Beverly Hills Maasai (14 page)

“Beverly Hills High.”

“Grade?”

“Eleven.”

“You know that this is really more like a village than a city,” Officer Osler said. “And my nephew, he’s in grade eleven at your school.”

“Maybe I know him,” I offered, looking for any connection that might get me out of this. Often life simply revolved around who you knew.

“It’s a big school,” he said, “and I doubt he runs with
your
crowd.”

I didn’t like the way he said “your crowd,” like it was a bad thing. Great, I was going to be in trouble because I had money. At least it wasn’t like I’d rejected his nephew, because I didn’t even know who he was.

“Well, my nephew was telling me about a girl in his school who had been to Africa and was now raising money to help needy people. Have you heard anything about that?”

“It does sound familiar,” I said.

“And I do believe he even mentioned that her name was Alexandria.”

“That’s such a common name in my school,” I said, flashing my sweetest, most innocent smile. “I wish my parents had tried something a little more imaginative.”

The policeman pulled a cellphone out of his pocket. “Maybe I should call my nephew and ask him
the name of this wonderful young lady who is trying to help the disadvantaged.”

That sick feeling in my stomach got worse. I was as good as caught. I could just see myself going back before the court, before that judge, once again, except this time there’d be no way out of me having to live in a little cell and wear an orange jumpsuit. God, I looked awful in orange! The only things that did look good in orange were pylons and certain citrus fruits.

He looked me directly in the eyes. “Do you think I should make that phone call?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I didn’t think so.” He paused. “My nephew also told me that this girl, Alexandria Something-or-other, used to be a royal pain, that she acted like she owned the school and was rude and rather obnoxious and spoiled. You know the type.”

I didn’t answer, but obviously even if I didn’t know his nephew he knew me—or at least knew who I used to be. It was hard to break a reputation once it had been made.

“And just out of curiosity, if we do catch that girl who was trespassing, what do you think we should do with her?”

I shrugged and shook my head again. Now he was toying with me. Why not just arrest me and get it over with?

“I have a question for you,” the officer said. “That girl who was over on her neighbours’ property, do you think she was trying to do anything wrong?”

“No!” I exclaimed. “She was trying to
stop
something
wrong from happening … at least, that’s what I think she must have been doing.”

“I think so too,” Officer Osler said. “And not that I’m asking you if you were over there, because I’m not, but if you were on your neighbours’ property, you wouldn’t be going over there again, would you?”

“No, never. Honestly.”

“That’s good to know, because I’d hate to be the one to arrest somebody who’s trying to do the right thing. Sometimes the hardest disadvantage to overcome is a lack of disadvantage,” he said.

“What?” I questioned.

“All this,” he said, gesturing around the property, “makes it harder for a person who has so much to understand those who have so little. It takes a remarkable person to rise above her upbringing to become a caring person. I’m not going to be the one to arrest that person.”

“So I think we should maybe go now,” the other officer said. “And I’m sure that whatever
didn’t
happen here
won’t
happen again.”

They opened up their car doors and started to climb in.

“Wait!” I called out. “Is that it?”

“Do you want there to be something else?”

“No, I’m happy … thanks.”

“That’s okay. We all agree that nothing happened here, right?” he asked.

“Yes, nothing happened,” I agreed. “And you have my word that the nothing that happened won’t happen again.”

“I know that. Take care.”

He climbed into the car and they drove away, leaving Carlos and me standing there watching them as they disappeared through the gate.

Carlos starting chuckling.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just think, the
policia
came, and they left the Mexican alone and almost arrested the rich white girl. Pretty funny, no?”

“Not that funny.”

“You are a pretty good liar,” Carlos said.

“I would prefer to consider it more in the nature of a dramatic performance.”

“Then you are very good at drama … like a drama
queen.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. You didn’t do so bad yourself.”

He shrugged. “I am a pretty good drama queen too. I am going back to my gardening.” He started to walk away, then stopped. “They will not be making any more bows, will they?”

