A Song for Bijou

by Josh Farrar

  But finally Alex reaches into the pocket of his black pants and pulls out a short stack of index cards. He looks up at me, smiles in an embarrassed way, cheeks red like apples, and reads from the card: “Depuis combien de temps vivez-vous aux États-Unis?” How long have you lived in the United States?

  He’s speaking to me in French! But why?

  “Je suis arrivée ici il y a deux mois,” I say. But he doesn’t seem to understand, so I translate: “I have been here since two months’ time.”

  “C’est tout?” he asks. Is that all? He must know I speak English, doesn’t he? How would I go to St. Catherine’s if I didn’t?

  “Oui,” I say. “Je suis arrivé à Brooklyn un dimanche, et puis j’étáis déjà à l’école dès lundi.” I arrived in Brooklyn on a Sunday and was already in school by that Monday.

  I look toward the dance floor. Nomura, Maricel, and Mary Agnes are dancing and smiling. Maricel’s brother is just standing there, his hands in his pockets. But then he pulls out—what is it with these boys and their pockets?—a video camera and begins to film them. Immediately, Maricel, annoyed, swats at it. Then the brother walks away, toward the bleachers, where small groups of boys and girls talk among themselves without mixing.

  Alex points to my cup of punch and asks, “Admirezvous votre liquide?”

  I can’t help but laugh; it’s funny. Do I admire my liquid? Maybe he’s trying to make me laugh?

  He turns red again, though, and says, “Excusez-moi. Je suis désole.” Excuse me, I’m sorry.

  I smile to let him know I am not offended, sip from my punch, and say, “Oui, c’est assez bon.” Yes, it’s good. Then, in English, “I should not have laughed; it’s very rude. You just said, ‘Do you like your liquid,’ and it strike me as funny for a moment.”

  “Do you guys speak English in Haiti, too? I thought it was Kreyol and French.” He looks so relieved and lets the index cards rest by his side.

  “Well, not everyone speaks English, but we have a—how do you say—satellite? For television? So I watch Sesame Street when I was little, and I learn English from this.”

  “Really? You grew up watching Sesame Street? Me too!” Then, one more time, he colors and looks at his shoes. “Not anymore, though. I haven’t watched it for a long time.” What is he embarrassed about now? Doesn’t everyone here grow up watching Sesame Street?

  “Also, my mother, she watch Tous Mes Enfants every day,” I continue. “You know, the opera?”

  He pauses for a moment, looking confused. “You mean All My Children?” he says. “The soap opera?”

  “Oui, I love this. I watch with my mother at home, all the time, from the satellite. Do you like it, too?”

  “Well, it’s okay, I guess. It’s mainly … for women here.” Well, this is one thing that is true in both our cultures; my uncle would never watch Enfants unless he was forced into it by Marie Claire.

  But I tease the boy anyway. “Ah, so it is not, how you say, ‘cool’ for you to watch it, then?”

  “No, it’s not that—”

  “Not manly enough for a growing American boy?”

  He colors again, and I feel badly. “I’m sorry. Je rigoles.” I’m teasing.

  But he recovers more quickly this time. He seems to have forgotten his cards for good now. “I like the way you speak French. I like … the sound of it. It’s cool.”

  “Merci, monsieur.” Thankfully, he gets the joke of my calling him “monsieur,” and we both laugh.

  “So, you had satellite TV in Haiti?” As if this is the most incredible thing he has ever heard.

  “Sure, of course.” He probably thinks, like most Americans, that Haiti is all shacks and tents, and people starving to death. “We had more channels in Port-au-Prince than my aunt and uncle have in Brooklyn.”

  “And you learned English just by watching shows?”

  “Well, yes, but I also visit New York almost every summer since I was a little girl,” I say. “To see my aunt and uncle. So I speak English then, also. And take some lessons for writing, too.”

  “Well, you speak really well,” he says.

  “Which you like better, my French or my English?” I don’t smile; I want to see what he is going to do.

  He stammers, “I … I … they’re both—”

  “I’m only teasing, Alex. It is a bad habit of mine. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, it means I have to stay on my toes with you.”

