Drita, My Homegirl Read online

  “Are you hurrying?” my grandma yells through the door, just as I grab Cupcake off the sock.

  “Poor thing!” I say, holding Cupcake against my chest. Her heart is beating so fast, she must have been scared by her toe-sock ride. I lie back down on the bed, give her a chance to nestle. Just for a second I close my eyes.

  The minute I do, this bad feeling comes over me. Then it’s like my brain is a broken record. “LISA! LISA! LISA!” goes my head.

  That’s when my grandma comes charging into the room, my daddy right behind her.

  “Squeeeeeeeeak!” Cupcake says and jumps off the bed.

  “Oh no, not again!” hollers my daddy, scooping her up off the floor.

  “Get up this minute!” yells Grandma, throwing back the covers.

  Before I know it, Cupcake is back in her cage, I’m wearing rainbow toe socks and my least favorite dress and I’m hauling out the door on the way to school.

  “It’s time for school!” they yell.

  What would my family do without me? If it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t be anything they agree on.

  3

  DRITA

  “HURRY, DRITA!” says my father. “We don’t want to be late!”

  I jump into the front seat of the cab. After too many days of cleaning and other chores, today I am finally going to my new school, PS 18 of Brooklyn.

  On the street, a lady with a yellow scarf on her head pushes her baby in a karrocë; a boy flies by on a silver motorçikletë. We pass a bazaar and I see so many stores, all selling different things: some waving colorful shirts and dresses from their windows like flags, others growing buckets of brooms and mops, still others with fruta dhe perime—fruits and vegetables piled in mountains. It seems strange to me that just two days ago, when my father took me to this market, I thought it was wrong to stare. But now after three days in this country I know the opposite is true: in America, there are so many colors, you must look at everything twice.

  “Look out! American girl going to school!” my father jokes and gives the horn a push.

  I am so happy, I kick my feet against the front of the cab. My new American sneakers light up.

  My father is right. Even before we come to this country, everyone says I am already like an American girl. That’s because I love everything about America—American films, American TV, even American sports—basketball is my favorite. And this was my special surprise when I woke up today: my father gives me a gift of some new basketball shoes with lights on the bottom. Now I can be like the other students, wearing stylish clothing and playing sports every day.

  My father drives and drives around the streets. Finally he stops in front of a tall building.

  “Look, Drita,” my father says, “your new school.”

  When I imagine my school, in my head I am always seeing a place like on my favorite TV show, Saved by the Bell. But my school does not have red bricks and a white roof like Bayside High. Instead it is plain gray with a park in front. My father stops the car and we get out. Then we hear a voice calling.

  “Hello! Adem!” says a voice. I see a woman hurrying to meet us. She is older than Nënë but younger than my gjyshe. She has a round, plain face and she is wearing a flowered dress.

  “My friend,” says my father, holding out his hand. “Miss Mirfue, this is my daughter Drita. Drita, this is Miss Mirfue. She works for the human rights organization that helped us leave Kosova. She is going to help you too, by going to the new school and filling out forms.”

  “How are you?” Miss Mirfue says in Albanian.

  “I am well!” I say back, trying not to laugh. It is so strange to me to notice that she speaks our language with an American accent!

  “Are you ready for your first day, Drita?” she says.

  “Oh, Miss Mirfue, Drita has been ready since she was born!” My father laughs, but then he gets back into his taxicab.

  “Wait, Baba! Aren’t you coming?” I ask him.

  “Drita, I must return the cab to the garage,” he says. “I drove all night and if I don’t get back to the garage by nine o’clock, they charge me more.”

  “You mean, I have to go all alone?” I ask him. I don’t mean to show my father I am afraid, but I can’t help myself. Now instead of feeling happy about going to a new school, for one moment I think I might cry.

  “You won’t be alone. Miss Mirfue is coming with you,” he says.

  “Come, Drita,” Miss Mirfue says. “You can take my hand if you want.”

