One True Friend (8 page)

Amir wanted to stand up, shout, "I don't want to do this," and storm out of the room. But that was not his way, so he sat quietly and tried to concentrate on listening to Ronald.

"So, Ronald. Is there anything you want to say?" Grace asked. "Something that made you happy this week?"

"I beat Bruce every game we played."

Alvin rubbed his mustache. "But what else, my man? Would you be mad if he won and you lost?"

"Yeah."

"He wouldn't be your friend because he won?" Grace asked.

"Well, yeah, sometimes he wins—but I still would be mad because I lost."

"Suppose you lost Bruce. Suppose he got mad at you and didn't want to be your friend. Would you be happy then?" Alvin leaned back in his recliner.

Ronald thought for a moment, twisting one leg around the other. "No, but I'd be glad that I won the game."

"Well, think about this, Ronald," Grace said. "Suppose you always won, and Bruce and your other friends got angry with you. So angry that they didn't want to play with you. How would you feel?"

"Bad."

Alvin said, "So what do you think is the most important thing? Winning all of the games or losing a friend?"

Ronald looked confused. "Losing a friend?" he asked, not sure of the answer.

"You got it," Alvin said.

Grace nodded. "That's right, it's the friendship. So you should be thankful for Bruce's friendship, which
has nothing to do with who wins or who loses a game. The friendship is the most important thing." She clasped her hands and said, "Now, let me tell you what I'm thankful for."

Amir didn't listen. He was still hearing her previous words:
The friendship is the most important thing.
Then he remembered what his mother often said:
A true friendship doesn't break easy.

"Amir, it's your turn—what are you thankful for?" Ronald tugged at his shirtsleeve.

"Friendship."

He didn't even have to look at Grace and Alvin to sense their disappointment. He knew they hoped he'd say family. "And I won the best counselor award," he added, to change the subject.

"You didn't even mention it." Grace sounded a little hurt.

"I just found out today, and I was saving it for now to tell you."

Alvin stood up. "That's wonderful. I could tell you were good with kids. Now, once again, is there anything bothering us that we want to speak on?" He looked around the room as though he was talking to everyone, but Amir knew better.

"No, Mister Alvin. Nothing." He wondered, as he listened to Alvin's voice saying a prayer, whether the Smiths knew the whole story about him and Ronald, and their parents, too.

"Dear Lord, thank you for your many blessings..."

Amir kept thinking:
A true friendship doesn't break easy.

Amir went straight to his room after the family devotions ended. He was afraid Alvin would follow him upstairs and try to talk to him, so he was relieved when the telephone rang and he heard Alvin laughing and talking to someone on the other end. The television suddenly blared; Ronald must have turned it on. Amir sat on the side of his bed and opened his notebook to a clean page. He wrote quickly and let the truth pour out.

Friday evening
August 28th

Dear Doris,

I am sorry I took so long to write you back. I received all of your letters and The Bronx News. Your newspaper as always is great, but your letters about Charlene made me feel real bad. They brought back some terrible memories. I think you should tell her mother about her and her sisters. You said she was your good acquaintance, but I think she is your friend, and you might be the only person who can help her. "A true friendship doesn't break easy," my mother used to say. I hope you believe that.

Suppose you found out something about me like you found out about Charlene. Would you abandon me? Would you still be my one true friend? Or would you break the friendship like it was a piece of glass? Doris, I've been wanting to tell you some things for a long time—even before I left the Bronx—but I couldn't. I was afraid you'd look down on me. Or hate me.

Your letter about Charlene brought back bad memories that I'd sealed up and buried deep inside myself. Now it's like the seal on the box has broken, and bad memories are spilling all over me. I want to tell you about them, but I am ashamed. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of telling anyhow, but maybe it will make me feel better. Like one of my counselors used to say, "There are times when you need to talk things out."

Ronald always asks me why I don't play basketball. I couldn't really tell him why; I didn't want to think about it, or talk about it. Instead, I told him the same stories I told you about our mother and father. He didn't want to listen, and I guess he was right because I wasn't going to tell him the whole story anyhow. I think you suspected, too, that my story wasn't complete. That's why you kept asking me questions about my father and my parents' accident.

The reason I don't play basketball, baseball, or any other kind of ball is because I never learned how to play.
And the reason I never learned how to play is because I was always busy. All those stories I told you about my parents and the things they said to us and the fun times we had were true, but I didn't tell you the other side—when things began to change. That happened when I was about eight or nine years old.

