My mother wakes me and my brother up for school; she’s already in her work clothes. I get ready in the bathroom quickly, leaving clean warm water in the sink for my brother. At breakfast my father rushes out the door for work with a goodbye to us, soon after my brother and I walk to school. It’s been about five months in America and I still don’t have any friends at school. I can’t really say I’ve tried to make any; I’ve never been very good with going up to strangers and making a conversation. But there was one girl, who I guess I could call a friend. She always sits next to me in my last class; it seemed she never stopped talking.
When I first got here, I didn’t understand half the things she talked about. Once I tried to ask her what she meant by “What‘s up?’” but all she did was laugh at my accent and the way I worded a sentence. I learned a lot of English over the five months here. I had a teacher; for one of my first semester classes, he was old and came off as a grandfatherly type. He would help me with my English every other day; I would come to his class during my lunch hour. He understood how it felt to move to a foreign country. He wasn’t from Greece but from Cuba. I asked him about his old home there and what he missed the most about it, his reply was his grandmothers cooking. I nodded in agreement; I would really miss my Yiayia’s cooking too. I told him of the ocean and the tiny fishing boats. I know he could tell I missed home so much by the sad looks he would give me when I described it all. I still thought of home every single day, and how much I missed my family and friends. But it was Him who I dreamt about almost every night. After every dream I woken from, I would check to make sure my ruby ring was securely on the chain around my neck. I no longer let myself cry, I was done with crying. After school, I stopped at the entrance of my brother’s school. I waited for him to rush out along with all the other junior high students. I wasn’t all to surprise when he told me he had made friends by the first week in America. I watched as he stepped out with three boys his age talking loudly with excitement. All four of them stopped in front of me, my brother introducing them to me with surprisingly good English, even better then me. I waved at them with a little smile, while they just stared at me wide eyed. They all four uttered a “Hey.” I looked to my brother with a question on my face, wondering if they were alright. Their faces were becoming a strange red around the cheeks. Were they blushing? What for? I thought. After their quick goodbyes me and my brother were on our way home. Our mother was already home, still in her uniform getting dinner ready; my father wouldn’t be home until much later. I helped mother with the dishes afterwards, she asked about my day and she complimented me when I showed her how well I had gotten with my English. It was getting really late by the time I finished all my homework, my mother and brother were already asleep. I looked at my brother in his small bed on his side of the room we shared. His face relaxed with sleep and soft with his childish roundness to it. I heard the sound of my father entering the apartment, finally home from work. He stepped into our room, and walked quietly over to my brother’s bed. He brushed his hair across his forehead; my brother didn’t stir a bit. He looked over at me and smiled. “Geia sas, angeloudi mou.” he said to me. I smiled back at him as he leaned in turning his head for a kiss. I pecked him on the cheek and said good night. When he shut the door behind him, I turned to look out at the city. I still couldn’t call it home or even beautiful. So I thought of home back in Greece, and of Him. Where everything is beautiful and I can call it home.