  “What does this mean, ‘to stay on my toes’?”

  “Oh, it just means I have to pay attention.”

  Ah, very true. But he might want to stay on his toes also because, while he is tall, I may even be a bit taller!

  “So, is that where you live now, in Brooklyn?” he asks.

  “Yes, we live in Flatbush. Many Haitians live there.” I smile. “Is that one of the questions on your cards?”

  “Umm, yeah, it is.” He looks not so embarrassed this time. Maybe he is okay with teasing, now that he knows I mean nothing bad by it. “So, we’re neighbors,” he continues. “Sort of, anyway. I live in Ditmas Park.”

  I’ve never heard of this Ditmas Park, but this is only because Tonton Pierre barely lets me go anywhere but school and church. “Is that close by?”

  “Yes,” Alex says. “Very close.”

  I look around to make sure no adults are looking at us. Then I lean a tiny bit closer to him and ask, “What else is on the cards?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just some … notes.”

  “Notes on what? Things to talk about with the strange new girl from Haiti?” I hold out my hand. “Show me.”

  “No,” a girl’s voice behind me says. “Show me.”

  It’s Angela Gudrun, with Jenna Minaya. Two boys, a short one with dark hair, and a tall, handsome one, are standing with them.

  “What?” Alex says. “No.”

  I really don’t like these two, Angela and Jenna. On my first day at St. Catherine’s, Jenna was very friendly, asking me questions about my life, my family, my friends from home. And I tried to be friendly in return. But for her, friendship meant following Angela and her around everywhere they went. And they were very rude to the other girls, making fun of them and calling them names behind their backs. I don’t want this kind of person for a friend. I have kept my distance ever since.

  “Come on, Schrader, what are they?” asks the short boy, taking a step forward. His hair is shiny and greasy. “Show her.”

  And the two boyfriends are nearly as bad, with their expensive phones and fancy clothing. They have everything. So why do they need to treat other people like this?

  Suddenly, Nomura, Maricel, Mary Agnes, and Ira have returned. Now everyone is staring at Alex and wondering what his cards say. Why won’t they mind their own business? Can’t they see the cards are private to him?

  “They’re just notes!” Alex cries. A bit too loudly, almost yelling.

  “They’re jokes,” Nomura says. “Alex wants to be a stand-up comic. He needs to practice.”

  “Come on, let’s have a look,” says Angela, stepping forward and ripping the cards from Alex’s hand. She starts to read the cards. Alex looks like he wants to disappear.

  Jenna looks me up and down. “Nice dress, Bijou,” she says. “Looks about a hundred years old. Is it a hand-me-down from your grandma? Or something one of your little friends picked out for you?”

  I see. If I am not friends with this girl, she is determined to make me an enemy. I don’t bother to answer. What is the point of wasting my breath on a girl like this?

  Jenna turns her attention to Angela. “Come on, Angela, what do they say?” she whines. “We’re wasting our time here.”

  “Hold up,” Angela says. “I’m enjoying this.”

  “All right, out with it,” says the tall boy. “Read ’em, already.”

  Angela suddenly explodes with laughter. “No … way!”

  “What?!” all her friends say at once, like robots.

  “They’re questions … for her
”—she gestures toward me—“in French!”

  “Let me see,” the short boy says, and Angela hands the cards to him.

  “Don’t, Rocky,” Alex says.

  The one called Rocky puts on a French accent and screams out, “Mademoiselle, where do you leeeve? How long have you beeeeen in les États-Unis?”

  Jenna rips the cards away from Rocky and jabs the tall boy. She is really having fun. “Check it out, Trevor: ‘I hope your family is okay! I pray they did not get hurt in the earthquake!’”

  I look over at Alex, who is now holding his head in his hands. Was he really going to ask me about my family? Mary Agnes and Maricel were right. This is a very sweet boy.

  The tall boy, Trevor, grabs the cards. “Wait, here’s the best part,” he cackles. “ ‘Do you want to go see a movie with me on Saturday?’”

