Authors: Katherine Applegate
tall not-dead trees.
It's a place for
a leader of men to work in,
not a place for small children
to learn their numbers.
Dave sees my falling-open mouth.
Don't be scared, Kek, he says.
But I'm not scared,
not like that.
Scared is for men with guns
and maybe just a little
for a flying boat
finding its way
back to earth.
Inside my school
the floor shines like ice.
I walk carefully.
Thin metal doors with silver handles
line the walls.
Those are called lockers, Dave says.
C'mon. We're early,
but the teacher wants to meet you.
Waiting in a big-windowed room
is a woman with black hair that dances
and sturdy arms
and eyes that tell jokes.
You must be Kek, she says,
and then she uses my word
for hello.
I'm ready to begin
my learning, I say,
and she tosses out a loud laugh
like a ball into the air.
I can see you mean business, she says.
A man comes in,
young and short
with skin the color of rich earth,
just like mine.
He says he is Mr. Franklin
and he helps sometimes in class
when Ms. Hernandez needs
to do her deep breathing.
Everyone laughs,
so I laugh, too,
because it's always
good to be polite.
This will be your desk, Ms. Hernandez says.
Have a seat.
She points to a shiny chair
and little table.
A chair of my own
and a table, too?
I smother the thought
like an ember near dry grass.
I'm very sorry, but I can't,
I say softly. I don't have the cattle
for such a fine desk as this.
Oh, she says,
you don't have to pay for this desk, Kek.
School's free here.
You just bring your mind
and your smile
every day, OK?
Carefully I sit.
I like very much this new desk
with its cool, smooth top.
My mouth will not stop smiling.
You're not going to understand
a lot of what we say at first, Ms. Hernandez says.
This is called an ESL class.
You and your classmates
will be learning English together.
It means they won't always
understand you.
And you won't always
understand them.
I'm used to not understanding, I say.
It's like playing a game
with no rules.
She nods.
That's exactly what it's like.
I know, because when I came
to the U.S. from Mexico,
I couldn't speak a word of English.
This is a surprise.
A teacher who did not know
all things?
Did you not know things also?
I ask Mr. Franklin.
Me? I'm from Baton Rouge, he says.
That's kinda like another country.
I couldn't understand
these crazy northern folks
for the longest time.
Some of his words get lost
on their way to my ears.
But I can see from his face
that his meaning is kind.
When you have a question,
Mr. Franklin and I will be
here to help, says Ms. Hernandez.
She points to the sky.
You just raise your hand
like this, OK?
I nod. I say, OK,
just like her.
I raise my hand.
Yes? she says, smiling big.
I ask,
When will the learning begin?
In my class,
my long-name class
called English-as-a-Second-Language,
we are sixteen.
Sixteen people
with twelve ways of talking.
When we talk at once
we sound like the music class
I can hear down the hall,
hoots and squeaks and thuds,
but no songs you can sing.
I look at our faces
and see all the colors of the earthâ
brown and pink and yellow and white and blackâ
and yet we are all sitting at the same desks,
wanting to learn the same things.
Ms. Hernandez
tells everyone my name
and my old home.
Then she asks us
to draw a picture
on the black wall
to show where we come from.
One boy,
Jaime from Guatemala,
draws a mountain with a hole
called a volcano.
Sahar from Afghanistan
draws a camel,
though to be truthful
it looks like a lumpy dog.
I draw a bull with great curving horns,
like the finest in my father's herd.
I even give him a smile.
But it takes me a while
to decide on his coat.
In my words
we have ten different names
for the color of cattle.
But the writing chalk is only white.
I am working on the tail
when someone in the back of the room says,
Moo.
Then more say it,
and more,
and soon we are
a class of cattle.
At last we can all
understand each other.
I think maybe some of the students
are laughing at me.
But I don't mind so much.
To hear the cattle again
is good music.
After much schooling,
a sound comes
like a great bee buzzing.
The bell means lunch,
Mr. Franklin explains.
He gives me a small piece
of blue paper.
This is for your food.
Thank you very much,
I say in my most polite English words,
but I don't understand how the
paper can help my noisy belly.
You give the paper
to the cooking people
and they will give you food, Mr. Franklin explains.
Tastes much better than paper.
He laughs. Well, usually, anyway.
The eating room is grand
with long tables
and strange and wonderful smells
and many students chattering.
I stand in a line
and soon kind, white-hatted people
fill my plate high with food.
Ahead of me
I see the snowball girl named Hannah
from my building.
She says, Don't eat the mystery meat
if you value your life.
Then she points to a brown wet pile
on my plate and makes a face that says
bad taste
.
When my tray is heavy
with the gifts of food,
I stand still in the
stream of students.
I don't know where to go
to enjoy my feast.
Hannah waves.
Follow me, she says.
I'll tell you what's
safe to eat.
But it's all so fine! I say.
She shakes her head.
Kid, you got a lot to learn.
We sit at one of the long tables.
