“Of course! Anyone can share,” Mrs. Grew was saying, clapping for our attention.
Paula cleared her throat. She didn’t stand, but her voice was loud, as if she was standing anyway.
A Time I Overcame a Fear
When I was younger, I was afraid of the ocean. Everything about the ocean. I was scared of the waves. Seaweed and all the animals in it. I thought that if I went in, I would get pulled out to sea and drown. I was a good swimmer, but I only swam in pools. Every time I went to the beach with my friends, I would always stay on the sand and make up a reason why I couldn’t go in the water. I wanted to get over the fear. The next time I went to the beach, I promised myself I would go in the water. A few weeks later I got up one morning. It was sunny and my dad planned a day to go to the beach. Once we arrived I felt like running back, but I knew I had to face my fears. Right at the edge of the water, I stood there, counted one… two… three… and I ran in the water! It felt good not to be scared anymore. I was happy I faced my fears.
Wow. That kind of sucked. People slow clapped. More hands flew up. Double wow. I desperately wanted to ask for the bathroom pass just to escape from all this eagerness, but before I could even raise my hand, a kid charged to the front of the room.
“Jeremy D.,” Mrs. Grew said in a low, disapproving tone. “Next time, please wait to be called on.”
He ignored her and started right in, no dramatic pause like Paula, no waiting for a nod from the teacher, no anything. “My Favorite Video Game,” he said so loud that the class across the hall probably heard him.
Mrs. Grew placed her coffee mug on a high file cabinet and said, in an eerily calm voice, “Just… just, go.”
My Favorite Video Game
On the cover of the game it said there are like eighty-seven bazillion guns in the game. It is a good game for people who like killing, guns, humor, and fantasy. Now I only have three or two friends that have the game and another friend might get it for Hanukkah. Anyway, the game is great.
The class cheered. Mrs. Grew jotted something down on a pad on her desk. Maybe she was writing something, something, something too. For the next few minutes, Mrs. Grew talked about imagery and the power of three in writing. I stared out the window at the parking lot—the senior parking lot, according to the green sign. Whoa. Like, as in high school seniors? And the parking lot was full! Jeez. My family didn’t even have a car, hello.
“Now I want you to take a look at what you’ve written. See if you can substitute abstractions and generalities for more specific language, sensory images, as we discussed last week. Remember, we have another hour,” Mrs. Grew said now, looking right at me. I swallowed.
“Miss Cruz? Can I check in with you in the hall, please?”
Could she see all the something, something, something from where she stood? I followed her nervously.
Outside the door, Mrs. Grew turned to me, her eyes two watery pools of blue and gray, like wet marbles. Sensory imagery! She put her hand on my shoulder. More sensory: Why did teachers smell like either potpourri or coffee? “Liliana.” She said my name as if trying on the word. “Where are you from?”
I hesitated. She knew I was in METCO. From Boston. So what did she want? My exact address? “Jamaica Plain,” I said. “Hyde Square.”
She nodded, but I could tell she didn’t know where that was. “Feel free to express yourself fully here. We want you to succeed. Okay?”
Huh. Maybe she was nice after all. “Okay,” I said, and smiled. And I decided right then to write about Jade and one of the most fear-inducing nights of my life.
I filled three whole pages about the night when we were six or seven and Jade’s father came tumbling into their apartment, the whiskey practically oozing out of his pores. Our moms were eating pan dulce in the kitchen. The twins were asleep in their carriers by Mom’s feet. But as soon as Jade’s father burst in, everyone scrambled, as if on cue. Jade grabbed the Barbies we’d been playing with and shoved them under a couch cushion. In the kitchen I could hear the gathering of plates and saucers, a kitchen chair scraping the linoleum. “Shut off the TV!” Jade’s mother called from the kitchen, even though the TV wasn’t on.
Look, I had seen Jade’s father drunk a hundred and one times, but never quite like that, with bloodshot eyes and his head twitching to the right, like he was trying to use his shoulder to get something out of his ear but couldn’t. He stormed into the living room. His fly was undone. “What’s this mess? Who are all these people in MY house? Get out! Everyone, get out!” And then he was off. He punched the wall. The plaster made little clouds, like the wall was coughing. In the kitchen, my brothers started crying.
“We were just playing,” Jade tried to explain, frantically scooping up all the Barbie accessories from the rug.
“I’ll help you,” I told her, my voice wobbling. We snatched up tiny pairs of high heel shoes and sparkly skirts, and deposited them into a shoebox.
Her father lurched toward us. “Don’t talk back to me!” he yelled, and—whack!—he slapped the back of Jade’s head. “Do you hear me?” Jade was using every ounce of strength not to cry.
“Leave them alone,” Jade’s mother said, coming out of the kitchen, her face as white as the beat-up wall.
My mother gripped her necklace, her eyes darting between the babies fussing in their carriers and me. “Get your stuff, Liliana. Now.”
But I couldn’t move. I just stared as Jade continued desperately, madly, scooping up miniature jean skirts and frilly scarves. Her father hit her again. The side of her arm. Then again. Her ear. The more he hit, the faster Jade’s fingers grasped at Barbie sneakers, Barbie bathing suits.
And then Jade’s mother charged. She leapt onto his back like a pro wrestler. “Leave. Her. ALONE!” she screamed, which set the babies off screaming. And Jade kept picking up Barbie stuff. Not crying, just clawing, clawing, clawing tiny shoes out of the carpet.
The neighbors downstairs—or maybe it was upstairs, it was hard to tell—began to bang on the floor, or ceiling. Jade’s mom became a wild dog then, barking at Jade’s father as she clung on to his back. In my essay I said that she actually looked like a human backpack. It was true. Oh, and her black hair flung around like a mop.
I could tell my mother didn’t know what to do. Her eyes pleaded with me. Get up. She couldn’t leave with the babies and leave me inside the apartment with this monster. I was so scared, but I couldn’t leave Jade. How could I?
“Jade! Come with us!” I begged. Now her mother was the one who was clawing—clawing at Jade’s father’s eyes. He circled and punched at the air, at anything in his way. Jade had just wiggled past him, racing for the door, when he suddenly kicked out. Jade went sprawling, falling right onto the glass coffee table. Shards flew everywhere. Blood flew everywhere.
I couldn’t believe how shiny the blood was.
“Jade!” her mother yelled. Both mothers ran toward her.
More knocking sounds.
Jade was drenched in blood and glass. Seconds later cops burst through the apartment door. Then it seemed like everyone was screaming in Spanish. The rest was a loud blur.
On my final page I wrote about everything that happened once the police showed up. How they immediately called for backup and an ambulance, how the sirens grew louder and louder until they stopped right below the apartment window. The sound suddenly stopped, but the orange and white lights still swirled like a disco ball, hitting every surface of the living room, including the framed photo of Jade and her parents that had been taken at Sears. I knew it had been taken at Sears because our family had been next in line, waiting for our turn. In the photo, Jade’s father looked like a totally different person. He still had his ponytail, but his skin was softer, his teeth so clean and white as he smiled into the camera. The three of them were dressed in plaid—red, white, and black.