Towers Falling Read online

  Ma says I’m not supposed to take anything from anybody. But I don’t think Ben and Sabeen count. They’re kids. Nobodies.

  I bite the sandwich, tasting sweet pickle in the tuna.

  “Immigration,” Ben murmurs. “Fourth grade. ‘America is a land of immigrants,’ our book said.”

  I scowl at know-it-all Ben. “Some were forced.”

  “Slaves,” Sabeen nods.

  “Apache. They were overrun. Killed. Their land stolen.”

  Sabeen and me both look at Ben.

  With his index finger, he pushes his glasses high on his nose. “At my old school, we always talk about who was already here. In America.”

  “I never thought about that,” I say. And I haven’t. Why should I care, anyway? Knowing about Apache doesn’t buy me lunch.

  “Lenape,” says Sabeen. “Third grade, we did a study unit. Lenape first settled what we call New York.”

  “Any Lenape go to this school?” I ask, scowling.

  “No,” says Sabeen.

  “But it seems like everyone else in the world does.”

  I stare at the map. Pakistan. Germany. Japan. The world is so big. Kids from all over.

  I pluck another orange pin. Orange, for me. I push it into Africa’s coast and angle the thread to New York.

  “Thanks for lunch,” I say. The bell rings.

  “Come on,” says Sabeen. Ben walks, his cowboy boots clack on the linoleum. I trail behind, gobbling the rest of my sandwich.

  I hate Avalon Family Residence. I like here—walking these halls, amazed that Ben and Sabeen, for no reason, decided to be my friends.

  AVALON

  Avalon Family Residence has day care. It’s supposed to help parents find jobs. I pick up Raymond, who has green finger paint on his shirt, and Leda, who sucks her pink pacifier.

  I take the pacifier away. Leda wails, “Dèja, Dèja.”

  “Okay, okay. But you’re almost three.”

  “Not care,” says Leda, sucking the rubber loud and furious.

  I lift Leda onto my hip. I grab Raymond’s hand. “Why didn’t you wear an apron?”

  “I painted a monster.”

  “Pop’s going to shout ‘monster’ when he sees how dirty you are.”

  Ray’s face droops; Leda stops sucking.

  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have scared them. Pop doesn’t hit, but he’s still scary when he’s mad. And he can be mad about anything—coffee too cold, rain or no rain, wind, too little or too much, even paint on a shirt. When something needs cleaning, Ma, tired, looks at me. I clean the mess, but I don’t mind.

  “Here, I’ve got a cookie.” I pull it out of my pocket. It’s all crumbles. Ray and Leda don’t care. We sit on the steps outside Avalon Family Residence. There’s no air-conditioning inside and even though the sun beats on us hard, we’ll stay on the steps until Ma gets home.

  Pop might be upstairs. But he might be dreaming hard, his head hurting like it’s going to explode.

  It’s best to stay outside. No one soothes Pop better than Ma.

  Me, I watch over Ray. He leaps up and down the steps with some other boys. I watch to make sure he doesn’t get hurt, doesn’t get bullied.

  There’re all kinds of folks milling about outdoors, some indoors. Some curse, some just talk. All kinds of families—small ones, large ones, all colors—without an apartment or house. Some are clean but a bit shabby (like me, Ray, and Leda). A few are a mess—dirty and stinky. Loud. Drinking beer wrapped in a paper bag. I’m glad Pop doesn’t drink. No one’s supposed to drink at Avalon.

  I pat Leda’s head. “Want a story?”

  She snuggles onto my lap like a baby doll. “Lenape,” I say. “Long, long time ago, before cars and buses, and streetlights and houses, the Lenape lived in New York. They owned the whole place. Can you believe that, Leda?”

  Leda stops sucking. The pacifier rests in her lap. She claps her hands and squeals. I tickle her belly, then hug her tight and rock.

  “Hey, Ray,” I wave.

  He smiles. I’m happy. Today was a good day.

  FRIDAY

  School is like school, except it’s harder. It’s only been four days, and my mind is already stuffed.

  Miss Garcia doesn’t yell—she’s stern but soft and nice, too. She doesn’t just point to the whiteboard and say, “See, see?” She explains hard things like reducing fractions and turning them into decimals. Decimals are fractions even when they’re not.

