On the Run

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The Postcard
I got a postcard from my dad this morning. So did my sister, Lise. And my mom got a letter so long there were three stamps on the envelope.
There’s a holographic image of birds on my postcard, so when you tilt it, it looks like the birds are flying. On the other side, my dad writes that his trip is going well. But I can’t make out all the words because his handwriting looks like chicken scratch. The U looks like an N, the M like a W. It’s hard to make sense of it all. So I ask Lise to help me. She won’t let me read her card, though. It’s always the same thing: she lets me look at the picture, but she refuses to tell me what Dad writes to her.
My dad travels for work, and he’s been gone a long time. Two years, I think. I was in second grade when he left. He goes around the world, taking photographs of animals for magazines. We never see him anymore. I wish he’d come home. Two years is a long time to be without him.
I try to read Lise’s postcard before we head to school. I sneak into her bedroom while she’s brushing her teeth, but I’ve barely turned the card over when she comes in and smacks the top of my head with her hairbrush. She’s smart, my sister. As soon as you touch her things, she has a way of appearing out of nowhere. Her mouth is full of toothpaste, but that doesn’t stop her from shouting.
“Let go of my card, shrimp! It’s personal. I don’t go through your things, do I?”
My sister is always calling me shrimp. But one day I’ll be taller than she is. Stronger too. Then she’ll find out exactly how a shrimp takes revenge.
“But I let you read mine. It’s not secret,” I say. “You can look at it again. And I’m not a shrimp.”
“I don’t care about your card!” she says as she spins around and goes back to the bathroom.
On the way to school, I start telling my mom what Dad wrote to me this time, but she doesn’t pay attention. I guess she’s not interested, just like Lise. I’ll talk to Hassan about it during recess. Hassan is my best friend. He has three sisters, so he knows firsthand that boys and girls don’t act the same. Maybe he can explain to me why my mom and sister don’t care about my postcard when I’d give anything to know what my dad told them.
Hassan lives in an apartment building at the end of my street. It always smells good at his place because his mother’s a great cook. On Sundays, he and his father do jigsaw puzzles together. Hassan started one that had a thousand pieces, most of them just a lot of blue sky, which made it hard to finish. Sometimes I do puzzles with them and afterward Hassan and I play video games at my house. I’m way better at those than at puzzles because I play them a lot. Still, I wish I could do jigsaw puzzles with my dad.
We always have math first at school. This morning I hurry to finish the problems, then sneak a peek at my dad’s postcard. It’s really nice. Lise told me the birds were seagulls.
At recess, we head to the playground and I show my postcard to Hassan.
“You’re lucky your dad travels,” he says. “Mine never goes anywhere, just back to Tunisia. What does your sister’s card look like?”
“It’s ugly,” I say. “There’s a strange drawing in black-­and-­white. I like my birds a lot better. And it’s in color.”
Hassan nods. “You’re right, it is nice,” he says.
That’s what I like about Hassan: we always agree on everything, except when it comes to Stephanie. She’s a real pain. Plus she has ugly hair and her face is as pink as a pig’s. But Hassan has a crush on her.
After lunch, the whole class goes to the track to run hurdles. I don’t like the hurdles much, probably because I’m no good at them. Either I run too fast and knock them all down—­and I get penalty points—­or I manage to clear them but it takes me longer than any of the girls. It’s a total drag.
To get out of running, I pretend to have a stomachache. I tell the teacher I ate too many baked beans at lunch, mine and Hassan’s. The teacher asks if I want to go home. I hesitate. My mom’s a nurse and she works during the day. I’d have to go to my grandfather and Yaya’s (Yaya is my grandmother but we don’t say grandma in my family, we say Yaya). I’d rather stay in school and look at my postcard. So my teacher puts me in a fifth-­grade class for the afternoon, where the students have a history lesson on the French Revolution and how the people killed the king.
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When my mom has to visit patients at night, Lise and I stay home alone. Well, not exactly alone . . . If it was just the two of us we’d pig out on gummy bears, huge slices of cake, and fruit juice, and we’d watch TV instead of doing our homework.
But whenever Mom works late, my grand- parents come over. Grandpa and Yaya are my dad’s parents. I don’t know my mom’s side of the family; they don’t speak to my mother and I’ve never met them. At least, not that I can remember.
I keep saying that I’m old enough to walk home from school alone, but my mom won’t let me. I don’t know what she’s afraid of. I don’t mind so much when Grandpa comes to pick me up. He waits for me far away from the school door like I’ve told him to. But Yaya waits right in front, and she even talks to my teacher. Totally embarrassing! On top of that, Yaya dresses like an old lady, which I hate. The only good thing is that she usually buys me a huge raisin muffin on the way home, so I guess I can’t complain too much.
During afternoon recess, my classmates are still at the track, so I’m alone in the school yard. I sit on a bench and pretend I’m reading a book, but I’m just waiting for the end of the day.
Today, Grandpa picks me up.
I show him my postcard with the birds on it and he tells me that he got a letter from Dad this week too.
When I was in the fifth-­grade class this after- noon, I had time to think about my sister’s postcard. I decided that if I’m fast enough I’ll have time to read it before she gets home from school. It’s Wednesday, which means she’ll be home soon, in about twenty-­five minutes, so I have to hurry if I want to find where she’s hidden it. I snoop through her things often enough and Lise knows it, so she constantly shifts things around.
When we get home, I don’t bother grabbing a snack. I tell Grandpa I have homework and head upstairs. I go to Lise’s bedroom and try to find her stash of mail. I have fifteen minutes left. It takes me a while but I find the postcard—­right there, in the second drawer of her desk. There’s also a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I didn’t know she smokes.
I’m careful to keep all the postcards in order as I start to read the first one. Something doesn’t seem right: my dad doesn’t talk about his latest trip. Not one word about it. Then I hear footsteps on the stairs. I have just enough time to stuff everything back in the drawer.
Then I dash to my room and pretend I’m reading. Yaya comes in without knocking (like always) to give me a kiss. She usually takes a yoga class on Wednesdays, so I didn’t think she’d be over this early. She wants to know if I need help with my homework.
“No. I just have a math problem and a geography lesson,” I tell her.
“You can go over your geography with me,” Yaya says.
I sigh. I’m never left in peace for two minutes in this house. I’d like to watch my favorite cartoon, but now I have to do my geography lesson with Yaya. Great! There’s no use arguing with her or I would. No TV for me today, I guess.