One True Friend (3 page)

June 26th

Dear Doris,

How are you? I was so happy to get your letter. I read it again this morning before I left for my job at the day camp. It made me feel like I was back in the Bronx. I feel sorry for T.T. Maybe one day he'll grow up. I am the counselor for the six- and seven-year-olds, and while they're napping, I'm writing to you.

I like this job very much. It reminds me of how I took care of my younger sisters and brothers. The other counselor teaches them how to swim and play games, and I do the arts and crafts. I'm going to show them how to make puppets this afternoon. Mostly, the children like to see me draw, and they always ask me to draw pictures of them.

Mr. Smith promised when I first moved in that
one day he'd drive me down to the Bronx for a visit, but he works most weekends, especially in the summer. It's a five-hour drive. One day, though, I'll visit you and the rest of the crew.

I never thought about guardian angels and stuff like that, but maybe you're right. Maybe my parents are still watching out for all of us—including Ronald. It's a positive thought, anyway, and it makes me feel good. Yes, the station wagon was the car that my parents had the accident in. They died in that car.

You're smart—that's why I asked your advice. I haven't sent out any letters yet, but I decided I will, even though I feel a little guilty. I have to send them. But like you said, who am I hurting? There's a Xerox machine here at the camp. When I asked the woman who works in the office whether I could make a copy, she said no one is allowed to use the machine but her, and she'd make me a copy when she had time. Then she started asking me a lot of nosy questions, like what is it for? Is it personal or official business? Is it something for my mother or father? I'm afraid she'd read the letter and tell the whole camp everything in it.

Sometimes there's a teenager working there. I'll ask him to let me make a copy when the woman isn't around.

When you said that you get back in life what you send out, you reminded me of something I had forgotten—my dad used to say the same thing in his
own funny way. "Send out junk, and junk will fly back in your face." He also used to say, "When you help somebody else, you help yourself, too."

It makes me sad to remember. I guess I push some memories down deep inside myself until they disappear. Still, they return, sharp like needles. You're right about the Smiths, though. Why would they change now? They were nice to me from the first time we met. Sorry you didn't get an A for your story. The next time you need to find a famous person, try the encyclopedia. I ain't no hero.

There's not much to the real story of how I found out where Ronald was living.

I bugged the counselors, like I told you before. I'd always ask about my brothers and sisters. Most times caseworkers and counselors would try to help me. No one ever said no to me. They'd say, "We'll find out," but they never did. Either they never had the time or they forgot. My father always told me to be a pest when it's necessary. He'd say, "Sometimes a little ant in your pants can get your attention quicker than a rhino at your heels."

So I'd try to be a pest as much as I could, but you know me, Doris, I'm not too good at pestering. If I was, I'd figure out a way to pester that woman in the office into making copies for me. Anyhow, I talked to a counselor in the Bronx who found out that Ronald lived in Syracuse with the Smiths. At first
I thought that all of my brothers and sisters lived up here. It was because of her that I was sent to the group home up here, so I could be near him.

I never saw or heard from her again after that. She was a real nice lady, though. She contacted the Smiths, and they brought Ronald to visit me in the group home.

It was a sad visit. I didn't recognize Ronald, and he didn't know me. The last time I'd seen him, he was just a little kid. He stared at me with a big question mark in his eyes when Mrs. Smith said, "Ronald, meet your brother Amir."

Ronald knows that he's being adopted, and he knows that he has brothers and sisters, but I don't think he understands, even though the Smiths explained it to him. It's just something he was told. Ronald was calling the Smiths Mama and Papa, and it was hard for me to think of him as my brother.

I don't want to feel like that, because he is my brother. I kept reminding myself of how it was when my mother brought him home from the hospital. He had tiny hands and feet as soft as velvet. I remember how the rest of the kids always wanted to hold him and play with him, and my mother and father had to shoo them away. "Y'all going to kill this baby with love," my mother would joke. "You'll drown him with those slurpy kisses."

