Home of the Brave (8 page)

but I don't pick a book to read

like everyone else in my class.

Today,

I don't know why,

feels like the day at the grocery store.

Today I'm thinking of how my mother

always wanted to learn to read,

to own a book,

to open one of these magical presents

and see what's inside.

Ms. Hernandez shows me a book about cows.

She asks me to find a picture of a cow like Gol,

but I tell her I don't feel

in a library mood

today.

That's OK, she says. I know how that goes.

It's just so hard to choose, I add.

There are so many books.

And where I come from,

there are hardly any.

Ms. Hernandez nods.

I felt that way a lot

when I first came here.

Once I went to the mall and ended up

hiding in the corner of a clothes store.

It was just too many lights,

too many clothes, you know?

And I still feel kind of funny at movies.

Have you been to a movie yet?

I shake my head. Not one of the big movies.

But I did see a little one

on the flying boat.

I went to a grocery store, though.

I started to—

I whisper the last word—

cry.

Ms. Hernandez pats my hand.

It's just too much sometimes, isn't it?

When you had almost nothing.

And when you know that many people

still have so little.

I don't know what to do with it all, I say.

I kick at a chair leg.

To have all this food and

all these books

and all this freedom.

I feel sort of …

I don't know the word.

Too lucky.

It's a big gift, she agrees.

I reach for the cow book.

My father would have liked

this book, I say.

I'd like to hear

about your family, Ms. Hernandez says.

I think for a minute.

My father was a fine singer, I say.

Tell me more, Ms. Hernandez says.

And I do.

GOING UP

Time passes,

the kind they call
weeks.

I have a little money from my job.

I have to make myself believe that a

crumpled piece of green paper

means something,

means anything.

In my old world, it was easy—

you could know a person's

wealth by counting his cattle.

Hannah and I take the bus

to a giant store filled with many things to buy.

I've promised her

I will not get upset this time.

I want to buy my aunt some new dishes.

There are stores within stores here

and music and food.

It's bright and big,

with toys and chairs,

TV machines and T-shirts.

What do you call such a place? I ask.

The mall, Hannah replies.

I follow her to a huge shiny store.

I've herded cattle for hundreds of miles

with only the stars to guide me.

But I'm certain I could never

find my way out of this place.

Hannah takes me to two magic silver staircases,

one going up,

one coming down.

I watch as the stairs melt away,

then reappear.

It's just an escalator, she says.

No big deal. C'mon.

I shake my head. They had these at the airport,

but Dave let me take the stairs instead.

Is there another way to climb?

She laughs. Well, there's an elevator.

That would be a better way, I think.

OK, but you gotta promise me you'll try it

next time. It's fun, Hannah says.

So are elevators.

The elevator is hiding near a row

of puffy white coats,

like clouds with arms.

Hannah pushes a button.

We wait.

A bell rings, and then

the doors vanish.

I follow her into the little room

waiting for us.

She pushes another button,

then—
zoom!
—

up we fly.

I think I left my stomach

downstairs, I say.

Hannah smiles.

Told you it was fun.

HEARTS

Hannah leads me to shelves

full of colorful dishes.

I like some with many stripes,

but she says I can't afford them.

She picks out a small box of white ones.

This should pretty much

replace what you broke, Hannah says.

I cradle the box gently in my arms.

the way I would carry a newborn calf.

On the way to the paying place,

we pass many red sparkling cards

and much candy.

Some of it is even chocolate.

Valentine's Day is in a couple days,

Hannah explains.

You give stuff to people you like.

Plus it just happens to be

my birthday.

Hey, when's your birthday?

I don't know, I admit. We don't

have birthdays in the way that you do.

But I know I was born in the time

you call summer.

Hannah looks confused by this news.

It's hard for me to remember

that she sometimes finds my ways

as strange as I find hers.

I must find you a gift, I say.

After I pay you back the money I owe

for the bus and the washing,

how much do I have left?

No way, Hannah says.

You're not spending your

hard-earned money on yours truly.

But it would make me very proud, I argue.

And it's my duty as your friend.

Hannah grins out of one side of her mouth,

a silly tilted smile

like a new moon rising.

OK, OK. See that little box of heart candy?

You could afford that.

It must be chocolate,

I say firmly.

She scans the shelves.

Here, she says at last.

She hands me a shiny little heart.

Perfect.

We stand in a long line.

When I give the lady my money

for the dishes and the heart,

my own heart grows so big with pride

I fear it might pop open

like a ripe seedpod.

I earned this money, I tell her.

I take care of a cow.

It's a fine job.

The lady smiles politely.

If you say so, hon.

Again I'm learning

that America people

don't understand the wonder of a cow.

Maybe if they had more cows

on the TV machine,

people would begin to feel

as Ganwar and I do.

You can have your dogs and cats,

your gerbils and hamsters

and sleek sparkling fish.

But you will have lived

just half a life

if you never love a cow.

WHITE GIRL

In front of our apartment,

I give the shiny heart to Hannah.

Happy birthday and Happy Valentine's Day, I say,

to my good friend, Hannah.

