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Description
I walk up to the gate of my house with Nadya, twirling a piece of hair around my finger nervously.
“Um, just so you know…my parents…they’re not really that…”
“Tell me,” she says, in her usual blunt manner.
“They’ll ask where you’re from…”
“And?”
“I don’t know. They don’t like immigrants…Never mind. This was a bad idea. Can we go to your house instead?”
She gives me a look. “Harper, I’ve had more than my fair share of people telling me- directly or otherwise- to ‘go back where I came from’. I doubt your parents will be direct about it.”
How can she be so strong?
I never really though about “color” before I met Nadya, because there isn’t any, really, in the small-minded small town of Central Falls, Rhode Island. I never even thought of myself as white. More like, transparent, I guess.
Then came this Romanian girl with challenging eyes and a big laugh, and it threw the sophomore class for a loop. None of us knew what to make of her- she looked different, acted different: fiery and never hesitating to say what’s on her mind, even if it got a raised eyebrow or worse.
I met her when she saw my poem next to her drawing in the school art magazine. The poem was called “Debutante”. Her picture was of a girl in a white dress, eyes downcast but widened, inexplicably sad.
Tentatively, I open the door and we go into the kitchen.
Mom is sitting at the counter, reading Good Housekeeping, a cup of tea in her hand. The diamond on her ring-finger glints under the overhead light.
She looks up, surprised.
“Oh. Is this your friend?”
Um, yeah. No kidding.
I don’t say this, of course. I hardly ever say what’s on my mind(unlike Nadya), especially to my parents.
“Yes, Mom. She’s the one who had the drawing by my poem.
Predictably, she has no clue what I’m talking about, and her brow wrinkles quizzically.
“For the school art magazine? Ms. Carey’s class?”
“Oh, that. Well, that’s nice,” she replies, offering a wan smile.
Dad walks in, an annoying smirk on his face that he always gets after eavesdropping.
“I didn’t hear about it,” he announces.
“Oh, it’s amazing. She’s a really good writer. You must be proud,” Nadya says, throwing me a lifesaver. I gently pinch her on the back of her arm, knowing she’ll get that I’m trying to say “thank you” with words that can’t be spoken now.
“I would’ve rather a picture of her on the track team. Which she quit.”
My cheeks redden. Nadya looks at me sympathetically, which doesn’t make me feel better. I wish it did.
Mom’s hand flutters to her pearl-incased neck.
“Martin. Please.”
He leans on the doorway, relentless.
“You’re right, though- what’s your name?”
“Nadya.”
“Yeah, I should be SO proud. What was the poem about, anyway?”
I know his game, so I stay silent.
“Sort of about how debutantes were trapped by the misogynistic times they were in,” Nadya informs him.
This is the worst thing she could’ve possibly said, but she had no way of knowing that. Mom’s not even going to attempt to defend me anymore. I’ve gone to so many coming-of-age parties, you’d think I turned 16 every other week.
“Oh really?” Mom asks in a chilly voice. “I had no idea you hated it so much.. You could’ve told me, you know.”
Exasperation chokes me.
Yes, I’ve told her.
I told her every time I said with my eyes “I don’t want to go, Mom. PLEASE don’t make me go.”
She’d ask, “Are you okay?”
I’d respond, “I’m not sure I want to go…”
“Oh, honey. It’s just the jitters.”
Or,
“Are you sick?”
“No, but-”
“Well, then, I can’t see why not.”
Or,
“Really, Harper. It makes me so happy. I don’t ask much of you, you know.”
I run out, out of the stupid, immaculately clean kitchen, down the street. I sit on the sidewalk and cry, because I can’t see when it’ll ever stop…
Nadya runs after me, hugs me, and says, “It’ll be okay. You’re going to be okay…”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask.
“Because if I’m sure, then it will be.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t know…”
“There’s this Romany saying my aunt told me. ‘To those who will see, the world waits’. Do you understand what means?”
I do understand…
I choose to believe her, because she sounds so RIGHT, it’s hard not to. Maybe someday I can believe in myself, as well.

