The Treasure of Maria Mamoun (2 page)

They mostly ignored Maria when they ran into her with Celeste in the hallway or on the stairs, but when Maria was alone outside their apartment building she was fair game. And at school the Barbies found tormenting Maria to be a source of endless fun.

The Barbies were in most of Maria's classes. Science, Social Studies, and Specials—Art, Phys Ed, and General Music. In Art, Maria found her painting wet side down on the floor, though she knew she'd hung it up to dry on the clothespin line. Her abstract sculpture, stored safe on a high shelf, was smashed before it was graded. In Phys Ed, she was tripped, hit with balls, and clipped with lacrosse sticks so often she spent more time getting ice from the school nurse than playing, and the Phys Ed teacher marked her down for slacking. In the locker room after PE, Maria often found the clothes she'd left in her dry locker in a damp clump in the shower. In Music, there was not much the Barbies could do to her, and they generally chose to braid each other's hair or apply lip gloss instead of singing. Sometimes they looked up and giggled in Maria's direction, and she got the feeling they were laughing about her.

But the worst came when their Science teacher announced they'd be doing photographic family trees to study genetics. It was a horrible assignment even if you had a “normal” family; but it truly sucked when you didn't even have a picture of your dad. Maria had no family to speak of at all—at least none she'd ever known. All that was left of her family was in her name.

Maria Theresa Ramirez Mamoun. “Maria” for the Virgin and her maternal grandmother, whom she'd never met.
And never
will
meet
, Celeste would always say, but she wouldn't say why. “Theresa” for the Blessed Saint, though Maria hadn't set foot in a church since her christening at Our Lady of Lebanon down in fancy-pants Brooklyn Heights. “Mamoun” because that was her mother Celeste's last name. And the “Ramirez” wedged in between like a second middle name, because that was the name of her father, whom she'd also never meet, according to her mother.

Her father had gone back to Puerto Rico before she was born, and Maria didn't think about him much. Many of her classmates had no fathers, and some had no mothers either. Quite a few children were being raised by aunties and grandmas. Some lived in foster care. Even most of the Barbies didn't live with their dads. In fact, she'd have been hard-pressed to name a kid in her class who had access to both parents and two sets of grandparents.

Nevertheless, the Barbies found a way to tease Maria at the lockers after class.

“This should be a easy A for you. All you got to do is go down to the animal shelter and get some pictures of the mutts there,” Sharpie said.

Shy Girl slammed Maria's locker shut and leaned on it so their noses were inches apart. She sniffed at Maria as if she were smelling something bad. “Yeah, but how she gonna know which dog is her daddy?”

“Who's your daddy! Who's your daddy!” Skinny chanted.

“She don't know.”

“That's 'cause her daddy took one look at her ugly face and ran all the way back to PR with his tail between his legs.”

Maria did as she always did; she put her head down, ignored their comments, and waited to gather her books after they'd gone laughing down the hall.

It was because of the Bad Barbies that Maria made sure to leave for school early in the morning and come home carefully in the afternoon. In the morning, she left the apartment building before the Barbies pulled themselves together and exited in their squawking flock. And after school, she walked behind the Barbies so she could keep them in her sights. She wanted to be sure all the Barbies were inside their apartments before she entered the building. If she saw them hanging out on the steps, Maria detoured to Prospect Avenue and hung out in Linda 99¢ Plus, where she'd spend a long time browsing the soap selection or feigning interest in socks
.
If they still hadn't left and the man behind the counter was giving her dirty looks, she circled back to La Vida Librería and pretended she could read the
Literatura Cristiana
. She understood enough Spanish to know it was
Abierto de Lunes a Sabado
(open Monday to Saturday)
hasta
4:30 p.m. So she was covered for two hours at least.

