Ms. Stanley takes the thick envelope without opening it and nods. “You know, those documents won’t really be necessary for now. This should cover her tuition for a while. How is your mother doing, by the way?”
“She’s fine,” Chantal says quickly.
Ms. Stanley nods, smiles, and disappears out of the office with the envelope.
Chantal turns to me and says, “My mother worked hard to make sure that you and your mother are taken care of. And she’s not just making bank—she is the damn bank. But your cousins think it’s gonna last forever. I keep telling them we have to save.”
“Matant Jo is a bank?” I ask with my eyes wide.
“Well.” Chantal pauses. Then she inhales and says, “Yeah, you can say that. She loans money out. Makes money from the interest. Like a bank, but a whole lot less complicated, and a whole lot riskier. So yeah, like I told you this morning, she works her butt off.”
I fidget with the pleats on my uniform skirt. “Why don’t I go to a free school?” I ask.
“Did you go to a free school in Haiti?”
“Free school in Haiti? No way.”
“All right, then. Ma thinks that anything free is just bullshit. Especially in this city. You don’t want a bullshit education.”
Ms. Stanley comes back in and motions for me to leave the office with her. Chantal waves me off.
“Honey, tell me how you pronounce your full name,” Ms. Stanley says before we enter a loud classroom.
“Fabiola Toussaint. FAH-BYO-LA TOO-SAINT,” I enunciate slowly.
With Matant Jo’s money back in Haiti, my mother was able to send me to one of the very best English-speaking schools. My classmates were the sons and daughters of NGO executives, Syrian businessmen, Haitian foutbòl stars, and world-renowned musicians. We were all shades of brown and not-brown. This is what the tuition paid for—to be with other students who were examples of the world.
Here, the class fidgets and talks loudly and the teacher rushes his lesson.
I have no pens, no notebook, no textbook—only my ears and memory. I try to keep up, but I quickly introduce myself to the girl sitting next to me as the other students get up from their seats and leave the classroom.
“That’s a pretty name,” she says, tossing her long locks back.
“My mom named me,” I say, then wish I’d said something more interesting.
“I’m Imani,” she replies. I can’t take my eyes off her hair.
“They’re real. You can grow them, too, if you want. You just have to be patient. Where’s that accent from?”
“Haiti,” I say, trying to say it like Americans. We walk out of the classroom together.
“That’s right. You the Three Bees’ cousin,” she says, examining me from head to toe.
I almost don’t want to be the Three Bees’ cousin from the way this Imani looks at me. So I start to walk quickly ahead of her.
“Wait,” she says, following behind me. “Everyone thinks you’re the Fourth Bee.”
“Me? The Fourth Bee? No way!”
“But Pri is going around telling everybody not to mess with her cuzz. She’s scaring the boys away, too, in case they might wanna holla at you,” Imani says as she pulls her heavy book bag over her shoulder.
I don’t let her see me smile. “They’re my cousins, but I am not a . . . bee.”
“I know you’re from Haiti and all, so if you knew about the stories I’ve heard, you’d want to have the Three Bees as your fam. You tell anybody that Pri and ’em over on Joy Road are your cousins, you’ll be like royalty.”
“What stories?” I start to ask. Students pour out into the hallway and Imani moves closer to me so she can whisper.
“They just go hard for each other,” she says really low. “If something goes down with Donna, Pri is right there fighting for her. And I hear she throws some hard punches. She don’t fight like a bitch with all that hair pulling and scratching. Chantal, on the other hand, uses her rich-people connects from her old high school to get people’s cars towed and shit like that. And ’cause they’re Haitian, everybody thinks they do that voodoo shit. Is it true? Do they put hexes on people? I hear their mother is a voodoo queen who goes by Aunt Jo.”
I let out a loud laugh, because everything Imani says sounds so outrageous. Then I quickly cover my mouth because the students start looking at me. I can feel their whispers on my skin. I don’t want all this attention. If my cousins are indeed royalty here, then I am just a peasant who only wants a good education, opportunity for a good future, and my mother. This is what she hopes for me, too.