  I sometimes don’t see. Math is tough, and I feel dumb and get upset. She walks between desks, watching us work. When she stops and whispers to me how to fix a problem, I get more upset. Tears fill my eyes, and I really can’t see. I think how her whispers are telling all the other kids that I’m stupid. She moves on, walking to the end of our row.

  Ben stares, owl-eyed, behind his round wire glasses.

  “Who’re you looking at?” I whisper fierce.

  He smiles and offers me a big pink eraser. I want to throw it at his head.

  “After school, I’ll show you. It’s—”

  Please don’t say easy, I think. I’ll smack him if he says easy.

  “—hard. Until you remember decimals are just a fraction of one hundred.”

  I take the eraser.

  Miss Garcia says, “Think critically.”

  Think what?

  “What’s memorable about New York?”

  Everybody starts raising hands, shouting. “Rockettes”; “Empire State Building”; “Rockefeller Center”; “Horses in Central Park.”

  I’ve seen horses and carriages in Central Park. But I don’t know “Rockettes”—what is that? I’ve never seen the Empire State Building up close or visited Rockefeller Center.

  “Oh, oh, pick me.”

  “Yes, Charles,” answers Miss Garcia.

  Charles has black slick hair and long lashes like a girl. He grins, looks back at Ben. “The naked cowboy. Underpants, boots, and a cowboy hat.”

  Everyone laughs. Except Ben and me.

  “Don’t make fun of Ben,” I shout. I’m standing, fists balled. Ben sits. He doesn’t even know when he’s been disrespected.

  “Just ’cause Ben wears cowboy boots doesn’t mean you can make fun of him.” There! I’ve made everyone shut up. They all look at me. Scared. Respectful. Sabeen, though, just looks sad.

  Miss Garcia click-clicks her heels down the aisle. She puts a hand on my shoulder. I don’t know why, but I notice her nails are pink. Like pink nails are important or something.

  “Dèja, it’s true. There really is a naked cowboy in Times Square. Tourists take pictures with him.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

  “It’s true,” repeats Ben. “When we moved here, my mother took me to Times Square.”

  I’m really dumb—all I know is Brooklyn. Mainly, the not-so-nice parts. I’ve never crossed the river except once. The long-ago day in Central Park.

  “There’s also Big Bird, Minnie Mouse, and SpongeBob.”

  “Really?”

  Sabeen nods. Miss Garcia nods. Everybody nods, even Ben, who’s just moved to New York while I’ve lived here my whole life.

  I look into Miss Garcia’s mournful eyes. I can tell she doesn’t want me to say I’m sorry. But I would if she asked me to. She squeezes my shoulder.

  “Class, I want to show you something.” Miss Garcia walks back to her desk. I sit. No one looks at me anymore.

  Ben passes me a note. “Thanks,” it says. I stuff his note in my pocket.

  “Now, class. Study this.”

  It’s a black-and-white, poster-sized picture of New York. Anybody can see that.

  It’s not Brooklyn. It’s Manhattan. You can see the East River. And right across the river are hundreds of tall buildings, some shooting straight, piercing the clouds. Others, not as tall, close the gaps between skyscrapers. Nothing but a hodgepodge of brick, glass, and concrete.

  “What do you see?”

  “Buildings.”

  �
��Lots of buildings.”

  “Can’t see over them, can’t see under them, can’t see through them,” says Ben.

  Sabeen giggles; everybody else laughs.

  “Going on a Bear Hunt,” says Ben, as if that’s supposed to make sense.

  I squirm in my chair. I don’t belong here. There’s too much I don’t understand. The kids are weird. This school is weird.

  “Now, class, come over to the windows.”

  Everyone clambers up. Including Ben.

  Not me. I slouch.

  “What do you see?”

  Dumb question, I think. Maybe this school isn’t so special after all. Miss Garcia isn’t special.

  Everyone leans against the windows. Sabeen breathes on the glass and draws a heart.

  “Pay attention,” says Miss Garcia. “What do you see?”

  “New York,” some kids murmur; others say, “Manhattan.” “A sunny day in Manhattan.”

  “Think. See. Compare.” Miss Garcia holds the poster picture high. High above her short head.

