Leaving Glorytown (9 page)

S
chool started a few days later, in September. That morning, after a breakfast of sugar water, hard bread, and half an egg from one of Abuela's chickens, Esther and I waited on the corner for Tito, Rolando, and Luis, as usual. Since Papa applied for the visa I had stayed close to home and had been afraid that Tito and Rolando wouldn't be allowed to associate with me anymore. But they came out of their house right on time, and a moment later Luis appeared. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Tito and Rolando didn't know about the visa yet; maybe no one at school did. The four of us, plus Esther, started walking to school.

Tito was the first to speak.

“So, your father really went ahead and did it!” he said in awed tones.

“Yup.” The fact that Tito knew about it meant that the whole school did, too. I'd been hoping for a grace period, but I could see now I wasn't going to get one.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Nah,” I lied.

“When do you think your visa will come?” Rolando asked.

“It will come when it comes,” I said. “My parents told me not to ask.”

“I wish my parents would decide to take us to America!” said Luis. “What do you think it's going to be like, Eduardo?”

“How should I know? I'm not even there yet,” I said.

Apparently our becoming dissenters had given me new status in the eyes of my friends. I was now regarded as an authority on all things American, and as we walked to school, they asked me a dozen questions, for which I had no more answers than I'd ever had.

Their questions proving futile, the boys turned to wild speculation on what my life as a Yankee was going to be like.

“I bet you're gonna get a girlfriend with blue eyes and blond hair!” declared Rolando.

“Yeah, and you're gonna go to baseball games and eat hot dogs,” said Luis wistfully. “And apple pie! Americans eat apple pie every day!”

“What's a hot dog?” Esther asked. “We won't have to eat dogs in America, will we,
hermano
?”

“No, no,” I said crossly. Ordinarily I would have found this funny, but the tension was getting the better of me. “Hot dogs are like sausages. You eat them in buns.”

“Oh, man! With ketchup and mustard!” said Rolando, clutching his stomach.

“And relish!” said Tito.

“What is it with you guys? Stop talking about food! You're killing me!” said Luis.

“Well,” I said as the school came into sight, “here we are.”

“Listen, Calcines,” said Rolando uncomfortably. “I just want to tell
you . . . if the other kids start in on you, you know, because of your visa thing . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Well . . . don't hold it against us if we don't say anything, all right? We don't want to get into trouble with the Communists. Our dad doesn't mind us hanging out with you, but he doesn't need any extra trouble, either.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “Some friends you are. If someone was ganging up on you, I wouldn't just stand there and do nothing! I'd fight!”

“Don't be like that, Eduardo,” said Tito. “You know it's more complicated than that.”

“Yeah,” said Rolando. “Way more.”

“Don't worry, Calcines,” said Luis, his voice full of scorn. “I'm gonna back you up one hundred percent, 'cause you're my primo. And if these scared little girls don't want to jump in, then that's their problem. Maybe they're afraid they're gonna break a nail.”

“I don't care about myself,” I said. “I can take care of myself. There is no one my age in Cienfuegos whose butt I can't kick to the moon and back, you hear me? But I'll tell you one thing right now. If you guys see anyone doing anything to Esther, and you don't help her, so help me God, I will wring your necks with my bare hands. Understand?”

Tito and Rolando looked at each other.

“Don't worry,” Rolando said. “We won't let anything happen to Esther.”

“You better not,” I said.

“Is someone going to hurt me?” Esther asked.

“No, hermana,” I said. “Luis and I will protect you.”

I could see by their expressions that the brothers were feeling guilty. But I didn't care about their problems. I was worried about my own.

I took Esther to her classroom and then walked into my own. Trouble started immediately.

My teacher that year was Señora Felicia. Like all the other teachers in Cuba, she had been selected because of her loyalty to the Communists. We all knew that Fidel thought of schools as indoctrination centers. When he took over the island, one of the first things he did was abolish the traditional education system. He replaced it with a curriculum based on the glories of Communism, including lots of lessons on the Soviet Union, which according to our teachers was just one level below heaven. All the schools were renamed after Communist heroes. And from kindergarten on, we had our heads filled with propaganda about the evils of Yankee imperialism and the wonders of the Soviet Union. By the sixth grade, I had already seen through all the nonsense they tried to shove down our throats. So had my friends. We learned how to tune it out.

But teachers behaved like government authorities. You had to be as careful of them as you were of the police, because if they overheard you say something against the Revolution, they could report you—and your whole family could get into trouble.

I walked into Señora Felicia's sixth grade classroom and took a seat in the back of the room. I hoped that no one would notice me. A few kids looked my way and exchanged whispers, but that was it. So far, so good.

Then Señora Felicia entered the room. “Everyone, stand up!” she commanded.

“Good morning, Señora!” we chanted.

“Sit down!”

We sat down.

“Calcines! Not you, you rockhead! Stand up!”

I did so. My face was already burning, and my knees had begun to tremble.

Señora Felicia was a short, stocky, dark woman with plump cheeks, pointed eyebrows, and cat's-eye glasses. She used her eyebrows to frightening effect, arching them and staring me down. I felt as if a chunk of ice was growing in my stomach.