First, my father got sick. But it wasn't a hospital or doctor kind of sick. He stopped playing music.

My mother stopped growing her geraniums and making pretty dresses for my sisters. She started working in a factory, and then in a restaurant after the factory closed.

We moved around a lot because after a while my father couldn't work—not because he was a musician, like I told you. He was too sick to work, so my parents kept moving to find cheaper places to live. Each new place was worse than the one before.

My mother, though, enrolled us in school, and I made sure we got there. My mom and dad insisted on that. Neither of them wanted truant officers and other people coming around asking why we weren't in school.

I was perfect in every school I attended because I didn't want anyone asking me questions. Also, I didn't want my mom and dad to get in trouble, and it was warm in school—not freezing like in some of the places we lived in. I got free breakfast and lunch, too.

The other kids always looked at me funny when
I first went to a new school. Guess I was funny-looking—like Charlene and her sisters. But I'd draw good pictures and give them away. And they'd end up liking me. A teacher got me into a special after-school art program. 1 started it, but 1 couldn't continue because we moved again.

My aunt would always visit no matter where we lived. She argued with my mom and dad. One day I heard her say, "You're going to lose all of your children." I got so scared, I felt sick. My sister Olivia heard her say it also, and she started to cry. The other children saw Olivia crying, and they cried, too. I forced myself not to show that I was afraid, because I had to quiet them down, but I cried inside. That's where I still cry. But I made a promise to myself that I would keep our family together.

I always found a store to work in, or some old person to run errands for—things a kid could do. I used to bag groceries at the supermarket so that I could get tips. The store manager would give me Cheerios, Kool-Aid, and milk to take home. Sometimes we couldn't drink the milk because it was spoiled.

My sisters and brothers depended on me. I had to be there to take care of them. So you see, I didn't have time to play like other kids. I was sorry, though, that I couldn't take the special art class, but I still drew every chance I got. I'd draw on any kind of
blank paper or napkin. One of the store clerks saw me drawing on the back of a match cover. A tiny drawing of a geranium. "Boy, you a genius," she said, and gave me a box of crayons.

I kept thinking that the bad times would only last a short while. My parents would get better and our life would be like before. That's what kept me being perfect in school and doing everything I could to help.

But everything kept getting worse no matter what I did, or how much I tried to help. First Ronald was taken away. My parents said it'd only be for a short time, until they got on their feet. We lived in one smelly room with all of us in it. No more paintings and music and flowers. The whole building was stinking. It was a shelter for homeless families. That was the last place we lived in and the last time my aunt visited us.

I almost stopped going to school then, because the first day I went, another kid pointed at me and said, "That's one of them homeless kids." But I was determined not to let them get to me. If I messed up, what would happen to the younger children?

I didn't feel homeless, not as long as we were all together. My parents watched over us and took good care of us. They weren't bad people, even though other people said that they were bad. They always told us, "We're sorry. We love you." Over and over
again. "
We're sorry. We love you. This isn't forever.
" They couldn't take care of us, but they worried about us all of the time. The memories crowd my head. This is not what you were writing to me about anyway. I'll finish later.

Later,
12 midnight

Dear Doris,

I'm back. I had to stop writing you because I was getting a terrible headache, but I want to finish telling you my story. My dad died first, and it wasn't a car accident. I made that up. He got so skinny and weak, he looked like a living skeleton. My mother told me that his health broke down and that he died of pneumonia. Then Olivia was taken away one day screaming and crying. My aunt and my mother argued over the other children, but they stayed for a time because I knew how to take care of them.

My mother used to tell us a story about when she was a girl in her home in the South. One day she was walking home from school with her friends. She'd stopped to pick flowers for her mom, and a goat started eating her notebook. All the kids tried to chase the goat, but it would butt its head at them and just continue chewing. We'd laugh so much.

She told the story every time we were having problems and had to move, or my father was ill.
We'd add to the story to make it funnier. Olivia said that the goat ate the whole book and then started talking instead of bleating. One of the twins said the goat ate the book and started saying its abc's.

The last time my mother told the goat story, only I was with her, and she was in the hospital. She was so sick that she could hardly talk She wanted to tell me the whole story, but I couldn't laugh. I started to cry inside when I saw that she was trying so hard to make me laugh.

