by Josh Farrar
“I am too. Mari and I are the ones who thought it up,” Ira says, taking the last bite of cupcake. “I was invited before you even knew it existed. I even picked the movie.” He walks away like a shamed dog, the hurt and pain so close to the surface I swear he’s about to cry.
“You’re being a little intense, man,” Nomura says once he’s gone.
“I know. But he’s really been getting on my nerves lately. I don’t have any patience for him anymore.” I ball up my lunch bag and throw it in the trash.
“Maybe you should take it a little easier on him anyway, though. I mean, we’ve been friends for a long time. It should count for something.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Sometimes it’s not about what Nomura is actually saying; it’s just that his voice is the sonic equivalent of wisdom and calm, and to do anything but submit to it is pointless.
Still, I change the subject. “So, let me guess. You already know more about this movie plan than I do, huh?”
“Probably, yeah. Mary Agnes won’t stop texting me. She’s even called me three times since you went on your little drum date with Bijou.” Ah, so even Nomura knows there were drums involved.
“She could easily text me. Or call.”
“Exactly. She’s choosing to call me instead.”
“Why?”
“Mary Agnes is a big-time matchmaker. And not just for you and Bijou.”
“What do you mean? Like, she’s using me and Bijou to get to you?” Nomura nods. “That’s weird,” I say.
“I guess it is a little strange. She’s fundamentally a nice person, though.”
“So you can go with it for a little bit longer? Help me out and do this group-date thing?”
“Sure.”
“Cool.” I resist the urge to tease him; does he like Mary Agnes back? Two weeks ago, if I had thought there was even a chance of that, I would have let him have it. But now, I have too much at stake, so I don’t really care whether Nomura’s doing this for me, for him, or both. All I care is that he’s doing it at all. “One thing, though. What about the fact that Bijou can’t go out with friends unless her brother’s around?”
Nomura shrugs. “Mary Agnes says they’ve got that all figured out.”
“Really? How?”
“I’m not sure, exactly.”
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough, I guess.”
It’s hard to imagine that having that particular problem “figured out” involves Bijou bringing Jou Jou along. I mean, would she really do that, have him sit behind a row of kids six years younger than him? He’s a cool guy, but he wouldn’t want to go to a movie with a bunch of kids. Hopefully she’s got another idea.
“Anyway, it’s gonna be that movie Terror Lake,” Nomura continues.
“Oh no. Is this Ira’s idea of revenge?” He and Nomura both know I hate scary movies (Ira loves them, naturally), and I’ve seen the poster for this one: A gnarled hand clutching a dagger breaks the surface of a lake. In the background, the windows of a tiny cabin glow eerily. Perfect.
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Can we change it? You know how I get.”
“They’ve already picked a showtime at the Pavilion and everything.”
He gives me a sympathetic look, knowing I’ve done everything in my power to avoid scary movies since I was eight, when I watched A Nightmare on Elm Street with Dolly. “What are you doing? Are you following me?” she asked as I followed her downstairs to the kitchen, too afraid to stay in the TV room by myself. I told her I was too cold up there, that I wanted to make the hot chocolate my way, and whatever else I could think of off the top of my head, but she didn’t believe me. “It’s only a movie, fraidy-cat.”
Fraidy-cat is not the image I’m going for. But Nomura, who’s no fan of scary movies himself, claims they’re the best choice for dates. “It’s been scientifically proven,” he says. “Scary movies are better.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Research says that the most pleasant moments of a particular event may also be the most fearful.”
“English. Speak English.”
“Fear makes the heart rate quicken.”
“Believe me, so does being with a girl.”
“Exactly. You’re both nervous about the date and nervous about the movie. And that brings you together. You hold hands. You put your arm around her. You do your thing.”
“Oh, please. Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And you know this … how?”
“From my own experience as a lady-killer and all-around stud. Duh.” Nomura scooches up next to me and jokingly demonstrates his arm technique. “It’s easy. Pretend you’re about to yawn, like this.” Exaggerating extreme fatigue, he opens his mouth so wide I can see half his lunch. I’m so distracted by the over-the-top yawn parody that I don’t notice his arm around my shoulder until it’s already there. “Not bad, not bad.” Then he nuzzles me, all moony-eyed.
