He knew that. He was pretty sure he knew that China was a different country. Why, then, did he think that Russia was in China? And what had made him open his mouth during the first class of the first day at a new school where he didn’t know anybody? And where everybody was now laughing at him, and a strange girl who looked like a Barbie doll had called him silly? Anton was mortified.
“It’s an easy mistake to make,” he heard Ms. Green say, and he loved her for it. “They’re both Communist countries, after all, although Russia’s president is trying to change that. Now, who knows another name for Russia?”
“The Soviet Union,” several of the students yelled, and Anton felt a wave of fear. How come his classmates knew so much? How come he knew so little?
The rest of the morning was full of surprises and challenges. Anton was delighted to receive what looked like brand-new textbooks for each of his classes. At his old school, the books often had torn or missing pages, or were so covered with the scribbles of former students that it was difficult to read the text. He held his breath as he turned the pages, secretly reveling in the new-book scent, even as he noticed that the other kids didn’t seem nearly as impressed as he was.
After the embarrassment in social studies, he didn’t dare raise his hand during the other morning periods, not even during math, when he was pretty sure he knew the correct answers. However, he noticed that Natasha, despite her heavily accented English, spoke up several times. And that all her answers were correct. A new feeling entered his body—shame. Something was wrong. This was why David and FM had spent so much time ruining his summer by making him do homework. But why did he know so little compared to all these other students, with their cheerful voices and their ready laughter and hands shooting up in the air before the teacher had finished asking the question? Was it true that white people were smarter than black people? If so, why had FM brought him to this school? And why was she always telling him how clever he was, how quickly he picked up on new things? Because it was true? Or because—Anton felt a sob gather at the base of his throat—it wasn’t?
At lunch, he bought himself a hamburger and fries with the money FM had given him, then carried his tray to an empty table at the far end of the cafeteria. He noticed that Natasha was sitting with a group of girls at one of the tables, but it didn’t occur to him to be hurt by the fact that no one had invited him to sit with them, relieved as he was to be by himself. He bit in to the burger and thought it was the best thing he had ever tasted. He remembered the insipid, stale food he ate daily in the school lunch program at his old school and fought the urge to gag at the memory. This cafeteria looked like a restaurant in a movie, compared to the dingy, dirty, crowded lunchroom where he had eaten so many nasty meals.
He was dipping the fries in ketchup when a group of four male students approached him. “Hey, can we sit here?” one of them asked and, without waiting for an answer, set his tray next to Anton’s.
The four boys settled in, and then the first one turned to him. “I’m Jerry,” he said. He was a tall, gangly kid with braces.
“Anton,” he said with his mouth full.
“Atom?”
“No. Anton.”
“Oh. Pleased to meet you, Anton-io,” Jerry said. The other boys giggled. “See? I told you he was Italian.”
Anton stopped chewing. “I’m not Italian,” he said indignantly.
“No, you’re Jewish.”
“Huh? No, I’m not.”
“That’s right. You’re An-ton. From Antwerp.”
Another boy piped up, “Hey. You said, ‘An twerp.’ Get it? An twerp.”
He knew that they were mocking him, but he didn’t even know what Antwerp was, so it was hard to respond. He looked down at his plate, his appetite suddenly gone.
Jerry was apparently not finished with him. “Well, where are you from?”
Anton looked around helplessly. “From here,” he said finally. “I’m American.”
Jerry grinned triumphantly. “Oh. I thought you were a Russian. From China.”
At his old school, he would’ve pushed the boy hard, but here, Anton was afraid to. Jerry was laughing, and there was something mean about his laughter. It reminded Anton of when he was younger and would occasionally go with his mother to the grocery store where she worked. The store manager would pat his head and say that he was cute, but he always kept his eyes on Anton. Mam said it was because Mr. Hudson thought all black boys were thieves.
Anton eyed his half-eaten burger, unsure whether to stay or to leave. If he left, where would he go? He knew there was a playground outside where they were expected to go after lunch, but he also knew that no one would invite him to join their games. He was debating his next move when someone poked him from the back and said, “Hi, Anton.”
Anton saw the jolt of surprise in Jerry’s eyes before turning his head to see Bradley Stevens. Anton’s heart leaped with joy. But before he could respond, Jerry said, “You know Anton?”
Brad’s tray was empty, but he set it down across from Anton, waiting wordlessly until the boy occupying that spot scooted down the bench. As Brad sat down, he turned to Jerry and said, “Yeah. We’re friends. Why?”
The “why” hung in the air, packed with a hidden challenge. In the second that it lingered, several things happened—Jerry heard the dare and backed down from it; the other boys shifted and rearranged their allegiances; and Brad Stevens, with his mop of red hair, sharp features, and compact, fearless body, became Anton’s lifelong friend. Although he couldn’t quite take in everything that had just occurred, Anton felt the overpowering sense of having been saved, and he understood that Jerry had just been demoted from emperor of the lunch table to court jester.
He remembered now that FM had told him yesterday to look for Brad during lunch, but in his nervousness, he had forgotten. In any case, Anton looked from under hooded eyes as Brad now held forth, mimicking his new teacher, stealing a french fry from Anton’s plate, quoting a limerick he had learned that had them all hooting. The burger tasted good again, and for the first time all day, Anton felt the faintest sense of belonging. Still, he didn’t trust himself to speak, awed as he was by his companions’ verbal nimbleness, their choice of words. At his old school, there was a lot of verbal jostling, but it was different—rougher and yet more intimate. Here, the wordplay was cooler, the jokes more sophisticated, the humor less obvious. It bewildered Anton, but it also excited him, as if he were about to learn a new language.
Brad waited until Anton finished his burger and then stood up. “We have about twenty minutes. Wanna go play soccer?” It was a general invitation, but he was looking directly at Anton, who smiled and nodded.