The last thing she said to me was "You're my little prince, Amir. You're blessed. Don't lose your brothers and sisters."

After that the children were taken away, and I went to live with my aunt Gloria and her husband. But I didn't stay there very long. I started playing hookey from school, because now even the teachers looked at me strange. One day a kid asked me if I was dying of AIDS. Why would a kid say that to me? I was real skinny, but I wasn't sick. Maybe he'd heard a teacher say something about my family. Or maybe he'd heard rumors. A foster kid like me has official records and memories following him everywhere.

Doris, I could never say this to anyone but you. (I guess the social workers, counselors, caseworkers, etc. etc., know. I'm not even sure how much the Smiths know.) Both of my parents died of AIDS. They were drug addicts. Junkies. Druggies. Dope
Addicts. I can't believe I'm writing this about my own mother and father. Junkies and druggies. Maybe the more I write it, say it, the more words will just be words. Junkies, Druggies. Dope Addicts. Junkies. Druggies Dope Addicts. Junkies Druggies Dope Addicts I tell myself that these are words that don't matter.

I stopped going to school after my mom died and the children were put in foster care. I ran away from my aunt and went to live with my parents' friends in Brooklyn. I blamed my aunt for getting all of us kids separated. I blamed her for my parents' getting sick. I blamed her for everything. I wouldn't talk to her when she called me, and I ran wild in Brooklyn. I felt like some other person was inside of me. We never lived like that, even when my mom and dad were sick. I didn't draw anymore.

Then one night I dreamed that I saw my mother crying. That dream brought me back to my real self. I missed my brothers and sisters so much. How could I take care of them if I was all messed up?

Do you see why your letter about Charlene brought back bad memories? Do you understand, Doris? I hope you don't look down on me. My mom and dad weren't bad people. Sometimes I get angry about what happened, but I fight it because I don't want to hate the mother and father I love.

The Young Battle-Ax in the office said to me, "You are the most patient teenager with kids that I've
ever met. Where did you learn how to be so helpful?" My mother and father taught me how. They were good parents. That's what I want you to know and believe.

Love,

Amir

P.S. I won the best counselor award. And I sent out more letters last week. That takes care of all of the names I had.

An owl hooted in the distance—a lonely sound. Amir felt as if he could fly to wherever the owl was and keep it company. Ronald snored lightly in the next bed. It was a comforting sound. Amir put his letter in an envelope. Maybe his memories were like vampires; once they were exposed to Doris's light, they'd be dead forever. Amir glanced at Ronald again. His little brother was in a deep sleep. Amir opened his sketchpad to a clean page. He began to draw a picture of the lake and hoped Doris would understand.

10
A.M.
Thursday
September 3rd

My Dear Amir,

I felt so bad when I read your letter this morning. How could you think I'd look down on you because of your parents? Our friendship is like steel, not glass. I'm sorry that my letter about Charlene made you think of such bad memories.

Your letter touched my heart so deep, I sat down and cried when I read it. You know I can cry easily. All I have to do is, like i always say, put myself in your sneakers, and that's what I did. I kept thinking, "Suppose it was me?" I know you were frightened by what happened to your family. I'd be.

I tried to think of some wonderful words I could say to make you feel better, but I can't. There are no words, only a feeling I have inside of me. All I can say is no matter what happens yesterday, today, or tomorrow, we're friends to the end.

Amir, I can't even picture how you tried to take care of everyone. Also, your letter proves to me that I was right all along: You are a hero. I couldn't have done what you did. Maybe I would've tried, but I would've fallen apart like an old dress. I would help my mom and dad and take care of them and Gerald if I could, but I don't know. Maybe I'd get mad sometimes, because it would be like I was the adult and they were the children. But
I'd love them and worry about them, because they'd still be my mother and father.

Amir, no matter how they got ill, they were ill, so that's all you have to say. If you introduced them to someone, you wouldn't say, "Hi, meet my junkies, my dope addicts, my crackheads." You'd say, "Meet my parents." That's all you ever have to say. My parents. Nothing can change that. I will never breathe a word of this to a living soul.

I have to make another point. I don't think it would matter to the Smiths what happened to your parents. They probably know anyhow. Like you said, the records follow you.

Please don't be sad.

Love,

Doris