I was the only one who could hold him all of the time, because I was the oldest. He has no way of
remembering how much we loved him. "You can call and visit your brother anytime," the Smiths told me. When you're a foster kid like me, you have to learn people fast. I could feel deep down inside my heart that they meant what they said. I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but they didn't seem like evil people—they looked like nice grandparents you could trust. Ronald stuck near them, like he was afraid of me.

Every week after the first visit, the Smiths picked me up and took me to church and then to their house for Sunday dinner. Mrs. Smith is a good cook and baker. She makes the best fried chicken in the world. Maybe the Smiths were the ants in my pants. They kept telling me that I could stay with them. "Ronald started out as our foster child," Mr. Smith would always remind me, "and now he's going to be our son for real." He also told me that he'd help me get in touch with the rest of my family.

I thought about it for a long time, because, like I said before, I felt deep down inside myself that the Smiths were real nice, honest people, but I was afraid that there could be another side to them. Also, Ronald acted like we wasn't even related. He still acts that way most of the time. Doris, I can tell only you this—it doesn't feel like he's my brother. But I guess he is, unless he's the wrong Ronald. (Just joking.)

After one of their visits Mr. Smith said, "My cousin is doing a search for your family's records. Me and Mrs. Smith want to help you, whether you live with us or not." That convinced me to stay with them. They wanted to help me just because that's the way they are.

They had a welcome party for me when I moved in. Mrs. Smith baked a huge chocolate cake, and some of the people from their church and the neighbors came. It was real nice of them, but I felt strange. I was used to being a foster kid and going to live in other people's homes, but I guess I wasn't used to getting a welcome party.

So there's some more of the story for you to tell—but I still think you'd better find a hero in the encyclopedia. (Smile.) It was just good luck that the Bronx counselor found out where Ronald was. I didn't really do anything so special.

By the way, writing Mom and Pop Smith is not going to make it any easier for me to say it. Anyhow, I don't suppose I'll ever have to. Once I get in touch with my aunt, I guess I'll be living with her. Well, I see some little eyes staring at me. The terror tots are waking up. Write back soon.

Love,

Amir

8:30
P.M.
Saturday
July 4th

My Dear Amir,

I hope that you are very, very fine and that your 4th of July was better than mine, and I hope that Mr. Smith is able to bring you down here soon. It's a real drag when you can't be with your best friend. Before I tell you about my stupid 4th of July, I want to say that I always imagine how you feel—to have parents who are not really your own parents. You see, I can't be a helpful friend if I can't understand exactly how you feel and try to feel the same way.

Like I said before, guardian angels led you to the Smiths. That's why they're nice to you. They can't help themselves. You probably shouldn't worry about not being able to call the Smiths Mom and Pop. When those same guardian angels lead you to your family, you won't be living with the Smiths anymore anyhow. However, I have a question. Why did you say in your last letter that you
guess
you'll be living with your aunt? Isn't that what you want more than anything else?

Let's put this good thought out in the world so that it can come back at you: Your brothers and sisters live in Manhattan or the Bronx with your aunt, you and Ronald will move back here to be with them, and everyone will live happily ever after. Except the Smiths, because I think
they really like you and they'll miss you, and they love Ronald, so they'll miss him even more. But they'll come and visit you and Ronald every Sunday.

That's a nice fairy tale, ain't it, Amir? It would be so wonderful if things turned out that way, wouldn't it? Guess I'm bugging. No matter how things turn out, someone is going to be unhappy.

Here's another nice fairy tale: You move back to the Bronx. Then I wouldn't have to be bothered with my phony little girlfriends who can't be trusted.

Without you, Amir, I wouldn't have a sensible person in this world to talk to. I can't even talk to my parents anymore. No matter what happens in life, they make endless speeches about their own childhoods, which have nothing to do with my problems. My father tells me about his boyhood down South, and my mother tells me about her girlhood in Harlem, and I can't get a word in edgewise.