  “He did not actually write that out in French, did he?” Rocky says. “That’s so pathetic.”

  “I can’t believe he asked her about the earthquake,” says Angela.

  “I know,” says Rocky. “Kid does not know how to talk to a girl.” They all laugh.

  “That’s enough, guys,” Mary Agnes says. “Give them back.” They ignore her, though; all four of them are laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

  “Wait, the queen geek is right,” Rocky says, taking the cards back from Trevor. “We’re being really rude. We should give these back to their rightful owner.”

  He holds the cards out to me. “What’s your name, again?”

  “Bee-something,” says Jenna. “I can never remember.”

  “My name is Bijou,” I say, loud and clear, looking dead into Jenna’s eyes. What a liar she is!

  “Very nice to meet you, Bijou,” Rocky says, holding the cards and bowing to me as if he is a European gentleman (far, far from it). “I believe these are yours. That is, unless you want to keep reading them out loud to her, Alex?”

  Alex tries to grab them from Rocky, but the greasy-haired boy easily steps to the side, holding the cards above his head.

  “Oooh, feisty,” Rocky says. “You must really be into this chick, huh?” Then he turns to me and says, “You know, you can do much better. Yesterday this guy didn’t even know what the West Indies were. He was like, she’s Haitian, man, not West Indian. Funny, right?”

  “Shut up, Rocky!” Alex yells.

  But Rocky just laughs. “I think we should give Bijou here a little present. You wrote them for her, after all, didn’t you?” Blocking Alex with his arm, he hands the cards to me.

  But Alex can’t take it anymore. He twists Rocky’s arm behind his back and gives the boy a hard shove. Rocky rocks back on his heels but is still standing. “Whoa, looks like I hit a nerve.” He laughs, not hurt at all. “Although with Schrader, that’s pretty easy to do.” He turns to me again, a sneer on his lips; I wish he would stop doing this, addressing me directly as if we are having a private conversation. I would never speak privately with a person like this. “Dude is very touchy.”

  Nomura steps between us. “Rocky, why don’t you guys take off.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s sure and confident. “Come on.”

  Rocky considers for a moment and says, “Not that you’ve got any say in this, Nomura, but I think our mission’s accomplished here.”

  The four of them walk back toward the dance floor, snickering. Rocky trips Trevor, and the girls laugh. They’re on to have fun somewhere else, at someone else’s expense.

  But then Trevor turns around and comes up to me. “Hey, I’m sorry if we got a little carried away,” he whispers. “Rocky’s … kind of an idiot sometimes. But he didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Jenna, on the edge of the dance floor, calls out, “Trev, you coming or not? Mission accomplished, remember? What are you still talking to her for?”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you, anyway,” Mary Agnes tells him.

  Everyone seems to know what I want before I even have the opportunity to open my mouth.

  “Fine,” Trevor tells Mary Agnes. Then to me, “I’ll see you later, Bijou.”

  When I turn back to our group, Alex is gone.

  “Where did he go?” I ask.

  Nomura looks to the side and behind him. “I don’t know,” he says. “He … slipped away.”

  “That was so awful,” says Maricel. “Why do they always have to ruin everything?”

  “Come on, Ira, let’s go find him,” Nomura says. And the two boys jog off to look for their friend.

  I see Miss Williams, our math teacher, walking in this direction. I hope she is not coming to talk to us!

  Mary Agnes approaches me, takes my two hands in hers. “I’m so sorry, Bijou. I had no idea something like that would happen. I just wanted to—”

  “I suppose you meant well, but don’t you think it is more, how do say, courteous to talk to me before putting me in such a situation?”

  Mary Agnes is apologizing, but I’m not listening. I’m looking over her shoulder, where Miss Williams is standing patiently. She waits for Mary Agnes to finish her apology and comes to stand in front of us.

  “Looks as if we had a bit of drama here, didn’t we, girls?” she asks, although it is clear that this is a question she does not want us to answer.

  “No, ma’am,” says Mary Agnes. “Just the boys being silly, is all. Nothing serious.”

