drive. It's too much.”
She
had
had to learn a million things already. Maybe learning to drive was too much for Celestine, at least this month.
“I know! I know!” cried Mopsy, clapping. “Mattu can be the driver instead!”
Andre and Celestine stared at Mattu as if they had not previously been acquainted.
“That is brilliant,” said Mom. “Mattu—ready for a lesson?”
Jared came to a boil. If some refugee from Africa got to learn how to drive and was even given a free car, while he, Jared—forced to share a stinking room with him!—
didn't
get to drive…
I hate these people. I want them to leave and I want my father home.
But when his father did come home, Jared could not get him to understand how queer everything was.
“I'm over my head with the whole Brady Wall thing,” said his father. “This is your mother's project. Just deal.”
T HE DREAM NEVER CHANGED BECAUSE the truth never changed.
Alake stood with her slaughtered family on one side and the horrifying laughter of boy soldiers on the other. In her hands was a machine gun.
She loved her teachers. But she loved her sister.
Her sister's eyes were wide with fear and shock. Her teachers' eyes were wide with fear and shock.
Do you want your sister to live?
This was the choice.
Alake pulled the trigger. Her teachers were flung to the ground in a mist of blood. Victor took his weapon back. He was laughing. He shot Alake's sister anyway.
The most terrible thing about that terrible morning was that Alake no longer remembered her sister's name. Her sister's name evaporated like her town, for Victor left nothing standing: no people, no buildings, no animals, no crops. When he was done, Victor took Alake along.
She deserved whatever happened now, because she was as evil as any of them. She had killed two people.
Early that afternoon, they crossed paths with a convoy ofpeacekeepers. Victor and the grown men with him melted into the bush. Alake and the boy soldiers were rounded up and taken away. What were the authorities to do with killers who were only eight or ten or twelve years old?
The killer children were isolated in a corner of a refugee camp, although the corner was not necessary. Everybody knew who they were. Not their names, nobody cared about their names, but what they had done. They were shunned. They could watch other children play. There were thousands of children, playing kickball and tag and soccer. But Alake and her group could not join in. Sometimes a boy tried, and then all the regular children would vanish and the child soldiers would be alone again.
Alone, they could not play. They did not know how.
Counselors came. We want to help you, they said. You are filled with grief and anger and shame, they said.
This was true, but the children did not respond. They were beyond help.
Once a missionary came.
Alake knew that she was a Christian, but even God was gone, without a trace, like her sister and her speech.
The killer boys had no women to pound their share of the grain, so they did it themselves, and after they made porridge, they left a portion for Alake. If they got rice, they gave her a share. Why? She was not really one of them; she had spent only a few hours in their troop.
After a long time Alake realized there was a school, and she crept toward it. She did not risk sitting under the shade of theawning with the regular children, children who deserved school. But because the teacher yelled every lesson so that students at the back of the crowd could hear, Alake also could hear. But she could not hold on to lessons any more than she had held on to her sister.
Alake was dead. It was just that she had a heartbeat.
Alake knew why Celestine and Andre were afraid of the dark. Celestine and Andre knew what was out there.
People like Alake.
Yet again the refugee committee met at the Finches' house. Somebody had volunteered to take the Amabos out for the evening to see their first movie and taste their first popcorn.
She
had
had to learn a million things already. Maybe learning to drive was too much for Celestine, at least this month.
“I know! I know!” cried Mopsy, clapping. “Mattu can be the driver instead!”
Andre and Celestine stared at Mattu as if they had not previously been acquainted.
“That is brilliant,” said Mom. “Mattu—ready for a lesson?”
Jared came to a boil. If some refugee from Africa got to learn how to drive and was even given a free car, while he, Jared—forced to share a stinking room with him!—
didn't
get to drive…
I hate these people. I want them to leave and I want my father home.
But when his father did come home, Jared could not get him to understand how queer everything was.
“I'm over my head with the whole Brady Wall thing,” said his father. “This is your mother's project. Just deal.”
T HE DREAM NEVER CHANGED BECAUSE the truth never changed.
Alake stood with her slaughtered family on one side and the horrifying laughter of boy soldiers on the other. In her hands was a machine gun.
She loved her teachers. But she loved her sister.
Her sister's eyes were wide with fear and shock. Her teachers' eyes were wide with fear and shock.
Do you want your sister to live?
This was the choice.
Alake pulled the trigger. Her teachers were flung to the ground in a mist of blood. Victor took his weapon back. He was laughing. He shot Alake's sister anyway.
The most terrible thing about that terrible morning was that Alake no longer remembered her sister's name. Her sister's name evaporated like her town, for Victor left nothing standing: no people, no buildings, no animals, no crops. When he was done, Victor took Alake along.
She deserved whatever happened now, because she was as evil as any of them. She had killed two people.
Early that afternoon, they crossed paths with a convoy ofpeacekeepers. Victor and the grown men with him melted into the bush. Alake and the boy soldiers were rounded up and taken away. What were the authorities to do with killers who were only eight or ten or twelve years old?
The killer children were isolated in a corner of a refugee camp, although the corner was not necessary. Everybody knew who they were. Not their names, nobody cared about their names, but what they had done. They were shunned. They could watch other children play. There were thousands of children, playing kickball and tag and soccer. But Alake and her group could not join in. Sometimes a boy tried, and then all the regular children would vanish and the child soldiers would be alone again.
Alone, they could not play. They did not know how.
Counselors came. We want to help you, they said. You are filled with grief and anger and shame, they said.
This was true, but the children did not respond. They were beyond help.
Once a missionary came.
Alake knew that she was a Christian, but even God was gone, without a trace, like her sister and her speech.
The killer boys had no women to pound their share of the grain, so they did it themselves, and after they made porridge, they left a portion for Alake. If they got rice, they gave her a share. Why? She was not really one of them; she had spent only a few hours in their troop.
After a long time Alake realized there was a school, and she crept toward it. She did not risk sitting under the shade of theawning with the regular children, children who deserved school. But because the teacher yelled every lesson so that students at the back of the crowd could hear, Alake also could hear. But she could not hold on to lessons any more than she had held on to her sister.
Alake was dead. It was just that she had a heartbeat.
Alake knew why Celestine and Andre were afraid of the dark. Celestine and Andre knew what was out there.
People like Alake.
Yet again the refugee committee met at the Finches' house. Somebody had volunteered to take the Amabos out for the evening to see their first movie and taste their first popcorn.
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