品茗經(jīng)典-Unit 10 Eleven 11歲

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Eleven 11歲
By Sandra Cisneros

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you 're still ten. And you're—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wood dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.

You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.

Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.

"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."

"Not mine?" says everybody. "Not me."

"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.

Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Sald抳ar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that, all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.

"That's not, I don't, you're not...Not mine," I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.

"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.

Not mine, not mine, not mine. But Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.

In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parting meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.

"Rachel, " Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."

"But it's not—"

"Now!" Mrs. Price says.

This is when I wish I wasn't eleven, because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one— are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.

That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me, until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.

Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight, and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.

I'm eleven today, I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see

大人們不明白而且也不會告訴你的是，當你到了11歲生日時，你也同時是10歲，9歲，8歲，7歲，6歲，5歲，4歲，3歲，2歲，1歲。你11歲生日那天醒來，期望能感到自己已11歲了，但沒有。你睜開雙眼，一切宛如昨日，只是已到了今天，你根本感覺不到你已經(jīng)11歲了，相反還覺得自己是10歲——確實也是，還沒過完11歲這一年呢。

比如有些時候你可能會說些傻話，那是還只有10歲的你?；蛘呤裁磿r候你嚇壞了，得到媽媽腿上坐著，那是5歲的你。也許哪一天你已經(jīng)長大了，卻想要像3歲時那樣地哭，這沒什么，當媽媽覺得悲傷想哭時我就是這樣對她說的，也許那時她感覺自己像個3歲小孩。

因為你長大的過程就像一個洋蔥，像樹干上的年輪或者像我那個一個套一個的小木偶玩具一樣，一年套著一年，那就是你11歲的樣子。

你感覺不到自己已11歲，至少不是馬上就會感到。你得花上幾天、幾周，有時甚至幾個月才能在別人問你多大時回答說已經(jīng)11歲了。你只有在快到12歲時，才會感覺到11歲的可愛，就是這樣。

只是今天我真的不希望我只有11歲，就像11枚硬幣在一個錫制邦迪罐里亂蹦一樣。今天我希望自己不是11歲而是102歲，因為要是102歲，那普賴斯夫人把那件紅毛衣放到我桌上時我就會知道該說什么了。那樣我就會知道該怎樣告訴她毛衣不是我的，而不是坐在那兒，一臉驚愕，卻什么也說不出來。

“這是誰的？”普賴斯夫人問道，在全班面前舉著紅毛衣。“誰的？它扔在衣帽間里整整一個月了。”

“不是我的，”所有的人都說。“不是我。”

“肯定是誰的吧。”普賴斯夫人接著說，但誰也想不起來。這是一件丑丑的毛衣，釘著紅色塑料紐扣，領(lǐng)口和袖子松松垮垮地耷著，都可以拿它來跳繩。也許它已經(jīng)有1000年歷史了，就算真是我的，我也不會承認。

也許因為我太瘦了，也許因為她不喜歡我，呆頭呆腦的塞爾維亞·薩爾蒂娃說：“我覺得是萊琪的。”這么丑的一件毛衣，那么破那么舊，但是普賴斯夫人相信了她的話，她拿著這件毛衣徑直放到了我桌上，我張了張嘴但什么也說不出來。

“那不是，我沒有，你不是……不是我的。”我最后小聲地用也許是4歲時的聲音說道。

“就是你的，”普賴斯夫人說，“我記得你還穿過一次。”因為她是長輩又是老師，所以她是對的，錯的是我。

不是我的，不是我的，不是我的，但是普賴斯夫人已經(jīng)把書翻到了32頁的第4道數(shù)學題。不知為什么，我心里突然覺得很難受，3歲的那個我要哭出來了，但我強忍住眼淚，咬緊牙關(guān)，努力提醒自己今天11歲，11歲，今晚媽媽會給我做一個蛋糕。爸爸回家時，每人都會對我唱“祝你生日快樂，祝你生日快樂！”

但當難受暫隱時，我睜開雙眼，那紅色毛衣還在那兒，像座紅色大山，我用尺把紅毛衣推向書桌的一角，把鉛筆、書和橡皮移得離它遠遠的，我甚至把椅子也向右移了一點點。不是我的，不是我的，不是我的。

我正想著還有多久到中午，還有多久我可以把它扔出校園柵欄或者把它掛在一個停車計費器上，或者把它卷成一個小球扔進胡同。這時數(shù)學課結(jié)束了，普萊斯老師在全班同學面前大聲說：“喂，萊琪，夠了吧。”因為她看見我把紅色毛衣推到了書桌的尖角，它掛在那兒像個瀑布，但我不在乎。“萊琪！”普萊斯老師說，她似乎發(fā)火了，“別再廢話，你馬上把那毛衣穿上！”

“但它不是——”

“馬上穿好！”普萊斯老師說。

這時我真不希望是11歲，因為所有的年歲——10，9，8，7，6，5，4，3，2，1都在爭相想從我眼中流出。我兩手套著散發(fā)著鄉(xiāng)村干酪氣味的毛衣袖子，兩臂張開，站在那兒，就好像它傷著了我，確實已經(jīng)傷著了我，癢極了，滿是細菌，而這壓根不是我的。

今天早上當普萊斯老師把毛衣放在我桌上時，我什么都一直忍著，現(xiàn)在終于再也忍不住了，一下子我在全班面前大哭起來，我希望我能夠消失，但這不可能。我11歲了，今天是我生日，而我卻像3歲的小孩一樣在大家面前大哭，我一屁股坐了下來，把頭埋在傻傻的小丑般的兩只毛衣袖子下。臉發(fā)燙，口水也流了出來。我實在忍不住抽搭，我一直哭到了眼淚流干。不停地抽泣就像打嗝一樣，頭疼極了就像牛奶喝得太快時的感覺一樣。

但是在午餐鈴就要響起來的時候，最糟糕的事情發(fā)生了。那個比塞爾維亞·薩爾蒂娃還蠢的菲莉絲·絡(luò)帕茲說她想起來了，那件毛衣是她的。我馬上脫下來丟給她，普萊斯老師裝著什么也沒看見。

今天我11歲了，這時媽媽正在為我做今晚的蛋糕，爸爸下班回來時，我們都會享受它的美味，會有生日蠟燭和好多禮物，每人都會唱“萊琪，祝你生日快樂，祝你生日快樂。”只是這一切都太遲了。

今天我11歲了，我11歲了，10歲，9歲，8歲，7歲，6歲，5歲，4歲，3歲，2歲，甚至1歲。但我希望我是102歲，我希望我什么年齡都行，只要不是11歲，因為我希望今天快點結(jié)束，像一個脫手的氣球飛向遠方，像空中的一個小圓圈，越來越小，以至于你只有閉上眼睛才能看見它。