“I think I can promise you that won’t happen again.”

“Bueno.”

“
Mucho bueno
.”

I couldn’t believe that I’d slept in as late as I had. It was almost eleven. I guess all the drama of the last few days had taken more out of me than I’d thought. I wandered downstairs, still wearing my jammies and fluffy slippers. The whole house was quiet. I walked into the dining room—the table had been set for four, and there were now three plates showing evidence of three people having eaten breakfast. That was good. They’d eaten in here, eaten what Carmella had prepared, rather than going out in search of our neighbours’ pets. We’d come to an agreement that pets and plants were all off limits, and that Carmella would make them any food they wanted.

Speaking of which, I was kind of hoping she’d make
me
some food. Carmella made just about the best
Spanish omelettes in the world, although she called them Mexican omelettes. Either way, they were pretty wonderful.

I had started to wander toward the kitchen when my attention was caught by a flash of red through the window. I went over and peered out. It was Nebala standing in a flower bed with Carlos, and they seemed to be talking. I guessed Carlos was giving him gardening hints, or maybe explaining what he could have for dessert after breakfast.

At least I knew where one of my Maasai was. Unfortunately, it was the other two who worried me more. I was sure they couldn’t be too far away, and I was sure that Nebala would know where they were. Breakfast would go down more easily once I knew where all three of them were. I didn’t want to take any chances of a repeat visit from our friendly neighbourhood police department.

I went outside in my slippers and scuffled over to the flower bed. The two men were so occupied with their conversation that they didn’t even notice my arrival. I never liked it when I wasn’t noticed.

“Good morning!” I said loudly.

They looked over, and while they both nodded they continued with their conversation. Nebala was holding some flower bulbs. They were dirty and looked as though they’d just been dug up.

“No, no!” Carlos said emphatically. “These are not for eating, just for looking.”

“Looking for what?” Nebala asked.

“Not looking for anything, but for seeing—you
know, like … like a treat for your eyes because they are so
beeeeautiful.”

Nebala brought the bulbs right up to his eyes and shook his head. “Still not so beautiful.”

“Not now!” Carlos exclaimed. “When they become flowers. These bulbs become most
beeeeautiful
flowers.”

“You can’t eat flowers,” Nebala said. “Maize is beautiful. Cassava is beautiful. Even rice and potatoes are beautiful.”

“Maize
is
beautiful,” Carlos agreed. “It would be good to grow real food here instead of just things to look at.”

“You could plant some vegetables here if you wanted,” I offered.

“Here?” Carlos sounded as though he didn’t believe me.

“Well, not right here in front of the house, but I’m sure nobody would object if you planted a vegetable garden behind the garage or around the side of the house.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’ll talk to my mother … Do you know where she is? Have you seen her?”

“She’s doing yoga in her special place,” Carlos said.

Her special place was a Zen garden. It had ornamental shrubs and trellises, hanging plants, and a little reflective pond with a trickle of water running down some rocks. There were wind chimes hanging from the trees that gently sounded in the breeze. And of course, there was a little brass Buddha in the middle. I liked that Buddha. He had a knowing little smile, as
though he was in possession of an important secret, a really important secret … or maybe he’d heard a good joke.

I had to hand it to my mother. When she got into something she really got into it completely. If she ever decided she liked go-karts we’d have a full track running around the property.

“And where are Samuel and Koyati?” I asked.

“With your mother.”

“They’re watching her do yoga?”

“No, no,” Carlos said. “They are yogaing too.”

“They’re doing yoga?”

“Si.”

“Oh, this I have to see! Excuse me.”

I walked across the property and toward the garden. Getting closer, I could hear the gentle strains of music playing—pan flutes and sitars. Why did yoga music always have pan flutes or a sitar? Mixed in with the music were the gentle sounds of the wind chimes and running water.

