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  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.

&nbs
p; 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

  stuck to the bottom of his running shoes,

  I leave the room.

  Lou calls for me on my aunt’s telephone

  to see if I will change my mind,

  but I won’t talk to her.

  She tells my aunt I’m a hard worker.

  She says she and Gol miss my smile.

  One morning Mr. Franklin says,

  Hey, Cowboy,

  and I almost start to cry.

  I say, Please don’t call me that

  anymore.

  I am just Kek now.

  But I don’t tell him why.

  Hannah says I am

  cutting off my nose to spite my face.

  I don’t know what this means,

  so she explains:

  It means you are being a stubborn

  moron boy.

  She looks a little sad when she says this,

  so I don’t get mad at her.

  Why don’t you at least keep going

  for a while? she asks.

  It could be months before she leaves.

  Because at the end I know

  Lou and Gol and the farm

  will be gone forever, I say.

  Can’t you understand this feeling?

  Hannah chews on her lip.

  Yeah, I guess I can, she says at last.

  I wonder if maybe she is

  thinking about her mother

  who is not a foster.

  But I don’t ask.

  LAST DAY

  The days warm and the world

  begins again.

  I think of Gol nosing the ground,

  grateful to find tender grass

  appearing at her feet.

  After spring, Ganwar says,

  comes the time called summer

  and no school

  and sun strong

  as a young man.

  He says Lou may not leave until summer ends.

  But I close my ears to his words.

  The last day of school

  Ms. Hernandez and Mr. Franklin

  put our desks into a circle.

  Ms. Hernandez stands in the middle.

  Here comes a speech, she says.

  We all groan.

  That noise is the same in all languages.

  She laughs.

  I promise it’ll be a very short speech.

  I just want you to know

  that I’m very proud of all of you.

  You have learned much and

  come far this year.

  She makes a funny sound in her throat,

  but I do not think she has a cold.

  Like so many immigrants before you,

  I know you’ll help make this country

  a better, stronger place.

  She wipes her eyes. OK.

  Speech over.

  Mr. Franklin brings over a big box

  and places it on a desk.

  Inside is a cake,

  an amazing long cake.

  I wonder if maybe it’s the

  biggest cake in the world.

  Ta-da! he says.

  In the middle of the cake

  is a green lady with her arm

  in the air.

  She’s holding

  a green candle.

  Anybody recognize this ol’ gal?

  Mr. Franklin asks.

  The Statue of Liberty!

  everyone yells at once.

  Why is she falling over?

  Jaime asks.

  Hey, I’m a teacher, not a baker,

  says Mr. Franklin.

  Maybe she’s tired,

  Ms. Hernandez suggests.

  She has a big job, after all.

  Why does she have a dog? Pedro asks.

  Mr. Franklin sighs loudly.

  That isn’t a dog.

  It’s a cow.

  It’s supposed to be Gol.

  He shrugs. I thought it would

  be a nice touch.

  I look away.

  I still haven’t told anyone at school

  that Gol will soon be gone.

  There are words all over the cake

  in green letters. Many words in squiggles.

  Before we eat,

  Ms. Hernandez says,

  we read.

  Everyone groans again,

  but she holds a finger to her lips

  and you know that means business.

  Mr. Franklin lights the candle,

  and Ms. Hernandez

  makes her voice extra soft

  so that we will pay attention.

  That is a trick teachers like to use.

  These are important words, she says.

  They mean that

  this is your country,

  now and forever:

  Give me your tired, your poor,

  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.

  I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

  The candle glows

  in the green lady’s hand,

  and I don’t understand all the words,

  but somehow I know

  they’re strong and fine.

  I wonder if someday it will feel

  like they are meant for me, too.

  And then we eat the cake.

  All of it.

  Except Gol.

  SUMMER

  I would not be truthful

  if I said that winter

  is my favorite time.

  Winter is wet and heavy work.

  True, I learned to make snowballs

  like perfect moons

  and to catch a snowflake

  on my tongue.

  But I grew weary of looking

  for missing gloves.

  After such a winter,

  summer comes like a present with a bow.

  Summer is ice cream and skateboards

  and sweet grass under your

  free toes.

  And just as Dave promised,

  the not-dead trees had been teasing me.

  Their leaves stop hiding

  and over my head they weave

  a cool roof of green.

  Ganwar says that the farm will

  have its new owner at the end of summer.

  Lou can stay till fall,

  and then they will tear down the buildings.

  Lou is sad, he says.

  She misses me.

  I say he can tell Lou and Gol

  that I miss them.

  But I will not be coming back.

  Hannah tries to take my mind off the farm.

  She knows all the secret summer things.

  We take the bus to a swimming hole

  shaped like a giant brick.

  It’s filled with blue water and

  laughing children.

  First hot sun is on your skin,

  then you jump in!r />
  For a while,

  you are a fish

  in a warm, pretending lake.

  She takes me to the library, too,

  like the one at school,

  only with enough books

  for the whole world to read.

  They give me a card with my name on it,

  and let me look at book after book.

  The library workers don’t even know me,

  and yet they promise I can take books home.

  To be trusted with such precious gifts

  is a great honor.

  My father would have sung me

  a song of pride

  to see his son so trusted.

  Hannah helps me find books

  with pictures of Africa.

  They don’t seem real, these flat colors

  smooth to my fingers. They make me

  happy but also sad.

  I see a picture of a woman,

  tall with strong arms and sunny eyes,

  and for a moment,

  a crazy moment,

  I think it might be my mother.

  She’s like her,

  I say to Hannah.

  But not.

  She’s very beautiful, Hannah says.

  I’m starting to not remember,

  I whisper. Sometimes I can’t

  see her face in my mind.

  Only when I’m asleep now

  is she real.

  I know, Hannah says.

  It’s the same for me, too.

  The words steal her smile away,

  like clouds over sun.

  On the library table is paper

  in little pieces in a box,

  and a cup filled with short yellow pencils.

  I give a pencil to Hannah.

  You can still send a letter to her, I say.

  I wait. She doesn’t speak.

  I say, You can, but

  I cannot.

  Hannah lets air out slowly

  from her mouth.

  She looks at me with her

  leave-me-alone face.

  But she takes the pencil.

  It’s a very small paper, I say.

  It can be a very short letter.

  She chews on the pencil.

  She twirls hair around her finger.

  She makes another face at me.

  But when she starts to write,

  she can’t stop.

  She fills paper after paper

  with words.

  At last she’s done.

  There, she says.

  Happy?

  I smile. Yes.

  Now we’ll go mail it.

  Fine. She makes another

  sighing noise.

  And then I’ll whip your butt

  at basketball.

  I don’t mind that so much.

  She’s mad, but it’s a

  good kind of mad.

  Besides, she always

  beats me at basketball.

  MORE BAD NEWS

  One hot day, Dave comes by to see how we are doing.

  Hannah and I are in the parking lot.

  She’s teaching me how to skateboard.