My cousins are laughing and talking among themselves in the living room. Again, there is loud music, but it comes from the TV. I don’t want to be a burden to them, but I have no idea what to do in this kitchen. Suddenly, I feel so alone in this house. I am surrounded by family, but none of them really knows me or understands what happened to me today. My heart begins to ache for my mother. How could my aunt just leave me here in the kitchen—is this how you treat family in America? There is no celebration for my arrival, no meal is cooked, no neighbors are invited to welcome me, not even a glass of cool water is on the table for me to drink after such a long trip.
If my mother were here, she would quickly start gathering ingredients to make me a meal, to make everyone a meal.
I open the fridge to find bottles of soda and ketchup and hot sauce and mayonnaise and bread and eggs and too many plastic containers. In the freezer are boxes of pizza and waffles and frozen meat wrapped in plastic. My stomach is so empty, it’s touching my back now. I grab a slice of orange cheese wrapped in plastic.
I jump as Pri comes into the kitchen. She’s changed into what looks like her sleep clothes—a too-big T-shirt and sweatpants.
“Come upstairs, Fabiola,” she says, motioning for me to follow her. She’s holding my mother’s carry-on that I’d left by the front door. “Big day tomorrow—high school! In America! I hope you been practicing your mean mug in case you run up into some east side girls. And make sure you look ’em dead in the eye, ’cause you reppin’ the west side now. Don’t show weakness, a’ight, cuzz?”
My stomach twists at the thought of one more new experience. As I follow her, I stuff the slice of cheese into my mouth, and I can’t believe that this is the very first thing I eat in America. It tastes like a mix of glue, chalk, and salt.
Chantal greets me at the top of the stairs as Pri sets down the bag and goes into a small bedroom. Three doors line a narrow hallway, and Chantal points to one of them. “We’re sharing a room. I don’t mind.” She motions toward Pri’s closed door with a poster of a crown and scepter crossing each other. “That’s the twins’ room.”
She points to another closed door. “And that’s the bathroom. Now listen.” She turns to face me. Her glasses are at the tip of her nose and she looks up at me over the rim. “You gotta be really smart and fast about how you use this bathroom, okay?”
I nod.
“Donna is in there now, and if you gotta pee and she’s putting on her makeup or her wigs or whatever, you have to move to plan B. She locks the door and takes hours with her fake face and her fake hair. Ma probably won’t let you use her bathroom downstairs. She used to beat our asses for fighting over the bathroom, and she banned us from using hers, especially after she got that Jacuzzi put in. Have you ever been in a Jacuzzi?”
I scan my memory for the English word Jacuzzi.
“Wait a minute. In Haiti, were you using a bathroom that’s inside the house, or outside the house?”
I bite my lip trying to figure out which story to tell her. “Both, depending on whether or not there was electricity,” I say. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated? What’s so complicated about toilets? That’s a basic necessity. Ma told us how she grew up squatting over the . . . what do you call those? Latrines. Yeah. The latrines were always in the back of the house. You mean to tell me y’all still have latrines?”
A loud bang comes from Pri and Donna’s bedroom and makes us jump.
“Would you two please stop talking about shit. That’s nasty. I’m trying to sleep!” Pri yells from behind the closed door.
Chantal steps over and bangs back. “We’re not talking about shit; we’re talking about basic human necessities!”
Donna pokes her head out from the bathroom. “You know what’s nasty, Pri?” she shouts. “Not washing your ass before you go to sleep, smelling like a tuna sandwich. Don’t stink up my room with your tuna sandwich ass!” She shuts the door.
“Ey, ey, ey!” Matant Jo’s powerful voice booms up the stairs. “Watch your mouths! You have a guest. Go to bed!”
Everything quiets for a short moment. Then Chantal laughs. “Look at your face. You’re probably, like, ‘What did I just walk into?’”
I smile a little as she leads me to her bedroom. It’s warm and neat, like Chantal. When she turns on the light, the first thing to greet me are the shelves and shelves of books and more books. I want to stop and hug her and give her a big kiss on the cheek. With this many books I can make this place my home. I set my mother’s carry-on bag down on the soft beige carpet. An air mattress lies on the floor next to her neatly made bed, which is covered with a purple blanket and too many pillows. I wonder if my mother would’ve slept with her sister downstairs, and think about where she’s sleeping instead tonight.
Donna comes out of the bathroom and stands in Chantal’s doorway. She’s still dressed, and it looks as if she’s put on even more makeup.
“Donna, really? You’re going out now?” Chantal says.
“Just for, like, a couple of hours. . . . Driving around, that’s all.”
“That’s not true, Donna. He’s taking you all the way out to Belle Isle, isn’t he?”
“No. We’re just driving around. Maybe get something to eat at a Coney Island. That’s all.”
“Donna, please. Don’t get in Dray’s car while he’s racing,” Chantal says.