This was, of course, against her mother's rule about going anywhere except school and home, but Maria could see no other way of avoiding the Barbies and she didn't want to bother her mother with something like this. Celeste Mamoun was already overworked and overtired. She would leave even earlier than Maria in the morning and she would return home even later, sometimes even after Maria had put herself to bed. Maria figured the last thing Celeste needed was more stress trying to find affordable after-school care for her daughter who, at twelve years old and nearly done with sixth grade, should be old enough to take care of herself.

The uneasiness Maria felt was well-founded, if possibly misplaced. Though kids did get hurt at school and in the neighborhood, she didn't know for sure that it was the Barbies who did the damage. Still, girls got hurt. Especially lonely girls.

Once, in fifth grade, a teacher Maria didn't even know pulled her off the yard during recess to escort one such injured girl. The victim was tiny; recently from El Salvador and still friendless, and either she was too upset or didn't speak English, but she didn't say a word to Maria as they walked the long halls to the school nurse. The girl held a wad of bloody paper towels to her face, and when the nurse gently pulled them away with her gloved hands, Maria saw the scratches that started up in the girl's hairline, ran through her eyebrow, and tracked down her cheek to her jaw.

But on most days Maria got to school and back home just fine. On most days the steps were clear and she could go right to her apartment and eat a snack and do her homework and watch TV in peace. If there ever were an emergency, she could call 911. So Maria was just fine, really.

Until she wasn't.

 

3

T
HE
R
EPUBLIC
OF
U
GLY

It rained the day their family trees were due. And it was one of those terrible spring rains, where the wind drives the raindrops so hard they feel like hailstones. Maria rolled up the poster board and tied it with a shoelace. Then she slipped it into two kitchen garbage bags and taped them securely with white bandage tape from her mother's home first aid kit.

She had done a good job on the project, despite the challenges of having no photos to work with. She'd drawn an actual tree with wide spreading branches and applied green paper leaves for the different ancestors. Since she didn't have photos, she drew flags to represent relatives from different countries: a cedar tree for the Lebanese contingent, and the red, white, and blue of Puerto Rico for her father. People born in the U.S. got an American flag. Celeste had provided names and dates as best she could. If she forgot this or that one's name or birthdate, Celeste flicked her wrist and said, “
Maalish
, it doesn't matter: Mr. Kapusta has no way to check anyhow. What? He is going to call Beirut?”

Under each family member Maria detailed whatever genetic traits her mother recalled: blue eyes and peaked hairline, diabetes and heart disease. It had taken her the better part of a week to complete, and she was pretty sure she would get an A. Probably half the class did theirs on notebook paper over breakfast. Mr. Kapusta was a tiny, rabbity man, whose old-fashioned vests made him look even more like the Easter Bunny. Maria imagined him grateful and relieved that at least one student had completed the project correctly.

She'd gotten a late start, what with wrapping up her project because of the unexpected rain. As Maria stepped from the apartment, her umbrella turned inside out, rain slicked her hair so that it fell over her face, and raindrops obscured her glasses so that she could not see more than blurs of gray.

On such a rainy day she didn't expect to run into the Bad Barbies. They were the last thing on her mind. She was concentrating on getting herself and her project to school as quickly and as dry as possible. But the Barbies, even if they were around, would be running through the rain, eager to get to school quickly, too, wouldn't they? And so Maria ran, with head down and glasses fogged, for the shelter of vinyl awnings that covered the shops under the elevated train.

Unfortunately she couldn't see that, as if they were waiting just for her, the Barbies had gathered beneath the rotting overhang of the Olympic Theater. She ran across the street and bumped right into them. She stopped, took a deep breath, and held it.

Shy Girl said, “Watch yourself!” She brushed at her jacket as if the impact with Maria had left some sort of stain.

“What's that? You taking trash to school?” Sharpie jutted her sharp chin at the kitchen bag package.

“What, you don't answer us?” Skinny's fat head swam on her neck like a serpent. “Why you so rude?”

Maria's hands tightened around her family tree. “It's my science project. They're due today.”

Sharpie took a step toward her.

“How about I turn this in for you? I forgot mines. I could just say this is mines. You okay with that?”

Shy Girl was even bolder. She simply snatched the slippery bags from Maria's hands.