  What she means, of course, is, nothing you need to tell our parents about.

  “A tempest in a teapot, eh, Ms. Brady?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, it’s nice that you’ve taken Bijou here under your wing, but perhaps you should take a bit better care of her in the future than you did tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mary Agnes and I both say, although I realize the response was not mine to give.

  “I wouldn’t want to have to tell either of your families that there was a bit of a … skirmish, shall we say?” She clasps her hands together and looks down at us over the top of her glasses. “One involving a number of rather unpleasant boys?”

  “No,” we say in unison.

  “That’s what I thought.” She claps her hands together, imitating joy. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, girls.”

  A part of me would like to tell her that I, Bijou Doucet, want nothing to do with any sort of boys at all. But another part of me would like to tell her that not all the boys I met tonight were so unpleasant. Alex was quite sweet and fun to talk to, and yes, he has very pretty eyes.

  But of course, I say nothing of that. I say only, “Yes, ma’am.”

  10

  A Little Bit Cute

  It’s the Wednesday after the Spring Thing. Mary Agnes and I have gotten ginger ales and Utz at Peas n’ Pickles, and we spread our snacks across torn paper bags on the bench seats overlooking the East River.

  “Did you see the look on Jenna’s face?” Mary Agnes says. “When Trevor came back with that apology, or whatever it was? I thought she was going to freak.”

  “Let her ‘freak,’ “ I say. “She can’t hurt me. I don’t know why she has some problem with me.”

  “I know why. She was the prettiest girl in our class, and now you are.”

  “Stop.” I turn my head and laugh. “I am not.”

  “Trevor seems to think so. And so does Alex.”

  “Really, Mary Agnes. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Listen, before you got here, Jenna was, like, queen of everything. She got tons of attention. Not just from boys, but from teachers, girls, everybody. But now that you’re here? Maybe she’s suddenly not quite so fascinating anymore.”

  I shrug. “I can’t help it if her boyfriend talks to me. Or if Alex does.”

  “You don’t think he’s cute?” Mary Agnes asks. “Even a little bit?”

  “Which one?”

  Mary Agnes laughs. This is the thing I like most about her. She seems serious and bossy much of the time, but she likes to laugh, too, and she does it long and hard. “Alex,” she says. “You think I want
to get you thinking about Trevor? Eww. He’s so conceited.”

  “Yes, Alex, he’s cute,” I say. “And he’s very nice. But the point is that I cannot have a boyfriend. Ever.”

  “I know, I know, it’s not allowed in your culture. I get that, but what does it mean? You can’t even talk to a boy until you’re twenty-one or something?”

  I laugh. “This is how it works in a Haitian family.”

  “But you’re in America now, not Haiti.”

  “That is what everyone keeps telling me: ‘You’re in America now.’ But are things so different here? Is it so common, to see a white American boy walking down the street with a black girl? A Haitian girl?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s common, exactly, but it definitely happens. That’s the way it is in the U.S. Which is your new home, right?”

  “Haiti is my home, Mary Agnes. It will always be my home.”

  She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I would give anything to be home right now, in my real home, with Maman.”

  Mary Agnes takes my hand. “I’m sorry, Bijou, really. I didn’t mean anything by it. Sometimes I forget about, I don’t know, everything you must have been through.”

  I smile weakly and pat her hand. “It’s all right. I’m just a little sensitive sometimes,” I say. If she thinks she’s going to make me cry like Oprah Winfrey, she can wait all day. It’s not going to happen.

  “You’re so together, I forget. You know?”

  I suppose it’s better to have someone like Mary Agnes, who forgets, than all those nosy teachers at St. Catherine’s, always making me look them right in the eye, asking me how I am doing, as if I am some wounded animal.

  The truth is that I also forget. If I spent every moment of every day thinking about those buildings, crumbling like paper, about my neighbors dead or dying, about Maman so far away, I would go crazy. When I am with Mary Agnes, or Maricel, or even Pierre and Marie Claire, I put away that part of myself, that Port-au-Prince Bijou, like clothes in a suitcase. I shut the lid and pretend it is not there.