“Quit it, man,” I say, laughing.
“Now this is scary,” Rocky says, appearing out of nowhere. “Are you guys just practicing, or are you actually in love?”
“Tough call,” Trevor says, cracking up. “But that’s as close as Schrader’s ever going to get to scoring.”
“What are you guys gonna go see, anyway?” Rocky asks. “Diary of a Wimpy Kid? Or would that be a little too autobiographical?”
Trevor chuckles. We don’t say anything, which is usually the best way to handle the two of them.
“Hey, that’s an idea,” Trevor says. “You guys could act out a chick flick like that for Musicale. Everybody’ll love that!”
“Nice, dude,” Rocky says. And … it’s high-five time.
“Oh, and Alex, after you finish your popcorn? Enjoy the dessert.” Rocky strolls away. Trevor, as always, follows.
“What do you mean, ‘dessert’?” I ask.
Nomura jabs me, a reminder I should have stayed quiet. He’s more disciplined than I am.
“You know,” Rocky says. “Everybody likes a little taste of brown sugar.”
“What?” I say. Another jab from Nomura.
“Your little girlfriend. I’ll bet she tastes like brown sugar.”
“You did not just say that.” What would all the St. Cat’s girls say if I’d gotten a recording of this and put it up on the Web?
“Oh, I did, Alex,” Rocky says. “I did.”
I turn to Trevor. “Trevor, I was wondering if you’d noticed: your girlfriend’s black, too.”
“Uhh, yeah, I think I noticed that,” Trevor says.
“And you’re cool with him talking about another black girl like that?”
“Don’t pee in your pants, dude. I take it as a compliment.”
Then Rocky gives me a light shove against my locker. “You’re a lucky guy, Schrader, getting a date with a girl like that. But you’ve got to be careful. After all, you’re a U.S. citizen, don’t forget. Next thing you know, she’ll try to marry you so she can stay in the country.”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say. “Even if she was like that, Bijou doesn’t need to do that to stay in the country. She’s got plenty of family here.”
“You’re right, I’m getting ahead of myself. Nobody’s marrying anybody here. There’s no way you’re even getting to first base, much less walking down the aisle. I must have forgotten who I was talking to.”
I’ll tell you who you’re talking to, Rocky. You’re talking to the guy who’s going to get the girl he likes.
“Maybe I’ll marry her, man,” Trevor says. “She’s supercute.”
Barf. Just when I think these guys can’t sink any lower, they do. I wish I could come up with an awesome response, but as I’ve shown again and again, I’m not exactly the Comeback Kid. All I can manage is a disgusted sneer.
“What about Jenna?” Rocky asks, playing along.
“Meh, we’re together, but we’re not together together, you kno
w?” He laughs. “Jenna’s a babe. But Bijou’s so much more … exotic.”
“Right? Gotta love that accent.” Rocky clucks his tongue. So gross.
“Schrader, if Bijou ever winds up entering the twenty-first century and getting herself a cell phone,” Trevor asks, “you’ll be a bro and give me her number, right? I’d like to give her a buzz sometime.”
Yeah, that’ll happen, Trevor.
The two idiots strut away, laughing and shoving each other. I wish Ira were around with his stupid video cam; this little scene would make for excellent viewing. Angela and Jenna aren’t what I’d call brilliant judges of moral character, but they should get a chance to see who their boyfriends really are, shouldn’t they? Any girl with half a brain would bail on them in a nanosecond.
I’ve seen it again and again, though, and it’s impossible to ignore: the supposedly “hottest” girls like the jerkiest guys. All I can do is hope and pray that Bijou, the cutest and coolest girl of them all, turns out to be different.
Speaking of Bijou, it’s sure been hard to get in touch with her since the date. She seriously must be the only person in the St. Cathopher’s universe to not have a phone. I’ve been losing my mind; I really, really want to talk to her. Luckily, Mary Agnes, innovative as usual, has come up with a solution.
