MATANT JO KEEPS a stash of money in her dresser, inside a Bible. She gave me a pair of one-hundred-dollar bills, two fifties, and five twenties from a pile of endless bills. She said it’s for my expenses. I promise myself not to let the cousins know that I have this money. I don’t want to join in on their arguments.
So I carry the four hundred dollars in my bag, in a wallet, as if it’s simply pocket change. It’s the most money I’ve had to myself. It makes me walk taller and speak with more confidence. This unearned cash makes me feel a little bit more American. This is the beginning of the good life, I think.
It’s Friday and Chantal has come to the school early to run errands with Pri and Donna. I was told to wait in the lobby until four o’clock, a whole hour after school has ended. I wonder what it is that they need to do that shouldn’t involve me. But still, I’m grateful for the little bit of freedom. And with my money, I have more courage to step out into this new free world.
There are still kids in the building practicing sports and participating in clubs, and some of them sit outside on the steps talking and laughing. As I walk outside, some say hi and some ignore me, but they still know that I’m the Three Bees’ cousin, as they say. I look up and down the block—Vernor Highway. Other kids are walking to the bus stop. I have enough money to take the bus all the way to the end of Detroit and back if I want to. I can even walk into a restaurant to eat by myself or go to a store to shop for clothes.
I let my feet take me down the block to a big store called CVS pharmacy. I almost run across the intersection even though the lights say I have the right of way. I don’t trust these speeding cars with too much road around them. A woman bumps into me, or I into her. I can’t tell because she seems to appear from out of nowhere. I quickly apologize with my very best English and step away. Any hint of an accent could be an invitation for judgment—that I’m stupid and I don’t belong here. But the woman is kind and smiles and apologizes, saying that it was her fault.
But then she asks, “Are you from around here?”
“Yes.” I nod. I look down at her clothes and shoes. Her coat is decent and clean, her jeans are plain, her boots look new, and her face is hard, but safe—like a schoolteacher’s. But still, she’s a stranger. I start to walk away.
“Do you go to that high school over there?” she asks. “Catholic, right? I hear it’s good.”
I turn to her and only smile a little.
The lady follows me into the CVS, but she goes down another aisle as I stand there staring at the enormity of it all. So many things to buy. So many choices. Matant Jo was right about this country talking out of two sides of its mouth. This store is more than just a pharmacy. I walk out with only a bag of potato chips, juice, lip gloss, and gloves.
When I’m back at the school, Chantal and the twins are already waiting at the curb. As we pull away, I spot the lady who bumped into me, or I into her. I don’t know. She seems to be staring at this car, right into this window. Or maybe she’s looking at the school since she asked about it. I can’t tell for sure. I watch her from the backseat of the car as she walks down the block alone. Pri has already dug her thick hand into my bag of potato chips. I don’t ask where my cousins have been or why they left me. I’m only grateful.
Something tugs at my belly and I turn to the back window, looking for that lady again. But she’s long gone now.
SEVEN
ON MY FIRST Saturday night here, music pumps through every corner of the house. The bass pulses in my bones and I wish I could plug my ears. Aunt Jo is dressed up in too-tight jeans and a nice bright shirt for the first time since I arrived, and she has guests in the living room—four men who smoke and curse just as much as Pri. If Matant Jo is a bank, then these men must be her bank tellers. Except no customers come to the house.
I avoid going downstairs even though I’m hungry. Manman will not believe me when I tell her that I am hungrier here than I ever was in Port-au-Prince. Not from a lack of food, but from a lack of willing and able cooks.
Donna has picked out my clothes for a birthday party—a new black dress that’s so tight, it looks like another layer of skin. I’m sitting on the edge of Chantal’s bed, waiting for Donna to do my hair, when Pri comes in and stands right in front of my altar. She stares at the magic things for a while without touching them before she asks, “Does it work?”
“Well,” I say. “Has anyone ever tried to kill you?” I have to speak loudly over the music.
Pri turns around and closes the bedroom door, muting the music a bit.
“Kill me? Ain’t nobody rolling up in this house to kill anyone.”
“I know. We made it so. Me and my mother. Every day we asked the lwas to protect our family in Detroit and their house,” I say, adjusting my bra.
“Oh, you did some voodoo shit to protect us?” she asks with her arms crossed.