I picture American gangsters, with cops chasing the bad guys.
“I take tennis lessons at a really nice place on Post Road in Norwalk,” Miguel counters. “You’ll still stay over on weekends.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll come and get you. I promise. Don’t worry, dude. It’ll be fine.”
I nod and try to smile, but I know he’s just being nice. Everything’s changing again.
Twenty-Six
April 1994
It’s my last day at Bedford Middle School and I never even had my own locker, or textbooks to keep in it. Only the principal, my teachers, and Miguel, Darren, and Kyle know I’ll be moving on Friday, with less than two months left in the school year. I plan to quietly say goodbye to my classmates at recess.
I’m in a lousy mood as I shuffle to Mr. Sullivan’s English class, sad that I’m leaving, sure nobody but me cares.
Miguel is waiting for me outside the classroom door. “We can’t go inside yet,” he says.
“Vhy not?” I ask, confused.
“Just wait,” Miguel tells me.
A few minutes later two of the girls from the class open the door and stick their heads out, ponytails swinging. “You can come in now.”
As we enter, I see that everybody’s wearing silly cone-shaped paper hats. The word Goodbye is written on the blackboard in different colored chalk, in German, Italian, Spanish, English, and Bosnian, with See you later, Kenan underneath. Mr. Sullivan sits at the table behind a cake shaped like a cheeseburger. There are two vanilla layers for the bun, chocolate in the middle for the meat, and yellow frosting in between as the cheese.
“The cake was Miguel’s idea,” Mr. Sullivan says. “For your favorite American food.”
I don’t understand what’s going on.
“We’re throwing you a going-away party,” Miguel whispers.
I feel my mouth hanging open in shock. I’ve been a student here for only five months. I wasn’t sure they even liked me. Jill and a bunch of other girls from my class put their arms around me as Mr. Sullivan snaps photographs. “Say cheeseburger,” he says, adding, “I’ll get copies made for Miguel to give to you.”
He assumes I’ll be staying in touch with Miguel, but I’m not so sure.
“Why are you moving?” Jill wants to know.
“And where are you going?” asks another girl, Anne.
“Dad vorking new job,” I explain. I leave out that it’s on the assembly line of a fruit cup factory in Norwalk, afraid she’ll know how poor we are.
I wish they had asked me questions and stood this close before. Then again, I should have had more courage to speak, especially to the girls, instead of hiding behind Miguel. But I was afraid my raggedy English and clothes wouldn’t measure up.
The celebration lasts the entire period. My classmates and I eat slices of the cheeseburger cake, which is rich and delicious, along with Coke and nacho chips. They present me with an empty book, so each page can be signed by a different classmate. Everyone crowds around me, waiting to write me a goodbye note in bright-colored markers and asking, “So what do you think of our country?” “Did you like Bedford?” “How is it different from your old school?” “Will you visit us?”
For a while, I’m as popular as I was in my old fifth-grade class in Bosnia. Even more. I feel honored and special, like a foreign diplomat. I know it’s only for one hour, but I don’t want it to end.
Then Mr. Sullivan stands up and takes a letter from his folder. He holds the page carefully and slowly reads aloud, like he’s reciting a poem:
Dear Kenan,
When you came here last November, I had no idea what a wonderful student would be joining our class. You turned out to be a teacher as well, showing us how a person survives a courageous journey and starts over with integrity and grace. On behalf of everyone at Bedford, thank you. If English is a difficult tongue to learn, you’ve encouraged us to speak more carefully. Time is all you need, the other strengths are already within you—your sense of goodness in a troubled world, your wish to understand and be understood, your love for your family and country. Someday, if you return to your former home across the ocean, I hope you will bring with you inspiring stories of how people can help each other. If you need anything, I’m always here for you.
He hands me the paper. It’s signed Cordially, Mr. Sullivan.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking. Nobody’s ever written or said anything that’s made me feel so valued. I’m so choked up, I can barely tuck the letter into my pocket.
As I walk out of this classroom for the last time, I shake Mr. Sullivan’s hand, blinking so no tears will escape. It’s so unfair that I’ll never see Bedford Middle School again.
