Hurricane Andrew

1992

Mami had stuffed all our baby photos along with her wedding album inside of the washing machine which is why they were saved. Our house was now a carcass of its former self, skin and bones and the meat, our things, all missing. I didn't know where we belonged, but we couldn't stay here, here all was gone, and by some miracle, we remained.

The newspapers called Miami a "Wasteland" and that's what it was like. God had reached down to earth and with his great big hand he had crumbled the houses into toothpicks then laid them back down for their owners to find. Mami said gather what I could, whatever could be saved. All that I was, all that I had, fit in a box. A brown wet box.

Kissimmee was somehow where we ended up because a long-time friend offered us a room to stay in, until we got our things together. I remember thinking how small it was, small streets, small people, slow and steady.

This town was sterile and orderly, people outside of the norm were frowned upon and I was a small brown girl with frizzy hair that had one pair of jeans and had to share a bed with her little brother.

"Can you escort Beckett – is that your name?"

The school counselor dressed funny, everyone in Kissimmee did, much different from Puerto Rico or Miami.

"Becka. Becka Montana."

I realized suddenly that my accent was thick. Very thick. I could tell by the pursing of her lips. I wasn't welcomed here, this is not where I belonged, where we belonged. I wanted to explain to her that this was not my choice but I didn't have the words.

"Derek, can you escort Ms. Montana to Mr. White's English Class? She's new," the woman said and in came a boy with blond hair that fell on his face even as he pushed it back.

I didn't dare to look at him, I didn't dare to look at most boys. I didn't know what to say and I didn't want them to see that all I owned was in a wet cardboard box under a guest bed. He signaled with his chin for me to follow.

Mr. White was young, black, and gay but we would not know that for many years later. Not until he died of AIDS. He was smiling and dressed so well and sharp that I remember thinking that he looked like he was a businessman.

"Becka?"

"Yes, sir. Becka Montana."

The class, which had turned to stare openly at me, snickered and I didn't understand why it was funny but I thought that perhaps they already knew that Miami was gone, destroyed and I was the debris that had wandered in.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Becka, welcome to 7th Grade English."

His eyes were brown and warm and I smiled a little at him.

"Thank you."

"Where are you from, Becka?"

"Miami." I chanced a look at the room. The faces were foreign and strange, and I missed my friends in Miami but I didn't know where they had ended up, where the winds had blown them.

Mr. White studied me, and I think he knew, he realized what I was. A refugee, a lost one, a girl without a place.

"Miami?"

"Yes."

"Were you affected by Hurricane Andrew?" His voice was elegant and gentle, he carried no accent, they had polished him smooth until he was acceptable.

I nodded and he understood. He cleared his throat and pointed to the far-left corner; two chairs were empty behind a boy.

"Why don't we have you sit behind Victor? Mr. Manning is ahead of the class and I'm sure he can help you catch up."

I walked, eyes down, to my chair, past the Victor boy and thankful that Mr. White continued the class. I sat there waiting for Victor to help me catch up but other than a glance over his shoulder at me when I sat, he didn't move or showed interest in the riff-raff. Because I was so lost, I spent the entire class staring at Victor's back and I remember thinking that even in 7th grade he was surprisingly muscular.

When the bell rang, he turned to me, without looking, and handed me a paper with notes on it.

"Just copy them and give them back tomorrow."

I took the paper from him and got a look at him; he was tall and strong, finely dressed, and with an attitude that said he was aware of his looks and social standing. He left, laughing with his friends. I heard them ask if they had seen the new girl. 'She's alright', Victor had said.

I stared at the paper he had given me and I noted that his writing was neat and decisive, his notes were detailed enough that it was not overwhelming. He was smart.

The next day I had copied the notes, but my writing was not as smooth and neat as his; where his was functional, I was an angry musical note. Jagged letters that jutted out into patterns of my own making. I had no interest in how words should look, I was interested in how words should feel and each one was a sentiment of the moment. If love was real then love was written soft and sensuous, embracing each letter in passion but if love was broken it was written barbed and curved, twisted and bitter.

The next day I arrived before Victor and placed the paper on his desk. He arrived in a cloud of friendship, they laughed and joked, clapping Victor on the back and assuring him that Genni liked him, whoever Genni was. If he noticed the notes on his desk, he didn't say but he turned to look at me as he took off his bookbag.

Slowly I raised my eyes to look at him.

"My friend Stray likes you," he said.

He smirked and I blushed furiously mostly because I didn't know who Stray or who would be named 'stray'. And why he would say he liked me if he didn't know me?

"Do you like him?" He continued.

"I- I don't know who Stray is."

"You don't know who Stray Carter is?" Victor let out a laugh and his friends next to him chuckled at my ignorance.

It upset me that they laughed knowing full well that I knew no one, that I had just been pulled from drowning and landed on the floor of their 7th grade English class. My skin prickled and I glared at Victor.

"That's a stupid thing to say," I said and Victor's stopped laughing. "You know I'm new and if Stray was as wonderful as you say, he would tell me himself and not send a little messenger."

The more I spoke the thicker my accent got and in that moment I swore to work on how I said words, how they rolled off my tongue, so that when I spoke on the phone they would never know what I was. I too would be polished.

But Victor Manning stared at me rather stunned and I wondered if he felt bad, if he knew he was not nice, if he went home that day and thought how I had called him a messenger. An errand boy. I wondered what he saw when I spoke to him, was it water or the winds of a storm?

I believe I embarrassed him, but he left me no choice and he seldom spoke to me from then on. He would pass by me with his chin held high, ignoring me, and pretending I didn't exist. As the time chimed, more and more new kids arrived and I was no longer a novelty. I did eventually find out who Stray was and I must confess that I lusted for him passionately from the sidelines. For many months I wished I had told Victor something else.