During school hours, I can send a text to Mary Agnes, and she’ll pass it on to Bijou. In turn, Bijou can use Mary Agnes’s phone to text me. Of course, this means that Bijou’s self-appointed best friend knows every single thought, every emotion that passes between us, but for now, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
“Put ‘FOR B’ at the beginning, and I won’t read those ones,” Mary Agnes said.
Yeah, right.
So Bijou and I have kept things pretty basic. I’ve asked her how things are going, how her day went, stuff like that. And her responses have been pretty, let’s say, nonspecific. I mean, I know it’s her, not Mary Agnes, writing them. There have been references to Jou Jou, to Rara Gran Bwa, to her aunt and uncle. But if I’m going to have so few opportunities to actually hang out in public with the girl I like, I’m going to have to find a way to get to know her, a way for her to get to know me, without Mary Agnes having access to our private feelings.
So I’ve come up with something: the Trini-Daddy’s tree—an idea so old-school, so simple, I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out. But now that I have, I love it. It totally avoids detection by anybody but me and Bijou, and while it’s almost as labor-intensive as the Pony Express, it’s also pretty fun.
Yesterday, I sent Bijou a text at Mary Agnes’s number that said, “Something for U. Trini-Daddy’s Tree. Look after school today.” That was it! And the genius part is that Trini-Daddy’s isn’t listed on Google or through 411. I checked, and unless you live in Flatbush and walk by the place every day—which, with the sole exception of Bijou, nobody from either St. Chris’s or St. Cat’s ever does—it’s virtually impossible to trace. I wrote her this letter, where I put everything I’ve been thinking since the day we met into words. Am I nuts?
Nomura thinks so, that I’m saying too much, too soon, but I don’t care. If I don’t tell her this stuff, I’m going to go loony, and I’m no good to anyone completely off my rocker. So I just went for it, speeding through the note in about seven minutes, and now I can barely remember a word of it. I hope I didn’t say anything completely crazy.
18
Our Own Gran Bwa
I walk down Flatbush Avenue, following Alex’s instructions exactly. The note is right where he said it would be, stuffed into a small knot in the tree outside Trini-Daddy’s. I don’t know about this crazy boy, leaving me notes in bushes and trees. What is he going to say? There is a part of me that is excited, and flattered, but a bigger part of me that is terrified of anyone seeing me. Especially my uncle, although yes, I do know that Tonton Pierre is not following me around, looking at everything I do. It only feels that way.
I look at the tree, which is a very tall one, at least twenty-five feet, impressive for a sidewalk in the middle of a busy city. Did Alex realize that he was directing me to our own Gran Bwa? The tree’s branches spread wide, like open arms, like a giant conductor that organizes the honking car horns, the throaty yells of the street, into a driving, powerful rhythm.
How strange it must look for a girl to pull paper out of a tree. And how embarrassing. But Alex was smart about one thing: this section of Flatbush Avenue is as busy as it gets. I could be walking down the street with half my clothes off in the middle of winter, and no one would be bothered. These New York people, they keep their eyes in front of them at all times and do not bother with the doings of others.
I look in both directions, pull the note out, then quickly enter the stream of walking traffic.
Dear Bijou,
Please God, I hope it’s you, Bijou, reading this, and not some creep on the street. (If this is a creep on the street, you should put this letter down right now because it’s not for you. It belongs to me, and it belongs to Bijou, but anybody else? Well, it’s none of your business, so put it back where it belongs so Bijou can find it the way she’s meant to.)
Anyway, Bijou, did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you? I’m pretty sure you couldn’t, or didn’t, see me, but I saw you. And you know how in movies, you hear people say things like “my heart stopped” or “time stopped” or “love hit me like an arrow”? Well, I always thought that was a bunch of junk, but when I first saw you at Peas n’ Pickles with Mary Agnes, it was exactly like that. Like my life had changed in a millisecond, and I would never be the same.