The worst part is leaving Miguel. I’m sure he’s going to just forget about me. After all, friends I knew my whole life forgot and betrayed me, and I’ve known Miguel for only five months.
“I’ll talk to you in a few weeks,” he says as we walk outside to get on our separate buses.
I want to believe him when he says he’ll visit me, or that his mother will pick me up to take me to his house on weekends. He doesn’t have my new phone number—I don’t even have it yet—but I know his by heart. If I’m understanding him correctly, he doesn’t want me to use it for a few weeks. That’s a bad sign. He’s already drifting away.
As I board the bus for my final ride to Don’s, I try to keep the tears from blurring my vision. When I sit down in my usual spot in the front row, Offir turns around and asks, “What’s wrong? Why do you look so sad today?”
“Last day of school. Vee move to Norvalk,” I mumble, staring out the window.
“Smile. Sometimes change is good,” he tells me.
“But I like it here. Don’t vant to leave. Made friends.”
“Try to think positive. You have to move on, like me. I’m going to become an engineer in the city. I’m not driving this bus forever,” Offir says. “It’s just a steppingstone.”
I picture a frog jumping from a small rock to a big rock. I know my problems are nothing compared with the kids who can’t escape Bosnia’s war zone, getting shot at for being on the wrong side of a battle that doesn’t even make sense. I know I’m lucky we’re safe in a country where nobody tries to kill us. But I’m mad at God again for making me move.
At Don and Katie’s, I show everyone the letter Mr. Sullivan wrote and the scrapbook all the kids signed. Don asks me to read it aloud.
“‘Make sure you come visit.’ That’s my classmate Doug,” I say. “And Jill vrote, ‘Ve’ll all really miss you.’”
“Look, she drew a red heart,” Eldin teases. “She likes you.”
I feel my cheeks getting hot. Jill’s the prettiest girl in the class.
“‘We’re still going to play hockey and football, dude.’ That’s from Miguel.” I continue reading. “‘It was great meeting you and fun to have you at Bedford.’”
“What a lovely memento,” Katie says.
“We’re so glad you made good friends here,” Don tells me.
“Yeah, but I vish I could see them again,” I say sadly. “And I heard Norvalk isn’t as nice.”
“That’s not true. There are good people everywhere,” Don says. But I’m not convinced.
Mom goes upstairs to finish packing.
* * *
The next morning, we carry our stuff out to Don’s burgundy Ford Explorer. We don’t have much—only our four suitcases and a couple of Marshalls tote bags. As we’re getting into the SUV, Katie pulls her spiffy red Mazda out of the garage. Ellie Lowenstein drives up in her Honda, and her husband, Richard, follows in a big, boxy, yellow Ryder rental truck.
Dick opens the rear of the truck to reveal secondhand furniture donated by members of the Westport Interfaith Council: There are three mattresses with three metal bed frames, along with an oak coffee table, a tall lamp with a lopsided gray shade, a small television, a beige recliner, and a desk. I also see a plaid orange couch that smells like someone’s musty baseme
nt. An oval brown kitchen table leans against the truck’s side, with four chairs stacked on top of one another. I even spot four skinny, rusty silver Schwinn bicycles way in the back. They look like the bikes elderly men in my country ride, but at least we’ll have wheels.
We need a whole caravan to move us this time. Eldin goes in the Honda with Ellie, Dad rides in the truck with Dick, and Mom drives with Katie. I rush to sit next to Don in the front seat of the Explorer. He talks the whole way, passing four highway exits before he turns off the interstate. It’s a 7.4-mile ride, I clock it.
“Connecticut Avenue is another name for Route 1. It’s one of the first roads in America. In olden days, it was for horses and carriages,” Don says, trying to cheer me up. “If you stay on it, you can drive all the way to Florida.” I picture orange trees, beaches, and Disney World at the end of the highway.
We pull into a parking lot next to a three-story redbrick building. There’s a big chestnut tree on the front lawn, the kind we had at school in Brčko. I count the buzzers by the front door—twelve units. Mom points to a window on the second floor and says, “That’s ours.”
I wonder if all the people who live here are renting their apartments, like us. The neighborhood seems deserted. Across the street there’s a factory surrounded by a big fence, but it’s not the one where my father and brother work—the Polystar factory is a few blocks away. There aren’t any kids playing outdoors. At Don’s, I had a lawn where I could throw a ball around.
