One True Friend (2 page)

Children's laughter and the
bap bap bap
of a basketball drifted in from the front yard. "No, sir. Maybe later." He turned to Grace Smith. "Do you want me to help with the dishes tonight?" he asked.

"No, that's okay," She said. "It's Ronald's turn. Put on the television if you like. This is your home, too, you know."

Alvin Smith stood half in and half out of the doorway. "That's what I been telling him. And listen,
you don't have to say 'sir.' Call me Pops. All of the younger guys on the job call me that."

Amir sighed and lowered his large eyes. "Yes," he mumbled.

Mrs. Smith gently pushed her husband out of the doorway. "You're letting in flies."

Amir hurried up the stairs, but he heard Alvin Smith trying to whisper, "What's wrong with him? Is he depressed? He's just too quiet."

He couldn't hear Grace Smith's response.

Amir sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the letter he'd written. Then he tucked it away in the end-table drawer under some old school papers. What difference would it make if he tore it up or just put it safely away? Mr. Smith had said the letter was about his life. How could he destroy his life?

Lately, the only way he could control the unhappiness that had begun to throb in a small corner of his brain was to either draw or write a letter to his best friend, Doris. Amir carefully tore a few sheets of paper out of his notebook. Whenever he wrote Doris, he was transported back to the Bronx, where, for a short time, he had been happy.

June 19th

Dear Doris,

How are you feeling? I hope you are happy. I'm writing you because I don't want to watch television
or stand outside and look at my brother and his little friends play basketball. I'd rather "talk" to you.

What's happening on 163rd Street? Your last letter about graduation "madness" really made me laugh. I smile everytime I think of what you said about Yellow Bird's pants falling off his hips during graduation rehearsal. I hope Bird never forgets how you helped him with his school work. If it wasn't for you he might be repeating the sixth grade.

And what about Big Russell and T.T.? Are they still arguing over who's the best basketball player? And Mickey and Dotty, the twins? Have they calmed down? Or are they still acting immature, like you said. And Lavinia? Is she still being bossy? I guess everyone is excited about graduating from Dunbar and going to the seventh grade in September.

And how about those five sisters from Union Avenue, the ones you used to call the Nit Nowns because the baby sister said "nit nown" instead of sit down. Are you still friendly with them? Guess you're glad that summer vacation has almost begun.

Everything here in Syracuse is okay. This was the last day of school. I passed all of my subjects and will be going into the ninth grade. Thank you for the page from the telephone book. Hope nobody in your house needs it. I need another favor. See if there is a Z. Jones or Zachary Jones in the Manhattan book.
If there are only a few, could you send me the addresses and telephone numbers?

I wrote an "information wanted" letter today, and I was sketching pictures of my sisters and brothers to go along with it, but my foster parents don't want me to send it out. Mr. Smith likes to run everything his way. You know I don't want to make trouble or do things I'm not supposed to do, especially because the Smiths are so nice to me and are trying to help me. But I think that they are wrong about this letter. I feel I must send it out. What harm could it do?

I wish they didn't make such a big deal out of a little thing like a letter. I'm used to studying people. I wouldn't be tricked by some crazy child molester. What do you think, Doris? Should I send the letter anyway? One of my chores is to take the mail out of the box when I come home from school. I'll be working at a summer day camp starting next Monday, and so I'll still get the mail. Mrs. Smith has her own home cake-baking business. Usually she's so busy when the mailman comes, she never goes to the box. Anyway, the letters will be addressed to me, and the Smiths don't do things like open my mail They would never know. Yet I feel guilty about sending it, because they trust me.

I've never lived with a foster family like them before, and sometimes I wonder when they'll change They still treat me like I was their son. Mr. Smith tells
me to call him Pops, but I can't say it. I never called any of the people I lived with anything except Mr. & Mrs. whatever their names were. Most times I just called them sir or ma'am. "Yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am" pleased them—especially the ones who were foster parents just for the money.

It's different for my brother Ronald. He calls the Smiths Mama and Papa, because he's lived with them since he was two. He's seven years old now, and they are adopting him, so he will be their son for real. He doesn't remember anything except living with the Smiths. If I was like him, then I wouldn't be so confused.

Mr. & Mrs. Smith always tell me that this is my home, too, but I still feel like a visitor. I hate it when Mr. Smith calls me "son." Then I get angry with myself for getting angry with him, because he is only being kind. I know that deep down he is a nice person. He calls all of Ronald's friends "son." I try to change my attitude, but my own father lives inside my head.

