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  but her grip is strong

  and she meets my gaze

  with eyes that say she is a friend.

  We’ve been trying to get more information

  on your mom, Kek, Diane says.

  Here’s what we’ve got.

  She hands many papers to Dave.

  My hope flutters high

  like a bird I cannot catch.

  I ready my heart for the words I need to hear:

  Found her. Good news. Coming here.

  Those are the words Diane must say.

  Those are the stars that will guide my path home.

  This is a very difficult process,

  I’m afraid, Diane says.

  Refugees in that area move frequently,

  and tracking someone down can be

  almost impossible.

  We’ve sent out an inquiry

  about two camps on the border.

  Diane pauses.

  I wait to hear the words,

  to see the stars.

  After your camp was attacked,

  some people made it to the places we’re contacting.

  I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Kek.

  We’ll know more in a while.

  Diane looks at some papers.

  Dave looks at his shoes.

  I am still hoping, I say at last.

  I want to sound fierce and certain

  as a great lion.

  But I sound like a lost cub,

  even to my own ears.

  Of course you are, Diane says.

  We all are.

  Thank you for your looking, I say.

  Diane nods. You’re very welcome.

  I’ll be in touch with Dave as soon as we hear anything.

  We head outside.

  The icy air kicks at my chest.

  We walk to Dave’s car in silence.

  Only the snow talks.

  We climb in.

  Seat belt, Dave says softly.

  I am glad he doesn’t ask how I am feeling.

  I don’t know whether to feel

  hope or fear.

  Dave pushes a knob

  and the music box sings.

  The song races ahead while I stumble behind,

  just one more thing I cannot know.

  SCHOOL CLOTHES

  That night,

  I try on the school clothes

  in the box Dave has brought for me.

  I pick a button shirt with flowers on it

  and soft red pants,

  but Ganwar rolls his eyes.

  Those are pajamas, he says.

  You wear them when you sleep.

  I try again.

  Ganwar shakes his head.

  The kids will eat you alive, he says.

  This is bad news,

  since I didn’t know that America people

  like to eat each other.

  Ganwar must see the fear in my eyes

  because he explains:

  It means they’ll beat you up.

  Oh, I say. I feel relieved.

  You mean like at the camp?

  I’m not much of a fighter,

  not like my brother and my father

  and my cousin.

  I’m used to losing fights.

  It isn’t so bad,

  if you cover your face

  and other important places.

  Ganwar finds a pair of hard blue pants

  and a shirt the color of sand.

  Jeans, he says. T-shirt.

  I put them on and parade

  through the TV room

  like a great ruler.

  Ganwar groans.

  It’s just school, Kek.

  My aunt hushes him.

  Let him have his fun, she scolds.

  In the bathing room

  I look hard in the shiny glass.

  I wonder if I look

  like an America boy.

  I’m not sure if that would be

  a good thing or a not-good thing.

  ONCE THERE WAS …

  The next morning,

  I don’t know what I am feeling.

  I’m excited, yes,

  because to go to school and learn

  is a fine honor.

  But I’m worried also.

  I don’t know so many things.

  I don’t even know

  what I don’t know!

  My belly leaps

  like a monkey on a tree.

  In the camp we had a teacher

  some days, yes,

  some days, no.

  Some days I was too ill

  with the fever to go.

  Some days the teacher couldn’t come

  because of the men with guns.

  But on the good days,

  the teacher might arrive

  with a piece of chalk

  and maybe even a book.

  Mostly he would help us

  learn English words,

  so we would be ready

  to leave the camp someday.

  But sometimes there would be

  singing, or a story

  or numbers on our fingers and toes to count.

  I liked the stories the best.

  Once there was

  a lion who could not roar …

  Once there was

  a man who sailed the sea …

  Once there was

  a child who found a treasure …

  The stories would lift me up,

  the words like a breeze beneath

  butterfly wings,

  and take me far from the pain in my belly

  and the tight knot of my heart.

  I hope they will have stories

  at my school.

  If they don’t know how,

  perhaps I can teach them.

  It isn’t such a hard thing.

  All you must do is say

  Once there was …

  and then let your hoping find the words.

  NEW DESK

  Dave takes me to school.

  When I see it, I use the words

  I learned from the TV machine:

  No way!

  It’s big enough to graze

  a herd of cattle in,

  made of fine, red square stones

  and surrounded by many

  tall not-dead trees.