  Everybody keeps staring out the windows. Even Miss Garcia. She’s breathing quick like she’s upset, like she can’t get enough air.

  I get up, stare at the poster. Then I see it. Two tall and taller buildings.

  I stand, speechless, pointing at the wall of windows.

  It’s Ben who hollers, “The two towers. The two towers are gone.”

  Now everyone sees.

  The skyline’s changed. The two rectangular towers in the photo are gone, replaced by one glittering tower with a pointy top pricking the sky.

  “Where’d they go?” I ask.

  Some kids look strangely at me.

  “It’s terrible,” murmurs Sabeen.

  “Terrible,” echoes Angel. She’s the pretty girl. Black hair, blue eyes, and pink lip gloss. But she’s nice. Even I have to admit she’s nice. She’s pretty but doesn’t act like it—snotty, better than everyone else.

  “Some of you know,” says Miss Garcia.

  Know what? I wonder.

  Michael bends, untying then tying his Nikes again and again.

  Angel picks at her nails. Another kid crosses his arms over his chest. I do the same when I don’t want anyone to touch me.

  Others are looking wide-eyed (maybe scared?) at Miss Garcia.

  “Nobody talks about it. Not really,” says Michael.

  Talks about what? Missing buildings?

  “This Sunday is the fifteenth anniversary,” Ben says.

  “That’s right, Ben.”

  “What anniversary?” I ask.

  “My cousin died,” murmurs Angel.

  “It was just a big accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Mom says not to talk about it,” sighs Elise, twirling hair around her finger.

  Voices pop about the room. “… like an action movie. Boom.”

  Miss Garcia shoots Gregory a look. “Inappropriate,” she says.

  “People died?” I ask, puzzling.

  Everyone’s chattering. Everybody knows something different. I don’t know anything.

  “Come to attention. Now.” Everyone quiets. Miss Garcia has a stern face. “We’ll be studying what happened on September 11, 2001, when the towers fell.”

  Hands stuffed in his back pockets, trying to be cool, Trevor shouts, “Who cares? 9/11 was before I was born.”

  Ben scowls. Miss Garcia wrings her hands. “There’s a great deal to think about, to learn.”

  I think Trevor’s right. “Before I was born” is ancient history. It’s enough figuring out now. “Who cares?” is right.

  “Muslims did it,” says Pete, who wears a Yankees cap.

  “That’s not true,” insists Sabeen. “I mean, it is but it isn’t true.”

  Miss Garcia clutches Sabeen’s hand. “For now, we’ll start slow. Study, observe. One day we’ll cross the Brooklyn Bridge. To visit the memorial.”

  “A field trip?” asks George.

  “Yes. Maybe.” Miss Garcia turns away from the windows. “This is a new, challenging lesson plan. One step at a time.” She pastes on a smile. “Today we start with home, what we know.

  “As homework, I want each of you to write and show where you live. Your house or your apartment. You can draw a picture, build using sticks or clay. Mrs. Campbell, the art teacher, has supplies, and she’s happy to work with you during art class and after school.

  “Why’s home important?” Miss Garcia asks hopefully.

  The nerd at the window—I shouldn’t call him a nerd, but he’s white with an Afro and thick black glasses, plus he’s got a black, silver-buckled belt and white tennis shoes. He looks like a nerd to me. Super smart. He says, “Home. It’s where we come from. Who we are.”

  “Good, Ellis. Home shapes all of us. So let’s share our homes, where we live. Let’s create, talk, and write about who we are.”

  Murmurs of happiness. Nobody minds this assignment, I think, except me. And Trevor.

  The bell rings. School’s over.

  “Dèja, may I see you?” asks Miss Garcia.

  Ben asks, “Want me to wait?”

  I think, Who’re you? Why should I care?

  I dip my head, my chin touching my chest. The hardest word for me to say is please. Being poor, you’ve sometimes got to ask for stuff—food, toothpaste, even soap.

  I don’t want to ask anybody for anything.

  “Yes, please.” I swallow. “Don’t think I like you.”

  “I know,” says Ben. “I don’t like you, either.”

  Miss Garcia is beautiful. Not like a model beautiful, but her hair is shiny, her skin is bright, and from inside her you can feel she wants to help. Like she believes teaching is helping, not babysitting.