Lately Mr. Smith has started what he calls family devotions. He reads a passage from the Bible, and we talk about things that bother us and things that we are thankful for. It's a special family time, but it's hard for me to say anything except "Nothing's bothering me. I just want to find my brothers and sisters." The Smiths already know this. And then for the thankful part I say, "I thank God for the gift of life." My father always used
to say that. I think Mr. Smith started this family devotions stuff as a way to force us to feel like a real family. I can't forget my mother and father just because I found a new family. When I stayed with people who didn't treat me like anything much, it was easier to pretend that my parents were still with me and that I was just visiting.

I'd make believe that my father was rolling up in his raggedy station wagon with my mother and the rest of the children, and we'd ride out to Coney Island. My mom would have sandwiches and potato salad, and if my father had extra money, we'd buy sodas and corn on the cob and my parents would eat raw clams on the half shell—ugh.

We'd stay on the beach all day; then in the evening we'd go on the rides. 1 know kids go to DisneyWorld nowadays, but Coney Island was our DisneyWorld. Thoughts about my mother and father make me feel happy and sad at the same time. I feel happy when I remember my father's rhymes and jokes, and then sad because I'll never hear his voice again—except in my imagination.

Still, Mr. & Mrs. Smith are the kindest foster parents I've ever had, and Syracuse, New York, is one of the nicest places I've ever lived in, but I still miss the Bronx even though I only lived there for five months. You and the rest of the 163rd Street crew are like my sisters and brothers. I don't think I ever told you this before, but
even Mickey and Dotty remind me of my own twin brother and sister.

I didn't mean to write such a long letter. Just wanted to say hello.

Please write me back soon and give me all of the 163rd Street news—even the smallest event.

Love,

Amir

12 noon
Tuesday
June 23rd

My Dear Amir,

I was so happy to get your letter. Seems like we haven't "talked" for a long time. I've been saving up many things to tell you. My head is about to bust wide open, it's so stuffed with 163rd Street news.

The smallest event is that my baby brother, Gerald, is three years old now. I helped with his birthday party last Saturday. I had to teach ten little terror tots how to play musical chairs. Did you know that musical chairs turns kids into demons? But I kept those little crumb crushers in check. I did such a good job, my parents are trusting me to baby-sit Gerald all summer, and they're even paying me, so I guess you could say I have a summer job, too.

I still go to the Beauty Hive on Saturdays to help Miss Bee and the other hairdressers—mostly I answer the telephone and run errands. I love working there. My mother tells me to pay attention to what I'm doing and don't listen to all the gossip and grownup talk.

But my father calms her down—tells her that I know right from wrong and that they can't protect me from the world forever—which is the same thing I've been trying to tell my mother FOREVER!

Getting back to more important things:

I'm glad that the Smiths are nice to you. I don't think they will catch a bad attitude all of a sudden, do you? Three months is a long time. They would have changed by now. And just think, they took you out of the group home so that you and Ronald could live together, and they haven't stopped trying to help you, right? Just like you found Ronald, I bet you find the rest of your siblings. (New word I learned.)

It makes me feel real proud that you want my advice. Remember, you used to be the one who always gave me good advice. So here's what I think you should do about the letter. Send it out. Sometimes adults don't understand. Who're you hurting? No one. What could happen? Nothing, except you might find your aunt. Don't worry about the telephone book. My father brought it home from his job so we'd have a Manhattan phone book. No one uses it. We don't even know anyone in Manhattan.
I looked for Z. Jones and Zachary Jones, but didn't see that name.

After I read your letter, I thought about my own mother and father, and I was able to put myself in your sneakers and understand how you feel. I would feel the same way you do if I had to live with strangers—even nice ones. It would be like forcing my foot into a shoe that didn't fit. I know it would hurt.

As much as my parents' stories about growing up and their "how to behave in public" lectures get on my nerves, I could never think of anyone but them as my mom and dad. It would be hard for me to put a smile on my face and feel happy living with strangers. I might even be rude, and I know you could never be rude, Amir. When I'm sad, I get mad and evil as a snake and take it out on everybody, which 1 know is wrong. But like my father always says, "I'll work on that." I'm sure you're still acting sweet and kind even though you're unhappy. I bet you're too shy to speak at Mr. Smith's family devotions. It's hard enough to tell your real parents what you really feel.

Family devotions is an interesting idea, though. But if my family had such a thing, Gerald would be running around not paying attention. If I said something was bothering me, then my parents would tell some story to show me how lucky I am. So the what's-bothering-me part and the something-to-be-thankful-for part would be mushed together, and I'd
end up thinking I'm supposed to be thankful for what's bothering me.