  It’s a place for

  a leader of men to work in,

  not a place for small children

  to learn their numbers.

  Dave sees my falling-open mouth.

  Don’t be scared, Kek, he says.

  But I’m not scared,

  not like that.

  Scared is for men with guns

  and maybe just a little

  for a flying boat

  finding its way

  back to earth.

  Inside my school

  the floor shines like ice.

  I walk carefully.

  Thin metal doors with silver handles

  line the walls.

  Those are called lockers, Dave says.

  C’mon. We’re early,

  but the teacher wants to meet you.

  Waiting in a big-windowed room

  is a woman with black hair that dances

  and sturdy arms

  and eyes that tell jokes.

  You must be Kek, she says,

  and then she uses my word

  for hello.

  I’m ready to begin

  my learning, I say,

  and she tosses out a loud laugh

  like a ball into the air.

  I can see you mean business, she says.

  A man comes in,

  young and short

  with skin the color of rich earth,

  just like mine.

  He says he is Mr. Franklin

  and he helps sometimes in class

  when Ms. Hernandez needs

  to do her deep breathing.

  Everyone laughs,

 
so I laugh, too,

  because it’s always

  good to be polite.

  This will be your desk, Ms. Hernandez says.

  Have a seat.

  She points to a shiny chair

  and little table.

  A chair of my own

  and a table, too?

  I smother the thought

  like an ember near dry grass.

  I’m very sorry, but I can’t,

  I say softly. I don’t have the cattle

  for such a fine desk as this.

  Oh, she says,

  you don’t have to pay for this desk, Kek.

  School’s free here.

  You just bring your mind

  and your smile

  every day, OK?

  Carefully I sit.

  I like very much this new desk

  with its cool, smooth top.

  My mouth will not stop smiling.

  READY

  You’re not going to understand

  a lot of what we say at first, Ms. Hernandez says.

  This is called an ESL class.

  You and your classmates

  will be learning English together.

  It means they won’t always

  understand you.

  And you won’t always

  understand them.

  I’m used to not understanding, I say.

  It’s like playing a game

  with no rules.

  She nods.

  That’s exactly what it’s like.

  I know, because when I came

  to the U.S. from Mexico,

  I couldn’t speak a word of English.

  This is a surprise.

  A teacher who did not know

  all things?

  Did you not know things also?

  I ask Mr. Franklin.

  Me? I’m from Baton Rouge, he says.

  That’s kinda like another country.

  I couldn’t understand

  these crazy northern folks

  for the longest time.

  Some of his words get lost

  on their way to my ears.

  But I can see from his face

  that his meaning is kind.

  When you have a question,

  Mr. Franklin and I will be

  here to help, says Ms. Hernandez.

  She points to the sky.

  You just raise your hand

  like this, OK?

  I nod. I say, OK,

  just like her.

  I raise my hand.

  Yes? she says, smiling big.

  I ask,

  When will the learning begin?

  CATTLE

  In my class,

  my long-name class

  called English-as-a-Second-Language,

  we are sixteen.

  Sixteen people

  with twelve ways of talking.

  When we talk at once

  we sound like the music class

  I can hear down the hall,

  hoots and squeaks and thuds,

  but no songs you can sing.

  I look at our faces

  and see all the colors of the earth—

  brown and pink and yellow and white and black—

  and yet we are all sitting at the same desks,

  wanting to learn the same things.

  Ms. Hernandez

  tells everyone my name

  and my old home.

  Then she asks us

  to draw a picture

  on the black wall

  to show where we come from.

  One boy,

  Jaime from Guatemala,

  draws a mountain with a hole

  called a volcano.

  Sahar from Afghanistan

  draws a camel,

  though to be truthful

  it looks like a lumpy dog.

  I draw a bull with great curving horns,

  like the finest in my father’s herd.

  I even give him a smile.

  But it takes me a while

  to decide on his coat.

  In my words

  we have ten different names

  for the color of cattle.

  But the writing chalk is only white.

  I am working on the tail

  when someone in the back of the room says,

  Moo.

  Then more say it,

  and more,

  and soon we are

  a class of cattle.

  At last we can all

  understand each other.

  I think maybe some of the students

  are laughing at me.

  But I don’t mind so much.

  To hear the cattle again

  is good music.

  LUNCH

  After much schooling,

  a sound comes

  like a great bee buzzing.

