Korê in New York

What happens when a kid refuses to leave the past behind? What happens when the past won't go away? Read on and don't worry about the emotional damage.

1. Nervy Turns Six

   The white minibus stood outside Brooklyn Tech late Saturday afternoon. It was May 15, the day of Saturday rehearsals. The lights had held. I’d read Global Studies which was about the rise of Facism in Europe, and biology. The lighting had held. Even my own one act had gone smoothly. I remembered Kwaata’s sweaty embrace afterwards. She asked about my sister. I told her Ivanna had started taking the advanced beginner class. She’d spent her accumulated points wisely. There are good uses for pull in the world.

   I did not need that white minibus. Someone had chartered it. I did not have the strength to fight. One never feels brave when one needs real courage. I felt empty. “Kore get in!” Dad shouted. He was driving the thing. “What the…” I left off the expletive.

   I climbed inside in time to see Margolin Sidlow, and half a dozen other motley kids whom I did not recognize. “What’s going on?” I felt truely dazed.

   “We’re going to Fairway,” Dad explained.

   “In Red Hook?” I asked.

   “No, in Harlem. We just came out here to get you, and also to give some of these kids a tour of the city. You don’t see much if you travel by subway.”

   “You don’t see much if you just stay in your apartment all the time either,” Margolin added.

   I sat down. I felt nervous and a bit sick. The strange kids smiled. I looked them over. Some were dressed fashionably. Some wore only sweats, grumpy Saturday clothes. One wore pajamas, and several others wore generic jeans or kahkis and generic jackets or sweaters. I stared out the window and pretended everything was a normal occurance as we crossed the bridge and Dad chatted away about the sand hogs who had dug below the river and helped plant the foundations of what was once and still is an amazing structure.

   Then we headed uptown. The kids talked about the lack of trees. Manhattan was different from Roanoake, Rutland which is in Vermont, a small town in Maine and another town in Texas. “Academic migrants!” My mind slowly put it together. All the kids on the bus were staying at the Berna. Four of them were staying with an elderly great uncle. Another three were using their uncle and step aunt’s apartment since they were away in Europe and one place was as good as another when you are trying to get New York City residency so you can attend a Full Academic high school or middle school. The last little migrant had been sent to live with an exspouse, her mother whom she had not seen much of since she was in kindergarten.

   “Having divorced parents sucks,” Margolin sympathized. What the fuck was she doing here? She did not belong here! I wanted to tell Dad that. I wanted to tell the whole busload of clueless academic migrants that! Margolin Sidlow is not my friend. Margolin Sidlow can never be my friend! We are on opposite sides! It’s not just politics. It’s visceral. I hope you understand.

   I switched from staring out the window to staring at the floor. A dirty bus floor can be among the most interesting things in the world. “Kore, are you all right?” Margolin asked.

   “I’m fine,” I answered. “I couldn’t be better.”

   “How were Saturday rehearsals?”

   “Uneventful.”

   Margolin sniggered and then her snigger stopped like someone had pulled the plug on it. I wondered if I could ask her discretely what the fuck she was doing where she clearly didn’t belong. Even I would have had the sense not to intrude on an ECBAS gathering in this way, and this was a Young Achiever’s trip to Fairway if such a thing existed.

   “How was your Saturday?” I asked back instead.

   “Pretty good. My dad told me to go out with all the academic migrants,” Margolin explained.

   “So you just went?” I asked.

   “I kind of wanted to go.”

   “Why?” Margolin brought it up, and I might just get a straight answer.

   “Because I don’t want to end up like my sister. I want to go to a regular college, not Santa Balandina’s.”

   I thought back to last winter when Margolin learned, with a less than polite shock, that she had lived a very sheltered existence. She’d worked on her survival skills since then. “How’s the algebra?” I asked Margolin. I could also ask her how her Chinese was doing too. That Margolin was a self-centered, cynic at heart really did not bother me. Margolin was one step ahead  of half the ECBAS kids with tutors. She might even treat her tutors with respect. I could understand that, and on one level it left me half satisfied.

   “I don’t take algebra yet,” Margolin explained. “I start that this summer,” she told me. “Do you have a tutor, I mean a professional one, not just me?” I asked.

   “I’m going to go to summer school,” Margolin replied.

   “At Saint Blans?” I inquired.

   “No there’s a camp in a church near IS-179. It’s in Queens. Dad said it would teach me what it’s really like to be a grubbing academic.” Margolin laughed. I was glad it was college students who taught remedial high school math. “I fix computers at that camp and teach computer skills sometimes,” I explained to Margolin. “We’ll probably see a lot of each other.”

   “Yeah,” Margolin sighed. I realized she was less than pleased with the prospect. I did not care. At least she was not entirely clueless, and that was a big relief.

