Fresh Girl Hardcover - 2002

Excerpt

1

"Do you smell something, Mardi?" Jilline Hunter sits across from me, sniffing the air. We're in English class waiting for the teacher to come.

"Uh, no," I say, praying that no one thinks it's me. I made sure I washed my underarms three times before I left my house this morning. "I don't smell anyting."

Oh, no, my accent.

"You don't smell anything!" This comes from Ike, one aisle over, breathing fire on everyone's back. "You's one dumb island girl. When you gonna learn how to be talking English right?"

I open my English writing notebook, Malice. In stories my grandmother used to tell me, Malice is the clever one who always gets away with his tricks. I write: If I were God for a day I would never let Ike be born. I underline "never" twice.

Then I notice Pierre LeBalle several desks in front of me, secretly eating a bag of onion-cheese potato chips.

Pierre, again. Always making the rest of us Haitians look bad with her mountain-folk ways.

"So, French'e." Ike jumps in my face. "You got HBO today, huh? You got Haitian Body Odor today?"

Everyone's looking at me, including Santos Amorez and The Mildred Rodriguez, the best-looking people in all of Flatbush, Brooklyn. The Mildred Rodriguez and some girls around her giggle, giggle, giggle like cartoon witches.

My heart is thumping in my throat.

Jilline speaks for me: "Leave her alone, Isaac!"

My heart slides back in its place.

"Who you, her mama?"

"If I was I'd knock your nappy head back into the third grade!" Now Jilline's accent comes out, but hers is American, and Southern, and angry.

Ike smiles and leans back as if surprised. "Calm down, girl. No one wanna fight. I'm just playin'. You don't mind, right, Mardi?"

Do crocodiles bite? But I shake my head. I look at Santos and breathe out. He's staring back at me, but I can't tell if he's with Ike or Jilline.

Mrs. Orlando finally rushes in. "So sorry to be late but I-- Everybody better quiet down or there will be plenty for you to write about."

The class gets quiet real quick.

"I have your exams back from the first part of To Kill a Mockingbird." She holds up the papers. "Many of you have not done your reading, which explains your very creative answers. So at the end of this period you're getting a makeup test."

The class groans.

"For those of you who did well, this will be extra credit. Mardi?" Mrs. Orlando is smiling at me. "You have the highest score again. Will you please hand these out?"

I slowly get up from my seat and take the papers. As Mrs. Orlando writes notes on the board, I give out the exams.

Pierre gets a 79.

Jilline a 72.

Santos and Mildred both get 68's.

Ike an 83.

And I get 100. I "accidentally" hand Ike, Santos, and The Mildred Rodriguez my paper. The dumb island girl rides again.

Mardi Desravines. In French my name means Tuesday (Mardi) of the ravines (des ravines). Maman named me Mardi because I was born on a Tuesday. Thank God it wasn't a Wednesday because then my name would have been Mercredi. In English it sounds like a pain reliever. I was born in New York City, the first one of my family to be a natural citizen. Sometimes my mother and father call me denye-an, "the last one," or "the one who was born here," as if those few words could sum me up when they introduce me.

They had me right after they came to New York looking for work, and when I was four years old, they sent me to Haiti to live with Grandmere Adda, my father's mother. That was when both my mother and father started working double shifts and there was no one to look after me anymore. Grandmere Adda told them to send me to her. She had a big house in Port-au-Prince and was also looking after my sister, Serina, who was eight at the time. Serina was born in Port-au-Prince and we had never met. I wasn't exactly dying to meet her.

One morning I woke up in New York and Maman's sausage and eggs were burning--and she was standing right in front of the stove, too. Maman and Papa both kept telling me I was going on a trip.

"Yeah! Di'neyland?"

"No."

"The park with water inside?"

"No."

"Puppy in the window?"

"No."

Hmm. "Di'neyland?"

They were extra nice to me that morning. My father let me sit on his lap to eat my breakfast. He kept saying how smart I was and how I would do well in something I'd be doing a long way from that day. My mother let me brush her hair and didn't snatch the brush from me when I accidentally hit her on the head with it. She kind of smiled and touched my chin; I thought I was in heaven.

Then we went to the airport. When it was time to get on the plane, I reached for my mother. But she put two pictures in my hand: one of her and my father, and the other of this old woman who was my grandmother. I knew something was up when they both kissed me. Why would they do that if we were going to be together?

One of my mother's friends walked up to us. She was a nice lady who came to our house sometimes. What was she doing there?

"Thank you so much, Madan Rose, for looking after Mardi on the plane," my mother told her. Madan Rose took my hand and began to lead me into the plane.

"You coming?" I called after my mother and father.

They looked at each other. "Be good," they said. "Tell your grandmother--"

I started to go back but Madan Rose pulled me away.

"Mardi!" my mother said. "Don't misbehave. Get on the plane and listen to what they tell you."

Okay, I said to myself. If you want me to go, I'll go. So I got on the plane without a fight. I wanted to show them I wasn't a big baby. I didn't cry; I went to sleep instead. When I woke up, I couldn't find my pictures. I asked Madan Rose but she didn't know where they were. I don't know why but I kept thinking she had taken them.

We landed in Port-au-Prince. This airport was different. I was outside when I got off the plane, and there was a long staircase from the plane to the ground.

There was sun.

Media reviews

A vivid, touching first novel which offers a new glimpse of what “coming to America” asks of immigrants, and shows how family love can build a bridge from world to world.