I caught my first glance of my mother through the shrubs. She was standing, bent over at the waist, her arms dangling down so far that her wrists were draped along the ground. She really was flexible for a woman her age—I didn’t even know if I could reach that far.

Next I saw Samuel and Koyati. They were mirroring my mother’s movement.

“Breathe in and out … five breaths,” my mother said. “Remember, in and out through your nose.”

There was the sound of breathing as an extra layer on top of the twang of the sitar. Slowly, in and out …
in and out … in and out … in and out … in and out.

“Plank,” my mother called out.

She kicked out her feet into what almost looked like a push-up position. Samuel and Koyati looked up, looked at her, and then quickly mimicked her movement.

“Feel your breath … slowly … exhale Upward-facing Dog … inhale Downward-facing Dog.”

Each time they watched and then quickly copied what she was doing.

“Sun Salutations and Warrior One.”

It wasn’t Warrior One—it was two warriors!

“Bring your feet together and reach up in Sun Salutations.”

They all reached up for the sky as if they were trying to touch the sun.

“Now close your eyes and breathe … big, deep, cleansing breaths.”

I could hear them breathing loudly. They were all standing, eyes closed, arms high in the air.

“And that’s where we’ll end,” she said.

They all opened their eyes.

“That looked like a good workout,” I said.

“I’m sorry. Did you want to join us?”

“I was sleeping.”

“It was very energizing,” my mother offered.

“That’s exactly how I find sleeping. So how did they do?”

Samuel and Koyati looked relaxed—even Koyati was smiling just a bit—so I had to assume they’d enjoyed it. I wished Nebala could have been there to
translate for them—I’d have loved to know what they made of it all!

“They’re naturals! They have such amazing balance and flexibility,” my mother said.

“It did look like they were doing pretty well,” I agreed.

“I was shocked. This was their first time, but it was as if they have been practising yoga their entire lives.”

“I think their lives keep them in balance,” I suggested.

“I would love to go to Africa and see how they live,” my mother said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Why not?”

“It’s just that you never mentioned it before … I didn’t know you were interested.”

“I’ve always been interested.” She paused. “At least interested since you returned, and now that I’ve met the Maasai I’m even more interested. How about next summer?”

“That would be wonderful.”

I tried to picture my mother in Kenya. If it was a shock for me, I couldn’t even imagine how much bigger the shock was going to be for her. It would be fun to watch—the same way the veterans of the program I was in watched me. My mother would be struggling like a fish out of water—no, like a fish out of
Perrier.
I’d lived the Beverly Hills lifestyle for sixteen years, but my mother had been part of it for forty-five years. It would be even harder for her to adapt.

“So what’s on the schedule for today?” my mother asked.

“I’m going to take the guys out for a drive along the marathon route.”

“That’s sounds like a wise idea. When are you going to go?” she asked.

“After school.”

“Excellent. That should give me more than enough time to take the pictures I need.”

“Pictures?”

“Yes. Nebala, Koyati, and Samuel have agreed that I can take pictures of them for my class assignment.”

“You’re taking a photography course now?”

“No, the computer course. I’m building a website. They’ve given me permission to do a website about them coming here to run in the marathon. Isn’t that interesting?”

“It
is
pretty interesting,” I agreed, a bit reluctantly. “But I don’t want them disappearing into your studio for hours on end.” I wasn’t crazy about the idea of my mother monopolizing their time—and I knew how obsessive she could be. “I’m sure this little website idea is important to you, but winning the race is what’s important to
them.
Nothing should get in the way of their training.”

“They don’t seem to do much training, do they?” she noted.

I hadn’t even really thought about it. “I guess they don’t feel that they need to train because they normally spend all their time training. But I’m sure they will be going out training … I just don’t want you to get in their way.”

“I’ll try not to interfere … and I’m sure they know what they’re doing,” she said reassuringly.

“I’m sure,” I agreed … although I wasn’t feeling that reassured. “I’m sure there won’t be any problem with you doing your little website thing. Just go ahead and do it.”