   “What happens to you in the fall?” I asked. As long as Margolin had started this conversation, I was damn well going to finish it.

   “My parents haven’t decided yet,” was Margolin’s rather prim answer.

   “What do you want to happen?” Boy was I fucking good at this.

   “I want to go to a Full Academic high school here in New York,” Margolin replied.

   “Are you serious?” I could not believe my ears. I thought of Margolin six months ago unable to make change in a store. I tried to imagine how rotten and stupid inside she must have felt, and how cheated by the fact that no one had taught her things people around her expected as second nature. Margolin must have gone home to New York quite angry, and must have sat through Realitee quite angry, and gone back to California quite angry.  It had never occured to me that Margolin would be angry at the right people and then use that anger to do something constructive.

   “Yeah, I am,” Margolin glared at me. Maybe she wanted this interrogation to stop, but it was not going to stop. It had a life of its own.

   “Aren’t your parents trying to stop you?” I asked.

   “My Dad is, but he’s real sly about it . He wants to see me take enough rope and hang myself so I can be a poster child for ECBAS, but I’m too smart to hang myself, you know? My mom thinks I’m slumming, but most of the private schools have fallen. I don’t want that.”

   “You’re going to be taking Math A if you’re in New York and sit for the Regents some time in tenth grade,” I explained.

   “I know,” answered Margolin. “My teacher told me about it at Saint Blans.”

   “Did she try to scare you?”

   “No, it’s a he and he just told me. That was why he said I needed summer school.”

   “What else are you taking in summer school?” I asked.

   “English and Chinese. I’m still missing Chinese and something called Global Studies. They make academic high school real tough in New York.”

   I had nothing to say. Now, ask me if I was sorry about the previous week. I still really wasn’t. Margolin had only apologized for insulting my mother and stepmother under duress. She was at the end of what she could deal with and was probably close to it now. I understood that much. This time, I would not torture her. That should be enough, I reasoned.

   We pulled into the Fairway parking lot. My job was to help the academic migrants shop. Margolin got premade smoothie and custom juices and even asked for a box for all her heavy containers. She stood in a corner of produce waiting for them to bring her a flattened box that she assembled by tucking the bottom pieces together.

   The migrants were supposed to learn to shop for themselves even if they bought mainly, sandwich makings and prepared foods of various types so that they were not dependent on the Berna’s concierge. Soon there was a whole line of migrants asking for boxes in the corner of produce. Margolin told them who to ask. I barely got my own shopping and Nervy’s shopping done. RoAnn, Nervy, and Ivanna had arrived in the family van, and I stopped to see my stepmom in the coffee bar where she nibbled pastry and drank coffee and worked on correcting a paper amid all the hubbub of the supermarket.

   “How are you holding up?” she greeted me.

   “Fine,” I answered. Being behind on the learning curve happens to everybody, I reasoned. I rode back on the bus and watched the migrants and Margolin exit at the Berna. “Margolin doesn’t know the price she’s going to pay,” I told Dad as we rode back.

   “I think she’s all ready paying,” Dad answered.

   “You think she’ll really defect?” I asked.

   “Did you hear what she told you?”

   “Yeah, but it’s all in the future tense.”

   “Not all of it.”

   “I’m not sorry for last weekend!” I told Dad. “Margolin had it coming!”

   “Who else has it coming?” Dad was good at this.

   “Lots of people. I have a whole list of people.”

   “Then Dr. Angelus didn’t help?”

   “I held my tongue today.”

   “Really?”

   “I could have been really mean and snotty.  I just asked questions and Margolin wanted to talk, Dad. You don’t know how mean a girl can be.”

   “I’m getting some ideas. Remember your mother and I got divorced.”

   “Oh fuck! Sorry for the curse word.”

   “I know all of them, Kore.”

   “If Margolin pulls this off, she’s going to be one of us,” I spoke it aloud.

   “How are you going to feel about her then.”

   “She’s going to need help, Dad.”

   “I know,” he answered.

   “This could cost you your job.”

   “I don’t care.”

   Back at the Ardsley, I helped unload the groceries. Then it was time for Dad to start baking. RoAnn came out of the study to watch. Ivanna watched a little, but she had no interest in cake. Dad said he would make a cake for Nervy’s sixth birthday. He’d also make cupcakes at the same time by doubling the recipe.

   The cake was going to be an applesauce cake. I was going to help make it. I’d done some baking with Mom, so I knew what words meant like: “Cream the butter and the sugar.” I did my share of stirring and I helped grease and flour the sheet cake pan and then sweep and dust up the mess I made on the floor. It’s hard to bake without spilling. At least Dad didn’t pitch a hairy fit over messes. We just took care of them.

