“Arushi? Is that how you pronounce it, honey?” 

I ignored the voice talking to me and looked over my shoulder, through the glass front doors of the building. My parents’ Toyota Camry drove past the sign that read “Welcome to Hilldale Elementary School” and disappeared around the corner. 

The voice spoke again, “It’s alright, sweetheart, you’ll see mom and dad again this afternoon. I’m Mrs. Marinello, the school’s secretary. Come with me!” 

I looked up at Mrs. Marinello. Her blonde hair was streaked with an even lighter blonde, falling around her face in multicolored layers, and deep red lipstick outlined her smile. She must have been the tallest woman I had ever met, and I had to crane my neck to get a view of her face. I followed Mrs. Marinello down the main hallway of the building, past trophy cabinets and back-to-school themed bulletin boards.  

We stopped at the end of the hallway, outside the last door on the right. A large handmade banner hung over the doorway announcing “Ms. Fau’s Groovy Kindergarten Classroom.” 

What the heck is groovy?

Mrs. Marinello opened the door and led me in. The desks were arranged into small pods in the center of the room. The kids were hard at work decorating small name cards, filling the room with the sounds of pencils squeaking through hand-crank sharpeners and safety scissors tearing into construction paper. 

Another blonde woman walked through the pods to greet us, her floral maxi dress sweeping the floor. The scent of hot glue and permanent markers followed her. Oh, this must be what they mean by groovy. She was even taller than Mrs. Marinello (was this a school full of giants?), and she bent down to greet me (I realized that they weren’t giants--I was just used to being around my mom, who, like most Indian women, was very short). 

Mrs. Marinello placed a hand on my shoulder, “Hey Bonnie, this is Arushi--your missing student.” 

Bonnie smiled, “Welcome, Arushi! I’m Ms. Fau.” She straightened back up to her full height and quietly asked Mrs. Marinello, “What happened?”

 
“The district mixed up the busing information and sent the family to the stop for Woodmont. Poor kid wound up riding the wrong bus, and the parents had to pick her up from there and bring her here.” 

I rubbed the side of my head, partially because Dadi had tied my right pigtail just a bit too tight and partially because I was remembering the morning’s traumatic events. 

***

“Tuky, I’m putting your lunchbox inside your backpack,” Mama called out to me. 

“Okay!” I responded, wincing as Dadi tugged at the end of each pigtail on my head to make sure it could hold up against the rough and tumble of mandatory nap time. I pulled my Dora the Explorer backpack onto my shoulders, and Mama tightened the adjustable straps for me. Dadu and Dadi had been visiting for the summer, and Papa was going to work late that day, so I had a full entourage to walk me to the bus stop for my first day of kindergarten.

The first day of kindergarten is a big day for any child, but it was especially momentous for my family--it was my first day of school in the United States of America. I had gone to preschool back in New Delhi, but then my parents and I moved to New Jersey when I was three years old. Pre-K in the upper middle class, white suburbs of northern New Jersey was way out of budget for my newly immigrated parents, so they held off on sending me anywhere until I was old enough to start (free) public elementary school. 

 The five of us arrived at the bus stop--it must have been a sight to see, with Dadi wearing one of her nice saris for the special occasion and Mama fussing over the wrinkles that were already forming on my shirt. There was only one other kid at the stop. She must have been about three years older than me and was by herself, and she seemed very confused by our presence.

 
The yellow school bus finally arrived, and--after the obligatory “Be safe!” and “Wear your seatbelt!” and “Make some friends!”--my family let me climb on board. I waved at them through the bus window until they became specks in the distance and spent the rest of the ride entertaining myself with my backpack’s adjustable straps. Eventually, the bus came to a stop and the driver cheerfully announced that we had arrived at Woodmont. 

Huh. I thought Mama and Papa said I was going to a school called Hilldale? 

I quickly realized that I was not at all in the right place. The staff at Woodmont tried to shrug me off as a typical “kindergartner who misses their parents,” until they finally had enough of my complaining and let me call Papa. My first day of school in the United States was off to a smooth start. 

*** 

Ms. Fau took my hand and brought me over to the front of the classroom. The laughs and side conversations subsided as all the other students scrambled to get a look at the new kid. 

“Class, everyone please sit down. This is our new friend, Arushi!” Ms. Fau exclaimed to the now-silent room of kindergarteners. 

I noticed that almost everyone in the room was white. I gripped the now way-too-loose strap of my Dora the Explorer backpack to keep it on my shoulder and waved to the class with a small, “Hello!” 

The ell sound in “hello” came out heavier than I wanted it to--a lingering trace of my Indian accent that would come out in moments of anxiety or excitement. A few kids waved back, a couple smiled, but mostly I was met with sweet, sweet indifference. The good thing about showing up late to the first day of kindergarten in a new country? The kids are too young to care that the new kid has brown skin and an accent. 

The class had already picked out their seats by that time. In true five year old fashion, all the girls were sitting together in two pods, and all the boys were in the other two. The girls’ pods were full, so Dora and I made our way to the last empty desk in one of the boys’ pods. The bad thing about showing up late to the first day of kindergarten in any country? Fear of cooties transcend borders. 

Ms. Fau promised me that we would rearrange the desks at recess time so that I could sit with the girls. For now, I had to befriend Eric, Michael M., Michael L., and Sameet, who were engaged in a round of “Who can kick the other person’s desk legs the hardest?”

Sameet was the one other Indian kid in my class. It was only mid-morning, but I already had way too much excitement for one day, and I wasn’t really in the mood to get to know Eric and the Michaels. Instead, I sat cross-legged on my chair to avoid getting hit by a stray kick, and I tried talking to Sameet. He may have been a boy, but at least he was a brown boy. 

“Why were you late?” he asked.

I considered thinking up a story less lame than the truth--I was on a quest!--but, for some reason, I didn’t feel like I had to impress Sameet in the same way that I felt a need to impress the other kids.

“I was at the wrong bus stop, so my mom and dad and grandma and grandpa had to drive me to school.”

Sameet shook his head (well really, his whole body shook because he was kicking Eric under the table), “Oh, that sucks. Where do you live?” 

“Rachel Gardens. I live in an apartment there,” I answered. I wasn’t sure how he would react to this. A year of living in Rachel Gardens had taught me that everyone in my neighborhood seemed to be brown or have a really old car or two parents who worked or some combination of the above. 

His face lit up, “No way! I live there, too. So does my best friend, Arjun. He’s not in this class, but he’s on my bus. You can sit with us tomorrow, if you want?”

I smiled, thinking of my baby cousin back in India named Arjun. Then I frowned. I gotta do this again tomorrow? I pulled my criss-crossed legs a little closer to my body and looked up at the clock, waiting for Ms. Fau to start recess.