Then my mother would find the longest part of the Bible to read, and we'd all fall asleep and accidentally bang our heads on the floor before she said amen. Then we'd end up going to the emergency room. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm sure something weird would happen.

I thought a lot about what you said about being happy and sad at the same time. Everything has two sides to it—a front and a back, a happy and a sad, a good and a bad. You get my drift? I can have a pity party one minute and a celebration the next. Some people, though, say that's a girl thing.

Think upon this. Imagine that your mother and father are in heaven watching out for you like guardian angels.

This is what I believe: When parents die while we're still kids and really need them, even though they don't always understand us, they become our guardian angels and look out for us from above. That's a positive thought for you today.

But I have one question. The raggedy station wagon you mentioned. Was that the car your parents had the terrible accident in?

I never told you this before because I didn't want you to be angry with me—like I was putting your business in the street—but we had to write an essay
about someone who was determined to succeed. I wrote about you. I didn't use your name, and I kind of changed things around so no one would know it was you.

I wrote about a little boy (I made him six years old so he could really be small and weak—the teacher thought that was the most ridiculous part of the story). Anyway, just like you, this kid is determined to find his missing brothers and sisters; therefore, he bugs every social worker, counselor, caseworker, and teacher he meets until people get so tired of him bothering them, they help him. You told me that you used to bug every counselor you met about your missing family.

The point of the story was that the kid never gave up. I got a lousy grade on it. The teacher told me that I was supposed to write about a real hero or heroine. But I think what you did was great. You succeeded because you
made
someone help you. That's heroic. Do you know how hard it is to get good grownup help these days? You never did tell me how you actually ended up living with the Smiths.

I just thought of something Our graduation speaker, who was a little boring, said one interesting thing—well, maybe more than one, but I wasn't paying strict attention. He said, "We will get back in life what we send out." I have thought a lot about what that means. If you're evil, then evil things will
happen to you. If you're kind, like you are, then good things will happen to you. I think it's time for the world to treat you kind, because you do not have an evil bone in your body.

Now, here is the Big Event: All of the 163rd Street/Union Avenue crew graduated yesterday. Mickey and Dotty, the unidentical twins, are still sawed off. They haven't grown an inch in their bodies or their minds. Lavinia is still bossy and showing off. She wore the biggest and whitest dress, like it was her wedding day instead of sixth-grade graduation. Big Russell is so wide now, he looks like a man. Yellow Bird won the talent award, and I won the English award and a perfect-attendance award, too; however, my parents should get the perfect-attendance award. If I was too sick to move, they'd drag my sick body to school so I'd be marked present.

The big graduation surprise was Charlene. You remember her—she's one of the five sisters from Union Avenue you asked about, the Nit Nowns. She's the quiet one. Well, Charlene received the outstanding-student award. Her mother and her sisters were there, and you know how loud those sisters are, especially the older ones. When Charlene walked up on the stage, the sisters stood up and cheered like they were at a football game. Their mother, Miss Connie, pulled them back in their seats. Charlene looked so ashamed when everyone started
laughing at her family. I felt sorry for her and tried to put a muzzle on the twins, who thought it was so funny. "Why don't you be quiet?" I said. "She's embarrassed." The twins kept laughing anyway.

T.T. was the only one who didn't graduate. I knew he'd never get out of the sixth grade. He's supposed to be going to summer school, but he must be majoring in basketball. Seems like he's either on 163rd Street or in the playground day and night playing ball.

Graduation was fun, though, and now everyone is getting ready for the next grand event—the annual 163rd Street July 4th Block Party. The block party is big-time now, not the dinky little chip-and-dip affair that it used to be when you lived here. We're having a double-dutch contest, and whoever wins will take part in a citywide double-dutch tournament. We put together a double-dutch team with Charlene and her sisters. So now we have one team: The 163rd Street/Union Avenue Double Dutch Champs.

The 163rd Street crew told me to tell you hello. Inquiring minds want to know when you are coming back to the Bronx to visit us. Maybe this summer? How is your job at the day camp? Do you have a lot of terror tots to take care of?

I'm keeping my fingers, toes, and eyes crossed for you, and hope that you get together with all of your family soon. I have to go. Gerald is whining for me to
fix him lunch, and my mother will be calling on the phone any minute now to check on us.

Love,

Doris

P.S. Try this: Practice saying Pop Smith and Mom Smith in letters to me. Maybe one day you'll be able to say it to them.