“Let's see this.” Shy Girl tore through the plastic. Immediately raindrops darkened the paper. She unrolled it full length and handed one end to Sharpie.

“Hoo-oo! What's that Christmas tree?”

“Your grandaddy a Christmas tree?”

“Answer the question. Don't you be rude.”

“It's a flag,” Maria said.

“Oh, yeah!” Skinny pointed. “It's a flag from the Republic of Ugly.”

Sharpie rolled Maria's project up. “I guess I can't use this then. My family ain't terrorists.”

For a moment Maria thought Sharpie was going to hand her the project. But the Barbie snatched it back from Maria's reaching hand.

“Why you always got to be the goody-goody, doing your homework on time, handing it in like you the best? You always trying to make the rest of us look bad.”

“I'm not trying to make you look bad,” Maria said. “Can I please have it back?”

“Can I please have it back? Can I please have it back?”

The girls passed the project over Maria's head.

Maria was tired of it. She wanted to get out of the rain. She wanted her project. She lunged for the poster and missed. And her open hand came down hard on Skinny's beefy shoulder.

“Oh no you didn't!” Skinny grabbed Maria by the hair, sending her barrette flying.

Now they all joined in, pushing her back and forth, tripping her so she stumbled and catching her just before she fell, only to push her again. The sidewalk became a blur of hair and hands and ugly voices. Their sharp nails flashed, and Maria covered her face with her arms …

Suddenly Tante Farida hurried over in a great blustering fury, waving her umbrella and calling Maria's name. She swung through the Barbies, her tiny feet amazingly swift, and grabbed Maria by the arm and steered her with surprising force across the street and into the Colony Fried Chicken. Then she locked the door behind her, much to the fry cook's surprise.

“What you doing locking my door? I'ma call the police, you don't go right now,” he yelled.

“You'll keep the door locked and hand me that phone if you know what's good for you, Mr. Sesay,” Tante Farida said. She peered through the glass door. The Barbies huddled under the shelter of the Olympic Theater and stared across the street at the Colony Fried Chicken, talking to one another.

Mr. Sesay handed Tante his cell phone.

The Barbies crossed the street and came up to the door. Shy Girl tried the handle. Then she cupped her hands to the glass and peeked through. Tante Farida glared back at her and gestured to the phone.

“I'm calling 911!” she yelled, though in fact she was calling Celeste Mamoun.

“We was just messing with her! Jeez, lady!” Sharpie threw Maria's project to the curb, where it was promptly run over by the Riverside bus.

*   *   *

Later that night, Maria took a long hot bath. Celeste sat on the tile floor, looking worriedly at her. It had been years since she'd sat with Maria while she bathed, but Maria didn't mind tonight. It made her feel safer.

“But what did they do to you,
chérie
?” Celeste asked for what must have been the tenth time. “Did they hurt you?”

“No, Mama. They just pushed me around.”

“Well, I'm going to make sure they get more than in-school suspension. What good is that? They can still get you walking home. It's like that gang stuff is happening all over again…” Celeste pressed her fingers to her lips. “I'm so sorry,
habibti.
”

Habibti
is Arabic for “my darling,” and Celeste only called Maria this when she was very worried. It worried Maria to see her mother so worried, and she struggled to stay calm herself.

“Really, it's no big deal,” Maria said. “They're not a real gang. They're just wannabes.”

“But what about in a few years? When they go from wannabes to actually being? What if something really happens?” Celeste said. “I could get you a phone, but who would you call? And I'm so far away I can't help.”

Maria nodded. It had taken her mother hours to get home. She had to hand her patients off to another nurse, then take two trains back. The whole time Maria waited, shaking, in Tante's apartment. The old lady had given her a dry T-shirt and sweater that smelled of her husband's hair oil, even though he'd been dead for over five years.

“I wish we had someone else nearby,” Maria said. “Someone around all the time. Like real family.”

“I'm sorry. I'm all you've got,” Celeste said.