“Tell Cary I said goodbye again,” I tell Don.
“You’ll come over for dinner and visit him,” he assures me. “And when we go on vacation this summer, I hope you’ll take care of him for me.”
“Of course,” I promise.
We go inside and walk up a flight of stairs. The hallway smells like foreign spices. Ellie gives Mom the key and she unlocks our door.
The walls are white, and the shiny wooden floors smell of varnish. It looks like a shoebox with sliding windows. Though there’s two bedrooms, it’s half the size of our Bosnian apartment, with no balcony, views, or matching furniture. This is only temporary, I remind myself. Our old place will be there waiting for us after we win the war.
Eldin, Dad, and I unload the furniture from the truck, doing the heavy lifting while Dick and Don carry in our bags. Mom, Katie, and Ellie go to Stop & Shop to buy groceries and cleaning supplies with the $100 gift certificate the church donated, plus another $150 from Dad’s and Eldin’s factory checks. After paying the first month’s rent, we have hardly anything left in the bank until their next paychecks, Mom says.
I help my brother carry two of the mattresses and frames into our bedroom. I don’t tell him I’m secretly glad we’ll be sharing a room again. But I wish Cary could still wake me up every morning.
“My bed looks saggy,” I complain. “I miss Don’s already.” I’m so tired of moving. Just as I start to learn my way around a place, we have to leave. I feel like Robinson Crusoe from Eldin’s book that I’d loved reading as a kid: a prisoner shipwrecked on the Island of Despair. Except my journey’s more disaster than brave adventure. “At least in Westport, if I got lost, all I’d have to say is ‘Don Hodges’ Methodist Church’ and someone would take me there.”
“We’ll figure out Norwalk,” Eldin assures me. “We won’t have to walk on eggshells here anymore. We can eat anything we want and make noise. It’s small, but it’s our own.”
Now that I’ve lost Miguel and the guys, I need my brother as my friend again. “Want to see if there’s a playground?” I ask.
“I’ll explore with you later,” he says, and heads back out to the parking lot.
We carry everything else from the truck into the apartment and put the bicycles in the laundry room downstairs. After Mom unpacks the groceries, Don announces, “I’m taking you out to lunch to commemorate this historic day.” We drive the different cars to a nearby Pizza Hut, where Don orders appetizers and two kinds of pizza pies I’ve never had, the cheese-filled crust rich and gooey. I dip chicken wings in blue cheese sauce and drink two cans of fizzy A&W root beer. There are always new treats to try in America.
“Congratulations on your new beginning!” Don holds up his glass, and we all toast with our sodas, as if we’re celebrating something joyous. But it doesn’t feel that way to me.
After lunch, Don drives me back to our Norwalk place in silence. He walks me to the door of the building and gives me a big bear hug. “I’ll see you real soon, buddy, when you come to visit.”
When? I’m afraid to ask, in case he’s just being polite. I don’t want to seem too desperate.
“The electricity is already turned on. Your phone will work tomorrow, and the cable company will come as soon as they can,” says Ellie, ever the organizer.
“Will you take me to fill out an application at the Nivea cream factory?” my mother asks her.
Wait. If everyone’s working, who will be here for me when I get home from school every afternoon?
“And I need to buy hair dye,” she adds. I can see gray strands at her roots.
“We’ll do that on Monday morning, right after I take Kenan to his new school,” Ellie says.
My heart aches as our Westport friends turn to leave, waving goodbye as they get into their cars and drive away. We go inside, up the stairs, and into our new apartment, filled with unfamiliar furniture and smells.
Our door is still open when a short, dark-haired lady peeks in, surprising us. She’s carrying a little Yorkie. “Hi. I’m Betsy. I live across the hall with my husband, José,” she says quickly, in a squeaky accent I don’t recognize. I bet the spices we smelled were hers. She looks like she’s in her twenties, a little older than Eldin. “Where are you guys from?” she wants to know.
After we tell her, Betsy says she’s a nurse from Puerto Rico and José works as a garbageman but is really a boxer. I’m psyched to meet another immigrant in our building. I reach out to pet her dog, but he yaps, and I jump back.