Guess you're wondering what in the world I'm ranting about, and what I'm doing in the house so early—the one night of the year when my parents let me sit out on the stoop until way after the sreetlights come on.

Remember 1 told you in my last letter that we were having a big 4th of July block party and double-dutch contest? And that now we had a 163rd Street/Union Avenue double-dutch team with Charlene and her sisters from Union Avenue?

Well, Lavinia and Mickey and Dotty decided that they did not want to be on a team with the sisters anymore, and that we should have two separate teams. Me, the twins, and Lavinia would be one team, and Charlene and her sisters another team.

Lavinia and the twins got angry with me. They said I was a traitor because I wouldn't go along with their scheme. They thought if we won the tournament in the fall, we'd travel all over the country and be on television. They think they're too cute to be on the same team with Charlene and her sisters, and are always talking about how funny the sisters look with those extensions in their hair, and how Charlene's clothes are always too big for her and how tall and skinny the older sisters are. If the truth be told, the only way Lavinia and the twins could have had a winning team was to keep those sisters on it. Those sisters are like double-dutch geniuses.

I like the sisters—even if we're not serious hang-out buddies. They've always been nice to me; they're just loud, except for Charlene. So I threatened to leave the team if Lavinia and the others threw the sisters off.

"I'm not a phony," I told Lavinia. "Just because you think this tournament is some kind of big deal, now you too good to associate with Charlene and her sisters after they taught you everything you know." You know what Lavinia had the nerve to tell
me? "See ya," she said, flicking her hand at me like I was a nobody and a nuisance. "If you feel that way, go and hang out with them drugged-up sisters."

Now, how vicious is that? The sisters act wild, but I know they don't mess with drugs. Lavinia thinks they do because the sisters are always jumping double dutch in the playground, which is filled with teenagers, and that must mean they're up to no good. And Mickey and Dotty think whatever Lavinia wants them to think.

The playground may be a little worse than when you lived here, Amir Yellow Bird, Big Russell, and the rest of the boys play basketball on the block and don't even go there anymore. Only T.T. still plays there. He and Charlene and her sisters all live in the same building across the street from the playground, so that's where they play.

People say that kids from the next block are fooling with drugs, but you know how everyone in this neighborhood exaggerates. Before the summer is over, there'll be more rumors than flies on 163rd Street. I'm glad I'm out of all of it and don't have any friends except you. I'm better off just staying by myself.

You see, Charlene's sisters got angry with me, too, because they think I didn't want them on the team either. I tried to explain to them that breaking up the team wasn't my idea. I even offered to stay on
their team. They laughed in my face. "When you learn how to jump," one of them said. Only Charlene listened to what I had to say. "Don't pay them any mind," she said when they started yelling at me. "I believe you." Looks like no matter how nice I try to be, I make somebody mad.

So since I'm no longer on the stupid double-dutch team, I just sat on the stoop on the 4th of July and watched everyone else have a good time.

I know I'm not a good jumper—my long legs get in my way—but my ex-friends replaced me with a girl who doesn't even know how to turn the ropes good, much less jump. The poor child has no rhythm. The sisters won first place in the contest, and Lavinia and the twins won absolutely nothing. So you see, if Lavinia and Mickey and Dotty had listened to me and kept a single team, then we all would've been winners.

Anyway, all I need is one true friend who I can trust with my very life. You.

To be fair, there were also a few laughs today. Someone exploded a firecracker that made Miss Nichols's wig pop off her head like the lid on a steaming pot. I'm sure your 4th of July was much more sensible.

Bye for now. Oh, I almost forgot to ask—did that Old Battle-Ax in the office let you make some copies of your letter and drawing yet? If not, send them to
me. My mother works in a cleaners', and they have a copying machine.

