The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne Page A

like a mattress. Then you laid down on your side with your elbow cocked underneath your head, and said, Now it’s better.
    I said, Thank you, mademoiselle.
    Something in my voice must have charmed you because you broke into a smile, a sort of smirk like you were trying not to laugh, and said, The pleasure is all mine. Now let’s take a nap.
Alphabet
    Yemaya, I wish I’d marked the moment we last saw the ocean, but I didn’t remember to until after we’d left Mbour to turn east.
    The farther we drove, the more dry it got. Francis told me there was bad drought in this area—the dry season was starting earlier and ending later, just like the Sahara itself was starting nearer and ending farther. I watched my skin turn red from the dust. I even fingered out pools of dust from the corners of the truck and smeared them on my arms because I wanted to be warmer-colored.
    But this little game backfired. I got sick. That night I woke up with a hacking cough and my throat felt like it was barbed with spikes. When we stopped, Francis got Muhammed, who examined me. He made me drink five whole cups of water right in front of him. I had to get up to pee a lot all that night, but every time I woke up, I was surprised to see you were there, Yemaya, helping with even more water. After two days the barbs softened and faded into a gentle tickle that made me want to scratch my throat on the outside.
    We stopped to refuel at a border crossing. I remembered the term from before and wanted to be sure I marked the event this time. I flopped into the front seat and asked Samson, Where are we crossing into? Samson didn’t understand me very well, so it took many gestures and repeated words, but eventually he said the word Mali enough times that I assumed it was the name of the place we were going.
    I stayed on the truck. When you came back from the market, you were carrying a blue plastic bag. You pulled out a notebook and on the front was a picture of an albino woman in a pink dress with a big red dot on her forehead.
    You like it? you asked me.
    I nodded. I hugged it to my chest. Thank you, I said.
    Well, don’t just hold it, you said. This is for learning your letters. Here, use this to write.
    You handed me a sparkle pen. It was like receiving treasure.
    You sat down across from me and opened the book for me. There was the same cartoon character on the margin of each page, but the rest of the page was blank.
    Francis swung up to join us as the engines started rumbling.
    So lessons have begun? he said. Which language will you teach her?
    Wolof won’t do her any good in Ethiopia. Neither will French or Arabic.
    She speaks Arabic, though. So it might be a good place to start sounding things out.
    Maybe. The most useful language for Ethiopia proper would be Amharic, but I don’t know Amharic.
    I could teach her Amharic.
    I wish you could teach her Mandarin or Hindi. I don’t know either. Mariama, would you like to learn English instead?
    I nodded, not knowing the difference between any of these languages.
    All right, Francis, I’ll teach her English and you teach her Amharic.
    Francis bowed and flourished his hand in a way that made you roll your eyes.

    Ae.
    Bee.
    See.
    Dee.
    Eee.
    I pranced from one end of the truck to the other, reciting my English alphabet, until you told me to stop and recite it quietly to myself in a corner.
    Ha.
    Hu.
    He.
    Ha.
    Hey.
    Amharic was much harder because there were ten times as many letters to memorize! Francis showed me that all the symbols followed a pattern, and that made it a little easier, but still, it was overwhelming at first.
    You told me that when I could recite each alphabet without making a mistake, you would have a surprise for me. You lent me a slender metal bar that clipped onto my dress, and it came with little plastic pearls to put in my ears, and when I pushed a button I heard a woman’s voice reciting either alphabet I chose. Of course later I knew