“Tiny tries to be a tough guy, but he’s a sweetie,” she says. “Don’t show him you’re scared.” She puts Tiny down, and he rushes up to my leg, sniffing, then barking. Cary is older and mellower than this hyper mini puppy. I wish I were playing catch with Cary on Don’s lawn right now.
When Betsy and Tiny leave, I ask my brother, “Where’s her country?”
“Puerto Rico’s part of the U.S., in the Caribbean,” he says. So she’s not an immigrant after all. I’m bummed. I was hoping we wouldn’t be the only foreigners on our floor.
Mom takes out new sheets and pillowcases from their plastic wrappings and makes our beds, which she covers with scratchy hand-me-down wool blankets. In our bedroom, Eldin and I test out our mattresses. The springs in mine squeak and feel unsturdy.
“There’s room for your clothes in here,” Mom says, pointing to the dresser drawers.
I put away my underwear, shirts, socks, and the stuff Katie and Don gave me.
Mom takes the plastic mop, sprays, and sponges she just bought and goes at it until the entire place smells like detergent. “Don’t sit on the toilet until I scour it,” she says, scrubbing everything before putting away our new shampoo, toothpaste, soap, and deodorants. She rushes around the kitchen, washing the refrigerator and cabinets before putting away the pots and pans. She uses newspaper to wipe the windows. She’s cleaning like crazy, the way she did in Bosnia. I can tell she’s excited that we aren’t guests anymore, and she wants every inch of countertop here to be spotless now that it’s hers.
“Who knows what the previous tenants kept in there,” she says, wiping the inside of the microwave. I’m glad she’s energized, but I know this is just another temporary layover.
For dinner Mom makes meatballs in tomato sauce and rice, with slices of Italian bread that I dip into the red gravy the way I used to. We eat slowly in our new kitchen. It tastes good and salty, but everyone’s quiet. I think we’re all a bit shell-shocked. It’s sinking in: this is where we live now. I look around at the mismatched
furniture, worn out, like us.
“When are they coming to turn on the cable?” I ask Dad.
“Ellie said probably on Monday.”
Without the TV, I don’t have Wolf and Christiane to keep me company. All the nice people who have befriended us are miles away. We don’t even have a phone hooked up to call anyone. As the sky darkens, there’s no traffic noise, cricket sounds, or even dogs barking. I feel abandoned again. Through the curtainless windows, I stare at the sagging house next door. Next to it, there’s a dumpster overflowing with black garbage bags.
We’re alone. We barely speak the language. We have thirteen dollars in the bank. All I keep thinking is When do I get to go home?
Twenty-Seven
“The next time I move, it’s back to our country,” I tell Mom on Monday morning as I sit with her, eating toast with grape jam for breakfast. This kitchen is wider than ours was in Bosnia and lighter, with white cabinets and counters. I’m wearing one of the turtleneck sweaters Don and Katie gave me and my best jeans, which are still a little too big. It’s better than my too-small old Wranglers and gray sweater, but I still wish my clothes fit right for a change. I’m bummed that I have to start all over now, at practically the end of the school year, in yet another place where everybody knows everybody else, but not me.
“Just do well in your classes,” Mom says. “That’s your job now.”
At seven thirty Ellie’s silver Honda pulls into the apartment complex parking lot. Ponus Ridge Middle School is only a fifteen-minute drive, in a residential part of town that has bigger houses separated by more trees. It’s brown brick and looks larger and more rectangular than Bedford Middle School—there’s a bigger playground in the front and I see outdoor basketball courts and a baseball field—a good sign.
Students are streaming in through the front doors, and we follow. The halls are more crowded than at Bedford, and I’m stoked to see that some of the Norwalk kids have black and brown skin and look like they’re from many different backgrounds. Some wear baggy ripped jeans and neon shirts and socks. What a relief, after being surrounded by mostly rich white kids who all wore the same preppy-looking polo shirts and beige pants. A few guys we pass on the way to the office have cool Knicks, Nets, and Yankees jerseys with matching caps that they wear sideways. I want one that says Giants, Don’s favorite team.
World in Between Page 21