Three boys walk past

just as Hannah slips the silver heart

into the pocket of her coat.

They glare at us with eyes that shoot poison.

Leave the white girl alone, one yells.

Hands off, boy.

Just ignore them, Hannah whispers.

She pulls me inside

and slams the door shut.

A moment later,

she opens it a crack

and peers out.

They're gone, she says.

I shake my head. I don't understand, I say.

Me neither, Hannah says.

Me, neither.

You shouldn't have pulled me inside, I mutter.

They're jerks. Hannah yanks off her mittens.

I didn't want you to get hurt.

I am a man, I say, standing tall.

Sure you are, Hannah says.

I just … you know,

didn't see the point

in a fight.

Why does it matter?

I can't explain.

Suddenly I feel tired of using words

that don't belong to me.

Never mind, I say.

I trudge up the stairs.

My aunt is surprised to see

the box from me.

A present, she keeps saying,

a present for me?

She opens the dishes

and hugs me hard.

You are such a fine boy, Kek, she says.

I feel happy about the dishes

and bad about the angry boys.

It's hard to feel two things at once

so I try not to feel anything.

I sit next to Ganwar on the sofa.

Together we watch the TV machine

tell its happy, easy stories.

SCARS

Every weekend and other days sometimes

Ganwar and I go to Lou's.

It feels good to go

somewhere simple,

to work and sing

and eat cookies with chocolate.

Ganwar doesn't say so,

but I think he is calmer

on these days.

Sometimes he even

whistles a radio song,

or tells me jokes in English

that I don't understand.

Always, though, I laugh

to make him happy.

One afternoon Ganwar and I

rebuild a gate that's rotted away

at the edge of the field.

It's long work

and we sweat under our thick coats.

The sun is still weary and weak,

like a traveler too long on the road.

But each day it's trying harder

to warm the world.

Ganwar wipes away sweat with his arm.

The six lines

etched in his forehead

glisten.

I will never have the
gaar,
I say suddenly.

My words surprise me.

It's an idea I've never let myself

think about until now.

The initiation ceremony is

part of another place—

a place I may never return to.

You're lucky, Ganwar says.

Why would you want such scars?

Here they mean nothing.

There they meant everything, I say.

I lean on the fence.

How will I know when I'm a man?

Ganwar keeps hammering.

When you own a fine car

and a house with many bathrooms,

then you're a man in this country,

he answers with a smile.

It isn't so funny, I say.

You've been tested, and I haven't.

You were brave.

I look away. I don't want him to see

my eyes and what lies hidden there.

Me, I haven't been.

Sure you have, Ganwar replies.

You were in the camp alone,

you came here alone.

That's plenty brave.

It doesn't take a knife in the hand

of a village elder for you to prove

yourself.

I pick up my hammer

and slam it hard against a

rusty nail sticking out of the wood.

That's easy for you to say.

After that, I won't talk anymore.

But I hammer many nails

as hard as I can.

Even with my gloves on,

I have a good, hurting blister

to show for it.

BAD NEWS

More weeks pass. Something strange

is happening to the world.

I hear birdsong now, where only

silence filled the air before.

Tiny green hints

dot the trees and bushes.

The snow is getting smaller and grayer,

like an old person whose time is past.

Dave says it's called spring.

One morning, Lou calls

us to come into her kitchen.

A plate of warm chocolate cookies

waits for us.

I'm happy about this,

until I see Lou's ankle,

covered by a thick white bandage.

Sprained the dang thing last night, she says.

Slipped in the barn.

Do you have many pains? I ask.

Nah. She waves away the question

like a troublesome insect.

But it's gotten me to thinking, boys.

Even with your help, I just can't keep

this place running anymore.

Wish it weren't that way.

I've been here a long, long time.

It's time to sell and move on.

Ganwar nods. He doesn't look surprised.

It's OK, Lou.

We knew it probably wouldn't last.

I stare out the window.

Where will you go, I ask in a whisper,

when the farm is sold?

Lou lifts her shoulders. I'm not sure.

This has been my home so long,

I don't know anywhere else.

I have a sister in Los Angeles.

She makes a face.

Not sure I could stand all that nice weather.

What would I complain about?

We can stay on

as long as you need us, Ganwar says.

He doesn't sound mad at all.

He sounds like he is used to being disappointed.

But what about Gol? I ask.

My voice has a crack in it.

Lou looks out the window, too.

I don't know, Kek.

They're going to build a strip mall.

Won't be needing a cow, I'm guessing.

She sighs.

Gol is a very old, tired animal.

I don't think we'll probably be able

to find anyone who wants her.

I'm sorry, hon.

I leap to my feet.

My chair falls back with a loud thud.

I hate it here! I scream.

I want to go home!

I run out the door and across the field

toward the bus stop.

I'm glad that Lou can't follow me

with her sore foot.

I'm sorry that I'm glad.

And I'm mad that Ganwar isn't mad enough.

NO MORE

I stop working at Lou's.

Ganwar keeps going to the farm.

But he doesn't say anything to me about it.

When he comes home with hay and mud