  My father looks at me. In his face is a question. Are you a grown-up girl, or a baby like Hashim? he seems to ask.

  “Well?” asks Miss Mirfue, waiting.

  “No, thank you,” I say. “I am already ten years old.”

  My father hugs me tight.

  “Your mother will pick you up from school. Have a good day, zemra ime,” he says. My sweetheart.

  Miss Mirfue and I walk up the stairs to the school. Inside the building, a lady police officer points to a doorway and we go inside to the school office. Miss Mirfue talks to a lady with red hair and a long gold chain around her neck. All around the room, people are coming are going and there is lots of noise from a copying machine and many telephones. Then someone says my name. A large man is walking over to us. He smiles at me and shakes my hand. His face is friendly.

  “Drita,” Miss Mirfue says in Albanian. “This is Mr. Littman. He is the principal of the school. He will take you to your new class.”

  I am so excited when I hear these words that my heart starts banging inside me like a drum. I walk with Mr. Littman down a long hallway with voices and footsteps echoing everywhere. Then we stop at a door. A young pretty woman is standing there. I know just who she is.

  “Miss Salvato,” my teacher says, pointing to herself.

  I will tell you what is strange for an Albanian person like me in an American school. It is not the largeness of my school, bigger even than the National Library in Prishtina. It is not the classrooms, with children’s stories and pictures and artwork everywhere. It is not even my new teacher, who is young and pretty, instead of old and grumpy like Mr. Shabani at home.

  In Albania, there is a wall. On one side are the Serbian children and their teacher, also a Serb. On the other side, that is where we Muslim children sit, with Mr. Shabani our teacher. When we learn to read, we have separate books. When we sing, we know different songs. We speak our language, not theirs. We even use separate toilets when we have to go to the bathroom.

  When I first step into my American classroom, I see all the faces here have different skin and different eyes and different hair from each other, but they are all sitting in one room, with no wall. And they are all looking at me.

  Miss Salvato says something to them and I hear my name. I know she is telling them who I am. I say the words in English just like my father teaches me.

  “My name is Drita Kelmendi,” I say. “I am here.”

  But in my head, I speak in my language too.

  “Quhem Drita Kelmendi. Jam këtu.”

  4

  Maxie

  “YOU IN TROUUUUUUUUUUBLE!” says my friend Brandee as soon as I walk into my classroom.

  “Shut up, Brandee,” I say out of the side of my mouth. Leave it to her to let the whole world know I’m late, just when I’m about to sneak into the classroom nice and quiet.

  My teacher jumps up. “Good morning, Maxie! I’d like to see your note, please,” says Miss Salvato.

  “Uh, I don’t have a note, Miss Salvato,” I say.

  “Why not?” she asks. Unfortunately my teacher is really strict about stuff like that.

  “Well, my grandma said we were so late, she didn’t have the time to write one,” I say, and the whole class giggles.

  “In that case, I’m going to have to mark you tardy, Maxie. You know what that means,” says Miss S. Of course I do. Five “tardies” and you get study hall. Who could forget about that?

  But I’m not worrying about that because now I notice som
ething weird.

  “Who’s that?” I ask because someone is sitting at my desk.

  “Oh, Maxie,” Miss S. says, “I need to ask you a favor…. We have a new student in our class. There was no place for her to sit when she arrived this morning and you were the only person who wasn’t here. Would you be so kind as to share a desk with Brandee until the custodian brings another desk upstairs for her?”

  Didn’t I tell you Monday is my worst day?

  I look over at the new girl who’s sitting at my desk. I got to say, I don’t like her. I don’t like her hair, I don’t like her clothes, I don’t like her face and I don’t like her eyes. She’s the kind of white person who’s so pale, she’s like a ghost—you think you can see right through her.

  “She look like Heidi,” Brandee whispers in my ear.