I felt different, as in like the person I was before but bigger and better. I felt like, and I don’t mean this to sound strange, but I felt like I was meant to know you, that somehow you were going to be a part of my life. Don’t ask me how, but I knew it.
It’s not because you’re pretty. I mean, you’re really, really, really pretty, prettier than any other girl I’ve ever seen, but it’s not like that at all. It’s more like there was something about you that made me think we were meant to get to know each other better. (A look in your eyes? An expression? I honestly don’t know for sure.) And not just to be a “couple,” but really, truly get to know each other. And I knew I needed to do whatever I could to get to meet you.
I hope that doesn’t sound weird, but it’s the truth!
If you want to write me back, and I hope you do, you can leave a letter for me right here in this tree.
Your friend,
Alex
P.S. I’m seeing you for the movie Saturday, right? I hope so….
He is not holding anything back, is he? I look up and down the street, making sure that no one I know can see me. If Alex is trying to make me blush as badly as he does, he is succeeding, and even my complexion is not able to hide it. This is a sweet boy I have met, a very sweet one.
Which is why I have so many different feelings as I read the letter, then read it a second time, taking care not to bump into anyone on the crowded sidewalk. Have I ever been so excited to see someone? I don’t think so! Thinking about this sweet, blushing boy, it gives me gooseflesh.
But another part of me feels guilty, so guilty and wrong, for lying to Pierre and Marie Claire.
It took nearly an hour of pleading, almost begging, before they would allow me to do what they think I am going to do on Saturday afternoon: spend it with Maricel and Mary Agnes at Mary Agnes’s house. “Even the suggestion is outrageous!” was the first thing Tonton Pierre said when I brought up the idea of spending only a few hours with a couple of friends from school.
I did do one thing right, though: I brought it up with Marie Claire first. And I made sure to tell her all about the girls, who had been “so supportive and kind” to me during these first months in America.
“Pierre, this is what American girls do: they spend time together,” Marie Claire said only a few minutes later, trying to build up my case to Uncle. “They get to know each other.”
In the end, though, she convinced him, on the condition that he would speak to Mary Agnes’s mother beforehand, and that he would have the phone number and address of the Bradys’ house in Park Slope, only a couple of miles from Flatbush. (He even wanted to go by the Bradys’ house and look at it, but we talked him out of it, thank God.) Finally, he made me swear that I would be seeing only the two girls and that I would not leave Mary Agnes’s house during the entire time I was to be there, under any circumstances.
Uh-oh. I did swear to it. I lied to the face of my mother’s brother. To see a boy! I can only pray that everything goes exactly as planned, because if I get caught, that will be the end.
Can Mary Agnes really be right, that we can go out to the movie without her mother noticing? According to Mary Agnes, every Saturday afternoon, no exceptions, her mother leaves at 2 p.m. and does not return until five. The movie begins at two thirty and will end before four thirty. That gives us a few minutes to say good-bye to the boys before returning to Mary Agnes’s house, which is only three blocks from the theater. Then my uncle will pick me up at exactly six o’clock. He is never late.
So, yes, a part of me is so frightened that some small detail in our plan will go wrong. But there is another part of me, almost as big, that doesn’t care at all, that wants to tell Tonton Pierre, “You are not my father, and you are not the boss of me!”
And this, too: now that I am in America, is it so wrong that I should be allowed to enjoy the simple things that other American kids do? It is so hard being here, so far away from those I truly do consider family—Maman and Gran-Papa—that I feel I should be able to do what I want. I have lost so much; shouldn’t I be allowed to have even a little fun? I think so.
19
No Drumming at the Table
“What the heck is that ugly thing?” Dolly asks. We’re helping Mom get dinner ready in the kitchen, and it’s the first time either one of them has laid eyes on my new drum, which I told them I borrowed from Mr. Sinclair, the goofy, mustachioed music teacher who actually does have a bunch of weird bongos and other things lying around his office. I’m sitting on a stool and giving them a sample of my flashy new skills.
