* * *
On Tuesday, I wake early. My hair lies flat on my head. How do all the girls in school have high and curly hair, with a poofy roll up front, that adds at least an inch to their height? I try to get my hair to poof up, but it won’t. I have seen a girl spray her hair in the bathroom. Maybe that’s what does it. I don’t have magic in a can.
Rishi does notice that it looks different and points and signs, “What’s wrong with your hair?”
Oh no! I run to the bathroom to try and flatten it back down, because Rishi is right. It looks like a nest of hay.
Rishi helps me cut the crusts off the bread and open the jar of peanut butter. We all smell it and take a taste.
“It tastes like besan ladoos,” says Ma.
She is right; it tastes like the chickpea flour sweets from home.
All morning, my heart races. Is Jane going to book club? She was there when the librarian announced it three weeks ago, but I didn’t see her sign up, so probably not. I could ask her, but that would mean speaking words aloud.
Then the last class before lunch, social studies, is done. It is still my hardest class.
I see a group of girls heading toward the library, laughing, their arms linked. I stop in my friendless tracks.
What am I doing? I don’t belong.
I don’t know anyone.
They carry their lunches in brown paper bags. I might have a peanut butter sandwich instead of the chutney and cucumber one that Ma typically makes, but it’s still not right. Mine is wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. My clothes are not stylish either, they were made by my mother. They don’t look like anyone else’s.
I remember Jo from Little Women going to New York, alone, in her unstylish clothes. She did not let the big city defeat her.
They all had their shirts tucked in. I can do that. I slip into the bathroom and tuck my loose shirt into my pants. In the mirror, I look different. My hips are outlined like the other girls’. I smile at my reflection. One day I might have a friend, and maybe she’ll help me with my hair. I might even own hairspray.
I square my shoulders, clutch my copy of Little Women and my lunch and race to the library. Yes, I might make a mistake again, but I will live, and I will learn.
I turn the knob on the door. It is closed. It’s not usually locked, but maybe Mrs. Kennedy doesn’t want interruptions. I am late.
Defeated, I walk away.
Then I hear Mrs. Kennedy’s voice, calling me. I turn around. She stands there with the door wide open and smiles. “Priya! Come in. I’m so happy you decided to join us.”
The kids are sitting by the castle. Jane is there too. It is a complete closed circle.
They are busy eating, chatting. Nobody notices me.
I stand outside the group.
Mrs. Kennedy clears her throat, “Everyone, let’s make the circle bigger and make room for one more. Priya, get a chair.”
Chairs scrape on the floor and the circle widens.
Jane has jumped up and brought me a chair.
As she places my chair in the group, she whispers, “I hoped you’d come.”
This time, I squeeze her hand, and my eyes promise friendship.
Then Mrs. Kennedy says, “Let’s start the discussion by sharing who your favorite character is, and why.”
I take a deep breath. I must do this.
“Jo March,” I say loudly and clearly.
My fifth and sixth words float into the air like a kite, and this time I don’t reel them back.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Varsha Bajaj is the award-winning author of picture books and middle grade novels. Her middle grade novels are Count Me In and Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood, which was shortlisted for the Cybils Award and included in the Spirit of Texas Reading program. Her picture books include The Home Builders, and This is Our Baby, Born Today, a Bank Street Best Book. She grew up in Mumbai, India, and when she came to the United States to obtain her master’s degree, her adjustment to the country was aided by her awareness of the culture through books.
FAMILY EVERYTHING
Yamile Saied Méndez
DEDICATION
To Florencia, Mauricio, and Gabriel, my dear friends
who became my family when I was alone in a strange country,
trying to learn a new language and find out who I really was.
And to my family who’s always with me in spite of the time
and distance we’re physically apart. ¡Los quiero!
Ayelén hated translating on the spot. It was one thing to transcribe the lyrics of the last Backstreet Boys songs for her friends or the recipe of upside-down pineapple cake for her mom. Translating her good news in front of the family and even some friends who’d seen her grow up was quite another. The expectation, in some cases tinged with doubt, of the people in the room had given Ayelén the wings to try the impossible, and now it was time to confirm that all her work had paid off.
The fact that they all knew what she was about to say didn’t make things easier. As soon as Ayelén had received the letter the night before, her parents had marched to the locutorio and called everyone. Their phone had been out of service for months for lack of payment. Every cent had been saved for her education.
Now that everyone wanted to hear the news from her mouth, the doubts came from her own heart and pulled her down like an anchor. She felt she was in one of those flying dreams gone wrong.
The thick paper shook in her hands. For the first time, she noticed it had been postmarked three weeks ago. Even in the year 2000, life-changing news—history-making news—took its sweet time to arrive in her small town of San Lorenzo, beyond the city of Rosario in Argentina.
“Read,” her father nudged her softly, luminous pride in his voice.
She locked her knees so that her legs wouldn’t tremble. The trick worked, but only until she realized her padrino’s stare was trained on the paper as if the letter would sprout teeth and fangs and ravage her hands.
Padrino’s house held its breath to catch every word. The only sounds were the fútbol commentary from the neighbor’s radio, the shifting of her little cousins’ sandaled feet, and the hum of the blue-bellied refrigerator.
“Read,” Nadia and Selena, her little cousins, urged. Santino, the baby, cried, and Daiana, the only cousin her age, hurried toward her bedroom, to feed him most likely.
In her mind, Ayelén read in English and the words transformed into Spanish. When nerves got the better of her and the rising emotion clouded her sight, the words on the paper swam like the noodles in the soup Abuela used to make when she was still alive. But Ayelén remembered every word, comma, and period. She’d read it hundreds of times, afraid that the words would change, that she had misinterpreted their meaning, or worse, that she’d imagined it all.