover of Time magazine???!!!!????
Mom and Mamaw bought about twenty copies and then Time sent us a big box full of them, so I am including one here for you. Mamaw says this is the most exposure mountaintop removal has ever gotten and that now that people know about it, they will get mad about it. She says that Americans usually do the right thing if they know about it, that it just takes a long time to get their attention, especially if something bad is happening to poor people.
When we go to town, everybody feels like it’s perfectly fine to pat on me or get real close to my face and talk about being proud of me. But if it helps to save the mountains I don’t care.
The other day we were in Piggly Wiggly and old Mrs. Heap was in there shopping. She wouldn’t even speak, just acted like she didn’t know us when Mamaw and I walked by her, me pushing the buggy. I could tell that she said something, but didn’t know what. I just heard her mumble. But Mamaw has ears and eyes and everything like a hawk, so she heard her as plain as day. Later Mamaw told me Mrs. Heap said, “Tree huggers,” in this real hateful voice, like she was spitting. Mamaw just spun around on her heel and went back over to Mrs. Heap and said, “I’m praying for you, honey. Because you’re a fool.” And it was like she had cussed Mrs. Heap or slapped her face, the way Mrs. Heap acted all shocked and offended.
The opposite of this is that Ms. Stidham told me she was real proud of me, though. She asked me to stay after class one day and I thought I might be in trouble for something, but then she looked at me like I was a grown-up and she said, “River, I want you to know that I’m proud to know you.” I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say a word, although I guess I should’ve said thanks or something. Then she held out a little purple paperback book. “Here,” she said, and shoved it into my hands. “This book is about doing the right thing, too. It’s my favorite.”
I looked down at the cover. To Kill a Mockingbird.
“I want you to have it,” she said, and I swear it was like there were little tears in her eyes. But then she straightened herself up and said, “Go on, then,” and turned me by the shoulders and walked me to the door. I finally managed to say thank you.
She just told me to go on, before I was late to my next class, but when I looked back she was standing at the door, watching me walk away.
After the rockfall, you know that our basketball team has had a real hard time getting it all together again because we lost two of our best players. But I think it made us stronger, too, and here is proof.
We played Lexington Middle School the other day and we
BEAT
THEIR
SOCKS
OFF!!!!
We have never beaten them before, ever. I hadn’t played in a game that good in forever and ever, and it reminded me why I love basketball so much. Because it’s like flying when you are going down the court bouncing that ball, zooming in and out of bodies, the sweat running down your forehead and into your eyes, and the crowd chanting from the bleachers, “River! River!” and the cheerleaders shaking their pom-poms and doing the splits, and the announcer’s voice a blur on the loudspeaker, and then I am sailing through the air, taking a big run and jump as I do a bank shot and that WHOOOSH as the ball slices through the net. And then I realized that I had put in the winning shot and the whole crowd was on its feet, everyone clapping and people hugging and so happy because we had been the underdogs for so long, always getting beaten by the big city school, and finally we were the little country school and we were the winners. While everybody else was celebrating it seemed like the whole crowd — all the noise and movement and everything — zoomed away and all my attention went to Mark, who was sitting there on the sidelines with his crutches propped up on the seat next to him. He hasn’t gotten his artificial leg yet because they are still making it especially for him. But he didn’t look sad that he wasn’t out there with us. He just looked happy for us. All the other guys were trying to lift me on their shoulders, but instead I said, “No, let’s go to Mark,” and we did. We all went over there and huddled around him and did a big group hug.
I was glad that we didn’t lift him up on our shoulders. It wouldn’t have seemed right, since he lost his leg. Instead, we went down to him, and that felt right. That felt better.
I know that some people think that sports are stupid and get too much attention. They probably do get too much attention. I mean, nobody ever has a pep rally for the people in the academic team or the band, and that’s not right. But sometimes sports are a real good thing, because they can remind you that if you work hard for something you can succeed. And being a basketball player is hard. You have to be a hard worker to be an athlete, and practice every day, and be determined. So it’s like being a musician or writer that way. And I know that winning is not everything. That’s not what I’m saying. Even though it felt real good to not be the losers to Lexington Middle School for once, it felt even better to know that we had played a good, fair game, and we had worked hard to do the best we could.
And guess what — even Sam Brock, that big turd I got into a fight with a few months back, came over and told me I had done a good job. I thought that was pretty big of him.
By the way, I think that Kiku’s present was pretty much the coolest thing I’ve ever heard of. He makes me wish I had a brother.
River
April 10, 2009
Dear River,
Spring! It’s here! It’s here! Today the mannequin in the boutique window is wearing a sundress and sandals. I stood on my tiptoes on Hester Street and peered into a window box and saw some flowers blooming. I know the yellow ones are daffodils and the purple ones are crocus. Do you have those flowers in Kentucky?
At the library garden, there are lots of white flowers that look like upside-down teacups and a few with pink bushy blossoms. At night, walking past the library garden, you can hear crickets chirping. The air is warm and it seems like there are little bits of electricity in everyone’s eyes.
I feel like I will grow a little bit now that spring has come. Kiku is still growing, which seems unfair because he is already tall — six feet tall! We know he is still growing because the other day he was walking down the hall and he hit his head on the pots hanging from the ceiling! That has never happened before. I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but our kitchen is also our hallway — they are the same place. We only have one closet in the apartment, so we hang all the pots from the ceiling and keep all our plates and glasses on shelves that Daddy nailed into the wall. It is good we are not big people, because if we were, we would have to turn sideways on the way to the bedroom.
Thank you for the copy of Time magazine. It’s crazy that you’re on a magazine cover, like a famous person, like a MOVIE STAR!!!!!!!!! What does that feel like?
If you move to Hollywood, I hope Mum will let me come visit you.