“I want everyone to take a good look at Calcines,” said Señora Felicia. “Because this is what a worm looks like. A traitorous, disgusting worm. Look, everyone!”

A few of the kids snickered. Most of the others seemed just as uncomfortable as I was. But that was shortly to change.

“Why don't you tell us, Calcines, exactly what your problem is?” the teacher said. “Why is it your father thinks he knows better than our leader? Does Rafael Calcines have a law degree, like El Comandante? Does he think, perhaps, that he is the smartest man in Cuba?”

“No, ma'am,” I mumbled.

“Speak up! No, ma'am, what?”

“No, ma'am, my father does not think he is the smartest man in Cuba, ma'am,” I said, a little louder.

“We have one word for people like you, Calcines!” the teacher crowed. “And we all know what that word is, don't we, everyone!”

“Gusano,” said a few of my classmates. Worm.

“Louder! Everyone!”

“Gusano!” roared the class.

“That's right! Everyone, stand up and tell Mr. Calcines what you think!”

The students stood up. I stood, too, my head bowed, fists clenched, trying to control myself.

“Now, let's hear it, nice and loud! Gusano!”

“Gusano! Gusano! Gusano!” chanted the kids. Egged on by this so-called educator, their voices grew with enthusiasm, and they began to laugh. “Calcines is a gusano!”

“Excellent!” came a new voice from the door. Everyone turned to see the principal standing in the doorway, a pleased expression on her face. “Señora Felicia, I am happy to see that you are instilling the proper values in your students.”

“Thank you, principal,” said Señora Felicia.

“Calcines!” said the principal. “I have one thing to say to you.”

Everyone waited. The only sound was my labored breathing.

“Get out of our country at once! We don't need you,” she said. “Then there will be one less worm that our revolutionary government will be forced to re-educate.”

I couldn't help myself. The tears began to stream down my cheeks. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth.

“You may continue with your lesson,” said the principal to my teacher. “I only hope that having a worm in your classroom is not too much of a distraction for the other students.” And with that, she turned and walked away.

“Take your seats, everyone,” said Señora Felicia, looking smug. “You, too, Calcines. And let me tell you something right now. For the
rest of the school year, I don't want to hear a single word out of you. Not even to ask permission to use the bathroom. Understand? You can just sit there and keep your mouth shut. Now, let us begin with our geography lesson. Who can point to Moscow on the map?”

We were released onto the playground at lunchtime—or, rather, what should have been lunchtime, except that in this glorious workers' paradise everyone was starving. Almost immediately, I was surrounded by a gang of four boys. The ringleader was a boy I knew well, having gone to school with him since we were five. I had never had a problem with him before, but now he sneered at me.

“Put 'em up!” he said. “Let's see what a worm fights like.”

I knew I could have taken any one of those clowns, or even two of them. But I remembered what my papa said.

“If you cowards had to face me in a fair fight,” I began—but before I could finish, a fist came crashing into my nose. I fell, blood spurting down my face and chest. Howls and jeers arose from my tormentors.

“What was that you were saying, worm?” one of them taunted me. “Something about us being cowards?”

Other children gathered around to watch the action. The pain in my nose was bad, but the emotional pain was worse. And worst of all was that I couldn't defend myself.

“Hey! Why don't you little girls pick on someone your own size!” came a familiar voice.

I looked up to see Quco Bemba standing over me, his fists clenched. I knew he wouldn't have the strength for a real fight. But he and I locked eyes, and I saw that his face was full of fierce determination.
Perhaps he would collapse afterward, but right now, Quco was the only friend I had.

Then something magnificent happened. Three more familiar faces appeared next to Quco: Tito, Rolando, and Luis.

“Back off,” Tito told my tormentors. “Or I'm going to rip your intestines out and wrap them around your neck.”

“What are you sticking up for him for?” demanded the ringleader. “You're not going soft on us, are—”

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, either. Tito drove his fist into the boy's stomach. He doubled over, gasping for air.

“Don't mess with the boys from San Carlos Street,” Tito advised him as he writhed on the ground, trying to breathe. “Worm or no, Communist or no, Calcines is one of us, and if you touch him again, I'm gonna—”

“What's going on here?” came an adult voice.

It was a young male teacher. “Did this cowardly worm dare to raise a hand against you, boys?”

“He didn't do a thing,” said Rolando. “We were standing right here the whole time, and we saw everything.”

No doubt this teacher would have liked nothing better than to report me as a violent criminal. But Tito and Rolando's father was a Party member, and that gave them a certain status in his eyes.

“Well, he'd better not!” the man shouted. “This worm must learn his place!”

He walked away then, and the ringleader got up, his mouth opening and closing like a choirboy as he tried to breathe. He and his gang retreated, and Luis helped me to my feet. My boys closed around me.

“Are you all right?”

“You didn't hit him, did you?”

“Is your nose broken?”

Rolando gave me a handkerchief. I pressed it to my face, trying to stop the flow of blood. My nose didn't feel broken, but I knew it was going to swell and ache for days.