   Dad explained to Nervy that all her cakes had to cool. We’d ice them in the morning. Her weekend party was tomorrow. Young Achievers did not have a meeting until the first week of June and then we’d have camps in various places all summer. I had a slot in the computer room at the IS-179 camp since I’d been working there all year. I would also be working with some of the academic migrants from the Lincoln Square group which meant they’d probably be with  me at IS-179.  I realized there were probably more than two such kids.

   “New York City is where all the refugees will come,” I thought. “New York City is the place for the last stand.” It almost sounded like the words to a song.

   I helped Dad make egg salad and slice mozzerela cheese. We were having canape sandwiches tomorrow for Nervy. There were honey flavored soynut butter and preserves, cream cheese and jelly, egg salad with and without anchovy or pickle, mozzerela and roast pepper, and of course roast beef spread. It was pretty much something for everyone, and no peanut butter in case one of the five or six year olds was allergic.

   In addition, there were two deli salads. There was a home made tomato salad WITHOUT CHEESE. Nervy liked caprese salad but gave all the cheese balls to any one who would take them. Dad made Italian tomato cherry salad with thawed frozen string beans instead of cheese. There was also a potato and mixed vegetables salad with ranch sauce. I helped cook most of this. I did not mind giving up study time.

   Nervy fell asleep before we finished, and we decorated in her absence, putting up a kalideoscope design sign that said Happy Birthday Nervy on it and getting the flowers out of the master bedroom. They were gerbera daisies and yellow roses. Nervy was having a “formal luncheon” for her sixth birthday party. This was Dad’s idea. RoAnn thought it was funny and got some bond paper on which to print off detailed invitations.

   On the invitations it said that a “luncheon buffet” would be served and that the “pleasure of your company was requested.” It also advised party goers to wear dressy clothes but comfortable shoes since there would be outdoor games in Central Park. Finally, in lieu of presents, each party goer was asked to donate two dollars to Unicef which was Nervy’s favorite charity. Dad and RoAnn had explained to Nervy that if the kids in her class had to bring presents, some of them might not show up, but if the party only cost two dollars per kid, no one would stay away due to money issues. Nervy wanted to invite everyone in her class.

   That was why at close to midnight on Saturday, I went downstairs to fetch the dining room table leaf from our pantry/store room. Flemming was on duty. “What is going on up there at this time of night?” he asked me as I crossed the lobby. “We’re getting ready for my sister’s sixth birthday party.”

   “It must be some party?” Flemming was curious.

   “We invited thirty-one kids and their parents and we’re getting about twenty five, plus a stray sibling here or there,” I smiled.

   “All for Ivanna.”

   “No this is Nervy. She turns six.”

   “Wow! And not even her family.”

   “No, her class from school. She’s going to a different school in the fall, so this is like a last reunion,” I explained.

   “Such a big party. Isn’t she going to get spoiled?”

   “No, the kids have to bring two dollars for charity instead of presents.”

   “That is wise,” answered Flemming. “I saw the note about all those children. What are your parents going to do with them.”

   “Let them run around in Central Park. The parents can help supervise them.”

   Flemming shook his head. “My Dad has never celebrated any of Nervy’s birthdays except when she was born,” I told Flemming. Then he had held his daughter and swore that she was his no matter what the genetic tests would say. I also got to see Nervy when she was only a few hours old. Dad’s mom, my Grandma Bihar, took me to the hospital. Nervy lay in a bassinet next to Mom’s bed.

   The birth had taken eight long, hard hours. This would be Mom’s last kid. I worried about Mom. I worried even more about the pinched, red creature in the bassinet. I have seen pictures of me when I was born, but somehow a photo is different. No one imagines they come into the world looking naked and ugly.

   No one imagines how small they were, when they were born. Nervy actually weighed a whole twenty ounces more than I did at birth, but to me she looked small, helpless, ugly, and doomed. Everything at home was crazy. Someone could easily forget about this small, ugly creature and let it die. I did not want my newest sibling to die, but in a few days after Nervy was born, I turned nine. Kryil had turned six the previous month. There was no place for someone so small and helpless in our family. That was why Nervy was doomed.

   I’m glad now that I was wrong. I was glad that in a few hours, Nervy would have a grownup style formal party, or as formal a party as a six year old can have and still have it be fun. Across my desk in our bedroom stretched Nervy’s favorite red dress with the big white Peter Pan collar and the little silk roses for buttons. It was a coulotte dress, perfect for a May morning and a birthday girl. My favorite Nervy Worm was turning six, and in a few days I would be fifteen. Kyril was all ready twelve. That made me forget about Margolin and feel good. It even made me feel good when I thought of Margolin. It was only fair that Magolin deserved a shot at whatever she wanted to try. If she did not defect, I would not be surprised. If she defected…. You realize an apology for last week would never be enough. It was also never enough if she didn’t defect.

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