  Just in case you don’t know, Heidi is this movie about a girl and her grandfather. We all know about her because they always show that movie in the auditorium when it’s raining outside. It’s so old and played out that it’s got no color, just black and white. Brandee was right, this new girl does have her hair in two long braids just like Heidi.

  “Maxie, I’d like to introduce you to your new classmate. This is Drita Kelmendi.”

  “Drita. What kind of name is that?” Brandee says, reading my mind.

  “Sounds like something you use to clean out a drain—

  Drita Draino,” I say, just to make her giggle.

  Okay. I got to tell you a few things about myself. First off, Miss Salvato is my favorite teacher ever and I don’t usually give her a hard time. Second, someday I want to be a big comedian and performer. Sometimes, I have this problem of treating school like my own private comedy show, where it’s my job to make people laugh, which is why my teachers told my father and Grandma that I can be “challenging” in school. If I stop being challenging, my dad is going to take me on a trip to Six Flags. But it’s kind of hard to remember that when you get on a roll.

  “Maxie, I’d like to talk to you privately when the rest of the class is at recess,” my teacher says. That means I have to wait for five minutes by the gate while she dismisses the class. When she comes back over, I figure she’s going to yell at me about having an attitude—but, as usual, my teacher really surprises me.

  “Maxie, I owe you an apology,” she says finally. “I shouldn’t have allowed another student to sit at your desk without asking you first. I can understand how that would upset you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Salvato,” I say, and I feel lucky to have a teacher who’s pretty and nice too.

  “But…” she says. Somehow I just knew there was going to be a “but.”

  “You weren’t very welcoming to our new student. Frankly, I was a little surprised. Is something bothering you today?”

  I open my mouth to tell my teacher about something named Lisa, but then I shut it again.

  “Not really.”

  Miss Salvato looks at me like she’s thinking about something.

  “I wonder, did you pick a social studies theme to research yet?”

  “I still can’t make up my mind about that,” I say.

  “I think you should pick Drita.”

  “Say what?” I say because my teacher does have some crazy ideas sometimes.

  “Drita comes from Kosovo. Her home has been in the news a lot lately. The story of how she came to our school is very unusual. I was going to tell the class about her myself, but now I think you should do it.”

  “Well, what is her story, then?”

  “You’re going to have to find out.”

  “But she doesn’t speak any English!” I say.

  “Then it will be a wonderful challenge for you,” Miss Salvato says and smiles at me, just as sweet as can be.

  “You’re free to go now. Have a wonderful recess,” she says.

  Outside, my peeps got their rope going for double Dutch. Tasha, Brandee, Kayla, Evaliz—all my friends are there.

  “Crocodiliosus goes quack quack quack—hit it! Señorita, your momma smells like pizza. Señora, Señora, forgot to shut the doora…” they’re singing.

  “Maxie, jump in!” Tasha yells.

  I look over my shoulder to where Miss Salvato is watching me, arms folded, over at the door.

  “Not right now, Tash,” I say.

  The new girl with the funny name is standing by the bench. Right away, I notice her sneakers are new and pretty fly. It makes me wonder if she went shopping with her mom just to get ready for her first day at school. That used to be the best thing about starting school.

  “So, where do you come from, again?” I ask her, but she just stares at me, kinda blank. I try to say it again.

  “Where…” I say, and I wave my hands around. “Do you”—I point to her—“come from?” I act out walking. But she just looks confused.

  “No Anglisht,” she says. And I’m thinking, How am I going to do this? But I don’t have to worry about that anymore because finally Miss Salvato has gone inside. I know I’m being cold, but no way am I going to stand around talking to some weird girl I don’t even like just to get on my teacher’s good side. Not when my friends have got a rope going.

  “Well, it’s been real, but I got to run,” I say, walking away.

  Pretty soon, I’m right in the middle of the ropes, spinning around, touching the ground and then stomping from side to side like crazy.

  “Go Maxie!” Brandee yells.