Nearby are two students
from my class:
Jaime, the boy from Guatemala
and Nishan, the girl from Ethiopia.
Hey, Jaime says.
Hey, I say back,
but I can't talk anymore
because my mouth is already
full of new tastes.
Excuse me, I say when I have swallowed at last,
but what is this amazing food?
I hold up a brown stick.
Fry, Hannah says.
One of the five major food groups.
This fry,
it grows in your
America ground? I ask.
Hannah laughs,
a sound like bells
on a windy day.
I suppose you could say that.
You're Kek, right?
I know because
I asked your cousin.
Hannah passes me a paper cup
filled with strange and beautiful red food.
Ketchup, she says.
You dip your fries in it.
I do what she says,
then eat.
You're a fine cook, I say.
Hannah and Jaime and Nishan laugh.
I feel glad I found enough words
to make people happy.
When a friend laughs,
it's always a good surprise.
I see your cousin
at the apartments sometimes, Hannah says.
He's a very quiet guy.
I have to think for a moment.
To eat such happy food
and think about words
at the same time
is much work.
Ganwar, I say, has many worries.
He seems kind of sad, Hannah says.
I look at the fry in my hand
with its shiny coat of red.
I want only to eat,
and not to remember.
But Hannah's words
tug like tight rope
on a calf's neck.
Ganwar lost his father and his sisters
when the fighting came, I tell her.
Hannah nods. Her eyes
are blue and gray,
or maybe green. I can't be sure.
I remember a kind doctor at the camp
with such eyes.
How did he lose his hand? Hannah asks in a gentle voice.
I don't know the words
for this.
Some English words I hope
I never learn.
Men came with guns and knives
to our village, I answer at last.
To be in such fighting,
says Nishan,
is very bad.
And what about your family?
Jaime asks me.
I stop eating.
I take a breath.
My father and my brother, Lual,
they were killed
by the government men.
I saw it.
I pause,
as a memory pokes at me
like a knife in my back.
I was lucky to see, I add.
Lucky? Hannah asks.
Her voice says
she doesn't understand.
Nishan looks at me with
eyes that know of such things.
Maybe Kek means lucky
to know for sure, she explains.
Not knowing,
it's the hardest.
Yes, I agree.
The hardest.
How about your mom? Hannah asks softly.
I â¦
Guilt grabs my throat.
I will not go to that
black place today.
I try again.
She'll come, I say.
I'll wait here for her.
Waiting is hard, too,
Hannah says,
and I can see that she
also knows sad places.
I push my tray away.
I'm not so hungry anymore.
I take the school bus home.
It's a long yellow car
filled with screaming, laughing students
and many paper balls wet with spit.
I don't think it would be easy
to drive such a car.
My aunt is sleeping when I get home.
Ganwar enters with a white basket
under his arm.
The washing machine's in the basement, he says.
The what? I ask.
The room way down at the bottom of the stairs.
I'll show you later.
He surprises me with a smile like
Lual might have made,
a big-brother-making-trouble smile.
You'll like doing the wash.
It's my job, but if you want,
I might let you help.
Sure, I say,
although I don't
trust that mischief smile.
I remember well how Lual and Ganwar
used to tease and test me.
Always I was the little child
with foolish ideas and silly ways.
Always they were too old
to bother with me,
unless it was for their own fun.
The door to my aunt's room opens
and she comes out slowly,
yawning and stretching.
How was school? she asks.
You would not believe it, I say.
They teach you and feed you
and I have my own desk.
We're going to visit the zoo
where animals live
and the plan â¦
plan-et-arium â¦
where stars live.
And I'm going to learn how to
dunk-slam in the class called PE.
Slam-dunk, Ganwar corrects.
Good, my aunt says, good boy,
and she fills a kettle with water
to put on the cooking fire.
I want to tell her more,
but I can see
that her mind is visiting other places.
I think maybe I'll like
living here in America, I say to Ganwar.
Yeah, that's what I thought, too.
But you'll never really feel like an American,
Ganwar says. You'll see.
Why? I ask.
Ganwar shrugs.
Because they won't let you.
He tosses the basket on the sofa.
I'm outta here, he says, switching to English.
Be home byâ
my aunt begins,
but Ganwar is already gone.
My aunt sighs and leans against the counter.
He's just not happy here, she says.
I know it's been hard for him.
But he doesn't try.
She rubs her eyes.
I have to go work, Kek. I've got an early shift.
Eat what you like and go to bed by eight.
I learned o'clocks at the camp, I say.
It is called time telling.
But why not use the sun and the stars?
My aunt points to the tiny clock
strapped to her arm.
Here in America, this is the sun.
You'll get used to it.
For now, just get some sleep.
I watch her put on her heavy coat.
She isn't even at work yet,
and already she's tired.
I go to the door with her.
Are you â¦
I stop, then try again.
Are you glad that you're here?
My aunt seems surprised that I would ask
such a question. She thinks for a moment.