Desire in Any Language Read Online Free PDF Page A

and during class our teachers use “ssi” after our names to be formal.  Except if you put “ssi” after “Ah-ee” and say all of the syllables quickly, it sounds a bit like a swear word.  Annoyed, I doodle in the margin of my textbook.  The grammar of each lesson is easy and the reading comprehension easier, but the rapid-fire conversation is hard to follow.  Most of the other students grew up at least hearing other languages in their home.  I grew up with English only.  Stupid Americans. 
    “Mira-ssi!”
    My head snaps back. 
    Something something something dream something mother something something born .
    I catch only the three words, but the short reading text has given me enough information to guess.
    “I don’t know,” I answer.
    “Why don’t you know?  I asked you a question.  Something something dream something something born.”
    “I don’t know,” I repeat. 
    More titters around the class.  He comes closer to me, head tilted downward and frown prominent. 
    “Why don’t you know?” he asks again.  When I first started I asked to be promoted to the level three class, even though I tested into level two, because I wanted the challenge.  I didn’t realize that reading skills weren’t enough and that I would be unable to explain myself during the lessons.  English is off-limits during school hours.
    “I don’t know,” I repeat through gritted teeth.  My fingers ball into fists as I will myself not to make eye contact. 
    “I asked you a question, Mira.  Please answer or be dismissed from class.”
    I don’t dare get any reports sent to my tutor.  She’s warned what will happen if I slack this term.
    “Mira-ssi?”
    “I don’t know because I was adopted.”
    The titters stop immediately.  He freezes mid-stride, and for a moment not a breath or sound stirs in the room.  One tear rolls down my cheek as I stare unseeingly at the book in front of me. 
    “Kumiko, tell me about the dreams your mother had.”
    With a collective sigh, heads turn toward the tiny, bright-voiced girl who always has the right answer.
    “My mom had a dream about a peach, and my grandfather said it meant I was going to be a girl, so…”
    Another tear drips off the end of my nose, but I will not call further attention to myself by pulling out a tissue or raising my arm to wipe my face.  I blink fast at first, hoping to clear my eyes, but they are so full of liquid that the closing only squeezes out more tears.  Instead I hold them open for as long as I can, convincing myself that it is water from the not blinking rather than more tears. 
     
    At break, our class leader comes to squat in front of my desk.  I still have not moved or turned over a page.
    “Are you okay?  Everyone’s worried about you.”
    I nod.
    “Do you need anything?”
    I start to shake my head, and then I stop.
    “Can you tell him that I needed to go home?”
    Pedro nods, tries to pat my arm, and withdraws it when I flinch.
    “Let me know if you need anything?”
    “Thanks,” I answer.  “I’d just like to go home.”
     
    It’s a quick walk back to the dormitory, but instead I wander to the park nearly in our backyard.  Or front yard, technically.  The best part about living in the heart of the city is being close to the action.  Even though it is a weekday morning the park is full of young children not yet in school.  One little girl in a red hat screams as she whizzes down a tall slide, and a chubby boy too young to walk terrifies a pigeon by throwing bread at its head.  I half-wish I could careen down the slide, too, but instead I sit on the brick circle around one of the gingko trees.  We live next to a famous art school, and there is always at least one art student set up with an easel and sketch pad.  Today, it’s a twenty-something boy earnestly applying charcoal to the page.  When I creep close enough to peek, I see that it’s an enlarged drawing of the brick paving.  My surprise must show on my