Description
I walk up to the gate of my house with Nadya, twirling a piece of hair around my finger nervously.
“Um, just so you know…my parents…they’re not really that…”
“Tell me,” she says, in her usual blunt manner.
“They’ll ask where you’re from…”
“And?”
“I don’t know. They don’t like immigrants…Never mind. This was a bad idea. Can we go to your house instead?”
She gives me a look. “Harper, I’ve had more than my fair share of people telling me- directly or otherwise- to ‘go back where I came from’. I doubt your parents will be direct about it.”
How can she be so strong?
I never really though about “color” before I met Nadya, because there isn’t any, really, in the small-minded small town of Central Falls, Rhode Island. I never even thought of myself as white. More like, transparent, I guess.
Then came this Romanian girl with challenging eyes and a big laugh, and it threw the sophomore class for a loop. None of us knew what to make of her- she looked different, acted different: fiery and never hesitating to say what’s on her mind, even if it got a raised eyebrow or worse.
I met her when she saw my poem next to her drawing in the school art magazine. The poem was called “Debutante”. Her picture was of a girl in a white dress, eyes downcast but widened, inexplicably sad.
Tentatively, I open the door and we go into the kitchen.
Mom is sitting at the counter, reading Good Housekeeping, a cup of tea in her hand. The diamond on her ring-finger glints under the overhead light.
She looks up, surprised.
“Oh. Is this your friend?”
Um, yeah. No kidding.
I don’t say this, of course. I hardly ever say what’s on my mind(unlike Nadya), especially to my parents.
“Yes, Mom. She’s the one who had the drawing by my poem.
Predictably, she has no clue what I’m talking about, and her brow wrinkles quizzically.
“For the school art magazine? Ms. Carey’s class?”
“Oh, that. Well, that’s nice,” she replies, offering a wan smile.
Dad walks in, an annoying smirk on his face that he always gets after eavesdropping.
“I didn’t hear about it,” he announces.
“Oh, it’s amazing. She’s a really good writer. You must be proud,” Nadya says, throwing me a lifesaver. I gently pinch her on the back of her arm, knowing she’ll get that I’m trying to say “thank you” with words that can’t be spoken now.
“I would’ve rather a picture of her on the track team. Which she quit.”
My cheeks redden. Nadya looks at me sympathetically, which doesn’t make me feel better. I wish it did.
Mom’s hand flutters to her pearl-incased neck.
“Martin. Please.”
He leans on the doorway, relentless.
“You’re right, though- what’s your name?”
“Nadya.”
“Yeah, I should be SO proud. What was the poem about, anyway?”
I know his game, so I stay silent.
“Sort of about how debutantes were trapped by the misogynistic times they were in,” Nadya informs him.
This is the worst thing she could’ve possibly said, but she had no way of knowing that. Mom’s not even going to attempt to defend me anymore. I’ve gone to so many coming-of-age parties, you’d think I turned 16 every other week.
“Oh really?” Mom asks in a chilly voice. “I had no idea you hated it so much.. You could’ve told me, you know.”
Exasperation chokes me.
Yes, I’ve told her.
I told her every time I said with my eyes “I don’t want to go, Mom. PLEASE don’t make me go.”
She’d ask, “Are you okay?”
I’d respond, “I’m not sure I want to go…”
“Oh, honey. It’s just the jitters.”
Or,
“Are you sick?”
“No, but-”
“Well, then, I can’t see why not.”
Or,
“Really, Harper. It makes me so happy. I don’t ask much of you, you know.”
I run out, out of the stupid, immaculately clean kitchen, down the street. I sit on the sidewalk and cry, because I can’t see when it’ll ever stop…
Nadya runs after me, hugs me, and says, “It’ll be okay. You’re going to be okay…”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask.
“Because if I’m sure, then it will be.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t know…”
“There’s this Romany saying my aunt told me. ‘To those who will see, the world waits’. Do you understand what means?”
I do understand…
I choose to believe her, because she sounds so RIGHT, it’s hard not to. Maybe someday I can believe in myself, as well.