  “Yeah, Maxie!” Tasha says.

  “Go Maxie! Go Maxie! Go Maxie!” everyone else yells.

  The more they’re saying it, the faster I’m jumping till pretty soon my feet are just like a blur. When I’m done, Tasha comes over.

  “You getting good, homey,” Tasha says with her big smile.

  “Thanks, homey,” I say back.

  Homey—that’s a special word we got at my school for “friend.” It’s short for homeboy if your friend is a boy, or homegirl if your friend is a girl. When you call someone your homey, it’s because they feel like a home to you, and you really like them. I’m lucky—I got a lot of homeys.

  That’s when I look up and notice the new girl. She’s standing by the fence, digging her shoes into the ground and watching me. All alone.

  5

  DRITA

  WHEN SCHOOL IS OVER, everywhere there are children and their families rushing to meet each other. I don’t know where to look to find my mother, and I start to feel worried. But there waiting for me outside the school is Gjyshe. It seems so strange to see her there, wearing her old-fashioned rrobe plake and holding Hashim by the hand. My teacher shakes my hand and says something in English.

  “Gud beye, Drita. See yue tumarro,” she says.

  “Grandmother, where is Nënë?” I ask her because I thought my mother was the one who would be meeting me. My grandmother just shrugs.

  “She is still much too tired from the trip. Come, Drita. Take your brother’s hand. We must hurry for the bus.”

  Bus? No one said anything about a bus to me. But I follow my grandmother through the doors and across the street. There is a big sign for the place where the bus will stop.

  “Grandmother,” I ask, “are you sure this is the right place to wait?”

  “Yes, yes. Now come on!” she says because the big blue-and-white bus is coming down the street.

  “But are you sure this is the right one?” I ask her again. “They are all different, you know!” I say, trying not to sound worried. Even in Kosova, my grandmother was not so good at going places by herself.

  “Oh zot, Drita. You talk too much!” my gjyshe says, trying to hold Hashim’s hand. But he is moving around too much and won’t stay still.

  “Bad boy!” scolds my grandmother.

  Hashim puts his baby finger in his mouth and begins to cry. Now I know my grandmother must be worried. Usually she is more patient with my brother.

  We climb up the steps, and my grandmother puts some money in the slot, just like in Kosova. It seems strange to me that
even though everything in New York is different, the buses are exactly like the ones in my country.

  “Up, up,” my grandmother says, putting Hashim into a seat. My grandmother unfolds a little piece of paper and studies it. The words “112 Bedford Avenue” are written there in my father’s handwriting. Our new home.

  The bus turns down a street and we pass the market. In the morning, this colorful and noisy place made me happy, but now all I feel is worried.

  Across from us there is a lady in a black jacket and a boy, a little older than my brother. They are staring at us.

  “That lady looks nice, Gjyshe,” I tell her. “We should ask her for help.”

  “She doesn’t speak Albanian,” my grandmother says.

  “But if you show her the address, she might know!” I say back. “I know a few words. Maybe if she speaks slowly, I will understand.”

  But my grandmother shakes her head.

  The little boy smiles at us, while his nënë looks out the window. From the way he is chewing, I can tell he has a big piece of gum in his mouth.

  Now, more and more people get on the bus. But these people do not act friendly to us. They have dark faces and clothes. They stare at the floor or read the newspaper. Soon the bus is so crowded. I know my grandmother is lost.

  At last, the lady grabs her son’s hand and they stand up. I am worried that once they get off the bus, no one else will speak with us. But now we are lucky, because the nice lady comes over to us. She holds the metal rail and smiles down at us.

  “R u peepul last?” she asks.

  My silly grandmother is still staring ahead, afraid to speak to an American person. I know it is not so nice of me, but even if my grandmother is mad, I don’t care. I take the paper from my grandmother’s hands and show it to the lady. I try to remember some of the English words my father is teaching me.