You’d think bitches would respect us for having a mother who did whatever it takes to keep her daughters fed, dressed, and safe. But no. In the second grade, this little bitch stole my Dora the Explorer book bag. That’s when I learned how to fight. Chantal got it the worst because she was actually born in Haiti and she still spoke Creole. And Ma did our hair in these big, dookie braids with rainbow barrettes and bows and shit. They thought just ’cause we were Haitian, we didn’t bathe, we wore mismatched colors, and we did voodoo. The nice ones just kept asking us if we spoke French. Even though Chantal kept telling them that “Sak pase? Map boule!” is not French. It’s Creole, bitch.
Donna and her fast ass was the first one to get a boyfriend, and she always liked to tell people that she was French. Like from Paris, France, for real. This one time, a crew of girls from the east side challenged Donna on her Frenchness. They jumped her, but we all know that’s not why they beat her up. Donna was tall and pretty and had all the guys from here to the east side wanting to holla at her. Now, I didn’t give a fuck if other girls called me fat, but I swear, anybody lay a hand on my sister . . . So, yeah. I beat the shit out of that girl. And her friends, too.
In middle school, it got around that we spoke French. And some dumb motherfucker started calling us the Frenchie Sisters. It didn’t help that our last name is Fran?ois. By high school, Chantal had gotten a scholarship to some fancy prep school, University Liggett, Donna was going out with Dray, and I was . . . well, let’s just say I was the brawn. I don’t remember who came up with it first, but Chantal is the brains, Donna is the beauty, and me, I’m the brawn. Three Bees. The biggest, baddest bitches from the west side. Nobody, I mean nobody, fucks with us.
FIVE
“DOESN’T IT LOOK like a haunted castle?” Chantal asks after she parks the car.
I step into my very first snowfall. It started a few minutes ago while we were in the car. The roads here are so wide and straight and clean. We pass a small crowd standing near what looks like a bus stop—a tiny glass shelter with a single bench. Their hoods and thick coats make them look like the fat iguanas that cling to the bright-red flamboyant trees back home. Nothing here is alive with color like in Haiti. The sun hides behind a concrete sky. I search the landscape for yellows, oranges, pinks, or turquoises like in my beloved Port-au-Prince. But God has painted this place gray and brown. Only a thin white sheet of snow covers the burned-out houses and buildings. The flakes seem to appear from out of nowhere, like an invisible hand sprinkling salt onto zombies.
I am no zombie. I sniff the salty snow-filled air to make sure that I stay alive and human. If it’s snowing in New Jersey, I hope Manman does the same. The thought that my mother may not be seeing outside crosses my mind and I shake it off.
I glance up and down the wide street before stepping into the haunted castle that will be my new school. A few cars stop in front of the building and teenagers spill out onto the sidewalk. Pri and Donna leave for their first class, while Chantal and I head to an office where students wander in and out—most with their uniform skirts shorter than mine. I pull my skirt up a bit.
“Yeah, I know it’s below your knees,” Chantal says. “You don’t have to be like everybody else.”
“Not even in Haiti do girls my age wear their skirts so long, unless they’ve devoted their lives to being a virgin,” I say.
Chantal stares at me for a long second. Then she laughs. “Well, are you a virgin?”
Before I can answer, someone calls out Chantal’s name. A white woman with orange hair comes toward us with open arms.
“Chantal Fran?ois,” the lady says. “Look at you.”
“Hi, Ms. Stanley.” Chantal’s voice is as sweet as mangoes, and she smiles big and bright and holds her head down. She becomes a different Chantal, like the one at the airport.
“Liggett took what could’ve been our best student away. How’d they treat you over there? Lemme guess. You’re up for the weekend from Yale? Harvard? Princeton?”
Chantal shakes her head and the smile disappears from her face.
“Okay. I remember you saying you wanted to get as far away from Detroit as you possibly could. Stanford? UCLA?” The lady is holding both Chantal’s hands and is looking straight into her eyes.
“ULS was fine and college is great, Ms. Stanley” is all Chantal says. Then she turns to me. “This is my cousin, Fabiola. She just got here from Haiti.”
This Ms. Stanley is like an overripe banana—too sweet and mushy. She’s so excited about my coming from Haiti, she hugs me for too long and holds my hand too tight. She asks so many questions I can’t keep up, until she finally asks if I speak English. Chantal answers for me.
“Well, great. Let’s get you all registered,” she says. “I’m sure you’re excited to be going to school with your cousins.”
We follow Ms. Stanley into her office. Chantal and I sit at a desk while the woman pulls out a folder from a file.
“You have all the documents you need?” Ms. Stanley asks.
Chantal takes out a big yellow envelope from her bag and slides it to Ms. Stanley. “My mother will come in with all her documents. We just didn’t want her to miss a day of school and have to stay at home alone and all.”
I quickly turn to Chantal, but she shoots me a look that says trust me.