  Like who I am matters. I’m only used to Ma believing in me like that.

  “Dèja, you live in Avalon, right?”

  My body’s hot. I want to slap the desk, slap, maybe, even Miss Garcia’s face.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I murmur.

  “You can draw, create the space where you lived before. You don’t need to write about Avalon.”

  “The time before?” I whisper.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “No, thank you. I’ll draw a picture of where I live now. It’s my home.” I almost choke saying the word home. “Does everybody know?”

  “Where you live?” She squeezes my shoulder. “Only me, other teachers. The principal.”

  I stare at the floor. Speckled linoleum. Why can’t there be an earthquake? Why can’t I be swallowed up and die?

  I won’t lie. “My home is Avalon now.”

  The clock ticktocks. Ticktocks. “Okay,” says Miss Garcia. “But, Dèja, you can’t just refuse an assignment. Not turn it in. Sometimes I can change the topic. You don’t have to write about summer vacation. Or Avalon. But you need to practice writing, Dèja. It’s important.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t say ‘yes, ma’am,’ if you’re just being polite. I’d rather you say, ‘I’m going to work. Be a good student.’”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Exasperated, Miss Garcia sighs.

  I clasp my fingers behind my back. Squeeze them hard.

  “You’ll let me know how I can help?”

  My mother talks about folks who are well-meaning. “Sometimes well-meaning isn’t enough, Dèja,” Ma says.

  Not writing about Avalon isn’t going to help me. Sooner or later kids will find out where I live, and those that don’t want to speak to me, won’t. No one’s got to be my friend.

  I turn to go. It’s raining. Figures. It’s a light, misty rain, and across the river, I see the new sparkly tower. In class, every day, I’m going to be bothered by it. Why did Miss Garcia show us a picture of what used to be?

  “Miss Garcia,” I say, pointing, “what’s home got to do with that skyline?”

  “That’s our journey this month. Figuring it all out. Home is our starting point for connecting to the past.”

  Miss Garcia’s expres
sion is complicated, all mixed up with sadness, excitement, and dread.

  Maybe teachers really are smart. If she were a kid, she’d say, “My secret, yours to find out.”

  I walk quickly down the hall and leap the school steps. Ray and Leda will be worrying where I’ve been.

  Sabeen waves, then climbs into a black SUV. “’Bye, Dèja.” I bet Sabeen doesn’t know gangs like SUVs. I bet it’s her mother holding the umbrella over her.

  Ben is a walker. He’ll find his own way home. He doesn’t call my name, just holds up his hand, and I like that. Like he was checking to see if I was all right. I grin. Ben’s goofy, getting wet in his hoodie and cowboy boots. I start running as if rain is never going to drip on me.

  Before—when I had a real home—I bet Ben would’ve been the kind of boy to race me. All the way home.

  RUINED WEEKEND

  I haven’t written anything. What’s there to say when home is a room filled with garbage that we pretend is important? Like Ma’s broken Hope Chest. Once, it was filled with things she sewed, like holiday linens and napkins, crocheted baby blankets. But now there’re no more holiday tables with turkey and Shirley Temples. “Definitely, no more babies,” Ma says. So the tablecloth and blankets got sold.

  In Jamaica, Ma’s ma taught her, “A good woman has a clean house. Everything should be in its proper place.” But Ma and me are both too tired out. It’s hard with no sink. With clothes and broken toys in boxes, not any chairs, only beds. The neatest thing in the whole room is a locked suitcase. No one is allowed to touch it. Ma says it holds stuff from Pop’s last good job. What stuff? I don’t remember Pop having a job longer than a few months. He quits or gets fired because his head hurts or he has an attack where he can’t breathe.

  Why can’t Pop clean house? Even Ray tries to make his bed. He folds his blankets and puts them beneath me and Leda’s pillow.

  I think Ma shouldn’t have left Jamaica. She says she came to America “for a better life.” Where? I don’t see it. In Jamaica, the water might be pretty like the water on Miss Garcia’s calendar. The Hudson River isn’t nearly as beautiful—only gray, no sparkling white waves.

  “What’s that you got?” asks Pop.