Your friend to the end,

Doris

July 9th

Dear Doris,

How are you doing? Thank you for offering to make copies of the letters for me, but the woman in the office was out today. (She's not that old. She's a Young Battle-Ax.) Her helper let me make all the copies I wanted. I copied five letters and five sketches. I didn't want to overdo it, otherwise he might not let me come back later to make more.

Yesterday Mr. Smith told me that he'd found out for sure that my sisters and brothers are with my aunt and her husband. All they have to do now is find her. I'm afraid to get excited, because I'll be disappointed if it's some kind of mistake. I said I
guess
I'll be living with my aunt because like Mrs. Smith always says, nothing is sure. Maybe my aunt won't want me to live with her. Maybe there's too many of us for her to take care of. Anyhow, at least the children are all together, and I will know where they are. When I finish high school and get a job, then they can all live with me. That's my plan.

Mr. Smith is still asking me to try and remember the last place we lived because that was the last time my aunt visited us. But all of my memories are useless. I can't remember exactly where we lived. I see a lot of different places in my head, and I don't know whether I'm remembering two different places like they were one. I think about a place we lived in the city, and I see a narrow street and that steep hill on Third Avenue and my mother walking out of a courtyard. I mix up 163rd Street in the Bronx with another place that I'm not sure of.

My 4th of July wasn't as exciting as yours. Most of the kids around here are seven- and eight-year-olds, like Ronald. Maybe I'll make friends when I go to high school. Except if friends visit me, they'll wonder why I call my parents Mr. and Mrs. Smith. (Ha, ha.) Mr. Smith drove us to the lake on the 4th. We had a picnic and saw a fireworks show in the evening. I missed the Bronx, though—sitting on the stoop, watching wigs pop off heads. Real fun.

Ronald had a good time playing basketball. He really thinks that he's going to grow up to be a famous basketball player. Ronald reminds me of Yellow Bird and Big Russell and the rest of the 163rd Street crew. Basketball is everything! Maybe that's why he's not so close to me the way you think a little brother would be. Guess he thinks I'm weird, since I
don't play basketball and can't teach him anything about it.

When I first moved here, I tried to tell him about our family and tried to teach him how to draw, but he doesn't care about that. He tunes me out whenever I try to tell him anything. His eyes look blank, and he says, "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He acts like he wants me to hurry and shut up. I try hard not to be angry with him and to understand him. He was so young when we were together before. I wonder what the other kids are like now. I wonder if they remember me and our parents.

About Lavinia and the twins.

They're just being themselves. I think that they changed because the double-dutch contest became a big event. And maybe they look down on the sisters because they don't always have new clothes and they're sort of poor.

People used to do that to my family. My mother would say, "They don't know us, so they don't know what they're missing." I guess people talked about us because we were different. But I didn't know that we were different. I thought that all families were like us.

We used to put on family plays just for ourselves. My father played the piano, and when he wasn't away on the road, he'd play music for us. My mother made the costumes, and we kids made up a story with songs. Actually, I'd sketch pictures and the kids
would put words to my drawings and turn it into a story. I can draw a story, but not tell one. My sister Olivia loved to sing.

I just thought about something, Doris. Maybe the plays were like our special family devotions. They were different from the Smiths', but they made us feel happy, even though we didn't pray and read the Bible.

You said that your parents like to talk about their childhoods. My mother always talked about growing up in the South, too, like your father does. She loved plants and flowers, so everywhere we lived looked like the Bronx Botanical Garden. She'd find half-dead plants because they were cheap. We'd help her clean and water them and watch them grow and flower. She'd tell us that we were like her geraniums—she wanted to help us grow and flower, too.

In some places she had the fire escape filled with plants. She loved red geraniums best of all. She used to say, "It's not where you live, but how you live."

Doris, it's time to eat dinner, so I'm going to go now. Write soon. Don't let Lavinia and the twins worry you. You'll figure out a way to make up.

Love,

Amir

P.S. Ignore the drug rumors.