  The bell means lunch,

  Mr. Franklin explains.

  He gives me a small piece

  of blue paper.

  This is for your food.

  Thank you very much,

  I say in my most polite English words,

  but I don’t understand how the

  paper can help my noisy belly.

  You give the paper

  to the cooking people

  and they will give you food, Mr. Franklin explains.

  Tastes much better than paper.

  He laughs. Well, usually, anyway.

  The eating room is grand

  with long tables

  and strange and wonderful smells

  and many students chattering.

  I stand in a line

  and soon kind, white-hatted people

  fill my plate high with food.

  Ahead of me

  I see the snowball girl named Hannah

  from my building.

  She says, Don’t eat the mystery meat

  if you value your life.

  Then she points to a brown wet pile

  on my plate and makes a face that says

  bad taste.

  When my tray is heavy

  with the gifts of food,

  I stand still in the

  stream of students.

  I don’t know where to go

  to enjoy my feast.

  Hannah waves.

  Follow me, she says.

  I’ll tell you what’s

  safe to eat.

  But it’s all so fine! I say.

  She shakes her head.

  Kid, you got a lot to learn.

  FRIES

  We sit at one of the long tables.

  Nearby are two students

  from my class:

  Jaime, the boy from Guatemala

  and Nishan, the girl from Ethiopia.

  Hey, Jaime says.

  Hey, I say back,

  but I can’t talk anymore

  because my mouth is already

  full of new tastes.

  Excuse me, I say when I have swallowed at last,

  but what is this amazing food?

  I hold up a brown stick.

  Fry, Hannah says.

  One of the five major food groups.

  This fry,

  it grows in your

  America ground? I ask.

  Hannah laughs,

  a sound like bells

  on a windy day.

  I suppose you could say that.

  You’re Kek, right?

  I know because

  I asked your cousin.

  Hannah passes me a paper cup

  filled with strange and beautiful red food.

  Ketchup, she says.

  You dip your fries in it.

  I do what she says,

  then eat.

  You’re a fine cook, I say.

  Hannah and Jaime and Nishan laugh.

  I feel glad I found enough words

  to make people happy.

  When a friend laughs,

  it’s always a good surprise.
>
  NOT KNOWING

  I see your cousin

  at the apartments sometimes, Hannah says.

  He’s a very quiet guy.

  I have to think for a moment.

  To eat such happy food

  and think about words

  at the same time

  is much work.

  Ganwar, I say, has many worries.

  He seems kind of sad, Hannah says.

  I look at the fry in my hand

  with its shiny coat of red.

  I want only to eat,

  and not to remember.

  But Hannah’s words

  tug like tight rope

  on a calf’s neck.

  Ganwar lost his father and his sisters

  when the fighting came, I tell her.

  Hannah nods. Her eyes

  are blue and gray,

  or maybe green. I can’t be sure.

  I remember a kind doctor at the camp

  with such eyes.

  How did he lose his hand? Hannah asks in a gentle voice.

  I don’t know the words

  for this.

  Some English words I hope

  I never learn.

  Men came with guns and knives

  to our village, I answer at last.

  To be in such fighting,

  says Nishan,

  is very bad.

  And what about your family?

  Jaime asks me.

  I stop eating.

  I take a breath.

  My father and my brother, Lual,

  they were killed

  by the government men.

  I saw it.

  I pause,

  as a memory pokes at me

  like a knife in my back.

  I was lucky to see, I add.

  Lucky? Hannah asks.

  Her voice says

  she doesn’t understand.

  Nishan looks at me with

  eyes that know of such things.

  Maybe Kek means lucky

  to know for sure, she explains.

  Not knowing,

  it’s the hardest.

  Yes, I agree.

  The hardest.

  How about your mom? Hannah asks softly.

  I …

  Guilt grabs my throat.

  I will not go to that

  black place today.

  I try again.

  She’ll come, I say.

  I’ll wait here for her.

  Waiting is hard, too,

  Hannah says,

  and I can see that she

  also knows sad places.

  I push my tray away.

  I’m not so hungry anymore.

  HOME

  I take the school bus home.

  It’s a long yellow car

  filled with screaming, laughing students

  and many paper balls wet with spit.

  I don’t think it would be easy

  to drive such a car.

  My aunt is sleeping when I get home.

  Ganwar enters with a white basket

  under his arm.

  The washing machine’s in the basement, he says.

  The what? I ask.