a glorious vacation. But when we went snorkeling, I panicked every time I had to put my face in the water. And while they were looking at coral gardens under the sea, I got two sea urchin prongs in my foot and also split my toe. So I spent the rest of the time limping around our hotel room.
I used to think it was just me. But now I canât remember if Mom had a glorious time or not.
TEN
T he next morning it was still raining. Dakar dreamed that she had just told a story and the audience was applauding politely. She woke to the sound of the rain against the windowpane. The gentle clapping made her remember the little rains on a tin roof. A clattering of angry voices down the hall was more like the big rains on tin. She lay stiff and still, trying to hear the words. Wisps eked through. Jakarta was arguing with Dad about school. But they never argued with Dad.
The argument was still going on when Dakar went down to eat breakfast. âMomâs leaving tomorrow,â Jakarta was saying to Dad. âI need to spend a day with her. I need her to take me shopping.â
Dakar shot a look at Jakarta, but Jakarta stared down at her bowl.
âAll right,â Dad finally said with exasperation. âBut this is the only day youâre going to miss. The sooner you get to school, the sooner youâre going to make new friends and stop feeling so out of place.â
âThe sooner the wildebeests will stomp me,â Jakarta muttered.
Dakar pushed away from the table and went back upstairs.
Mom was dressed and lying on top of the covers. She patted the side of the bed. âOff to school?â
âYeah.â The bed squeaked as Dakar settled onto it. She reached out and stroked Momâs arm.
âGot an umbrella?â
âI think it stopped raining while I was eating breakfast.â
âIt isnât quite the way we thought it would be, is it?â Mom said.
âNot at all.â Dakar blinked and bit her thumb. âWhy isnât it?â
âJust those famous teenage mood swings, I guess.â
Mom murmured something else, but her voice was so soft that Dakar couldnât hear. A burst of shouting drifted up from downstairs. âIâve never heard either Jakarta or Dad be this way before,â Dakar said.
âYour father hasnât spent much time in the same house as a teenage Jakarta before, either.â Mom pulled Dakar down for a kiss. âOkay, I donât like it, either. But itâs nothing to worry about. You have a good day in school, all right?â
As she left the house, Dakar tried to figure out why people were always telling her not to worry. There was plenty to worry about. When she got close to Melanieâs house, she hesitated, but for some reason she didnât feel like stopping. Everything was such a jumble. âHowâs Jakarta?â Melanie would say again in her bright, eager voice. And what was Dakar going to say? She rushed on to school, not even stopping at her locker before she headed down the stairs.
âThat poor child,â the cook said, shaking her head, when Dakar poured out the story. âThat poor little lost child.â She clicked her tongue.
Dakar watched the cookâs fingers pressing pizza dough into a tray. âWhat about me?â she said. âWhy isnât anyone worrying about me?â
âOh, yes,â the cook said. âYouâre a poor child, too. Too bad weâve got to take the bitter with the sweet, Africa child. Did they tell you that in Africa?â
Like pomegranates. âI just donât think things should be bitter all the time.â
âOh, my,â the cook said. âLife can be a dry and weary land where no water is. But I donât bâlieve things are bitter all the time.â
The kitchen was warm with the thick, yeasty smell of dough rising. âHereâs one thing I will tell you,â the cook said. âYou tell her to go to
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