Jakarta Missing (18 page)

“You're making more work for yourself than you need to,” Jakarta called. “Dad said just ignore them.”

“I like to rake,” Dakar called back. “I never had a chance to do it before.”

At the supper table Jakarta said, “You should at least wait until all the leaves are down. You're just going to have to do it all over again.”

“You're crazy, man,” Pharo told her. “My mom always tells me I have to rake. The day she left she said, ‘You be sure to rake for those people you stay with.' Your sister says you don't have to rake, and you still rake.”

But she did have to. They just didn't understand. That was okay, though. People hardly ever did understand heroes like Gilgamesh and their quests. “Where
are
you staying?” she asked Pharo.

“With Aaron Johnson. From the team. I'd already been overnight there lots of times. Every day I go to the apartment and water my mama's plants.”

Dakar sneaked a quick frown at Jakarta. “Does your mama call you all the time?”

“Nah, man.” Pharo chuckled. “She's not in a place of any telephones. Besides, the Johnsons are lawyers. Nothing scares them. And my mama has had no life to herself for years. Why should she spend this trip worrying about me?”

Jakarta lifted her eyebrows at Dakar with a look that said, “See?” To Pharo, she said, “Lawyers, huh? Well, don't tell the Johnsons anything about us.” Her voice got even more stern. “Or if your mom comes back. Don't tell.”

He laughed. “Hey, keep it friendly, baby. Long as things are okay here, I got no need to be blabbing. But if you need anything, you find me right away.”

Jakarta pulled the baked chicken out of the oven and put it on the table with a flourish. “We're doing pretty well, aren't we?” she said. “For a bunch of motherless chicks.”

“We haven't bought groceries yet,” Dakar pointed out. “Or done your smelly, sweaty laundry. Or figured out how to turn on the heat.”

“Pharo can show us about the heat, can't you?” Jakarta said.

“I'll look at your furnace,” Pharo said. “Hope it's like ours. Anyone else want a glass of H-two-O?”

“Oops. Guess we need something to drink.” Jakarta reached behind her for the mug tree. “Did you know that elements like hydrogen and oxygen were forged in the hearts of stars? Hey, tomorrow's going to be a great game. You guys are coming, aren't you?”

The Lady Wildcats, Dakar saw when she picked up the program on her way into the gym the next afternoon, were more than halfway through their season, and they had won a few more games than they had lost. She found Jakarta's name and height and then looked around. About thirty people were scattered in the gym.

“Let's go!” someone shouted. A cheerleader did backflips across the gym floor. Everyone stood for the school song and the national anthem. Then the starters were introduced. Each player ran to the middle of the court as her name was called, and there was great slapping of hands and hips.

“Go, Jakarta,” Dakar said softly as the two centers squared off for the jump.

“How are they doing?” Dakar asked Pharo halfway through the game, when the gym was juicy with sweat and panting.

He shook his head. “Little wobbly,” he said. “Just a little bit wobbly.” The Wildcats weren't used to having someone like Jakarta at point guard, he explained. “She's more aggressive than they're used to, and she passes harder. Hey!” He jumped to his feet. “Wake up out there.” He sat back down. “See that? It was a great pass, but Emily wasn't expecting it. She'll get it, though. If she doesn't, Jakarta will start putting it in herself.” He pulled a candy bar from his pocket and offered Dakar the first bite. “Take it yourself, Jakarta,” he hollered as he chewed. “Put that biscuit in the basket.”

The Wildcats lost, 54–50. After the game, though, the team huddled together, and Dakar heard someone say, “We'll get the next one.”

“Jakarta, you were high scorer again,” the coach barked. “Let's see if we can set some picks and get you open for more shots next time.”

“Your sister is some player,” Pharo said to Dakar. “Did you see the way she inhales rebounds?”

That night Mom called again. “Aunt Lily says her mom told her that they learned basketball by watching the boys practice.” Mom's voice sounded faraway and fragile, and Dakar pressed her ear to the phone. “Grandma could make layups and also long shots. And they wore blue bloomers and blue middy tops with white sailor collars and tennis shoes.” Mom laughed softly, and her voice was suddenly sad. “It was all such a long time ago, though. That's really all Aunt Lily can remember.”

“Come home,” Dakar longed to say. “I'm trying to make the lawn and everything just the way you'll like it.” But she didn't.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Some days I walk for hours through the fields,” Mom said. “I almost imagine I'm a little girl and my parents will be there when I get home. Well, I love you guys. Could I talk to your dad?”

“He's out saving the world,” Jakarta said.

Dakar squeezed her lips into a thin, disappointed line, and she shook her head.

“What?” Jakarta mouthed. “It's the truth.” Into the phone, she said, “We're fine.”

Dakar shook her head again. Did Jakarta really want to be kind to Mom, or was she just being stubborn to prove something to Dad?

She hung up and started slowly up the stairs, sliding her hand along the banister. Why didn't Mom ask where Dad was? Then they would have to tell her, right? They couldn't just be False Dimitris to Mom, and if they told her, she'd have to come home. For a moment Dakar felt a stubbornness to match Jakarta's. Maybe she should say something no matter what Jakarta thought.

Nah. Jakarta and Pharo would think she was such a tree fungus for not caring about Mom. She had to be
stalwart
. She had to ignore all these feelings thumping on her, making her feel like a drum. She had to be brave for Jakarta
and
Mom—and hope the leaf quest somehow worked.

“You will not fear the terror of the night,” she told herself as she climbed. “Nor the arrow that flies by day. Nor the pestilence … the pestilence …” She turned around and went back down. “Can I sleep in your room?”

Jakarta looked up. “Okay. But you have to take the little bed by the door.”

“Fine,” Dakar said, her voice shaky with relief. “That just means anything that comes in the window will get you first.”

The Lady Wildcats won their next three games. Dakar loved to watch. The gym was always nearly empty except for the cheerleaders and a few parents, but she didn't care about that. She just liked to watch Jakarta running up and down the floor, her long hair caught in a ponytail or braids that bounced every time her feet hit the floor. Sometimes Jakarta yelled out numbers as she ran. Sometimes she just waved her teammates into place or gave them hand signals, and they obediently fanned out this way and that, doing a delicate dance. “Go, Jakarta!” Dakar learned to scream. She hadn't felt this good since they left Africa.

She got to know each player's name. Emily, Shannon, Andrea, Kinsey, and Jakarta were the usual starters. Laura came off the bench, sometimes midway through the first quarter, but immediately if Emily started making wild passes. Jen and Beth came in if the Wildcats were either way ahead or hopelessly behind. A few other players mostly warmed the bench.

“Take that shot,” Coach Svedborg sometimes yelled at Jakarta. Once in a time-out he hollered, “You need to be more selfish. If the shot's there, take it.”

Dakar didn't like to hear him yelling at Jakarta. But in the second half Jakarta made twenty points. Dakar waited for her to change and walked her home. “You were supaloaf today,” she said.

“I felt supaloaf.” Jakarta gave her a look of fierce joy. “It feels like every nerve and muscle is tingling when I'm out there.” She paused. “All those memories that stick to me like red Kenya dust … well … when I'm playing, I don't think of Africa or my friends or
anything
else except me and the ball and my teammates.”

The next morning Jakarta's face stared up from the front of the sports page. “She could be an effective post player, she's our best perimeter player, she can break a press, she's a fabulous passer,” the coach was quoted as saying. “She just does so many things. And she makes her teammates better because she likes to pass. I actually have to get on her about shooting more.”

Two days later the university television station sent out a crew. That night the team and Dakar all went to Emily's house to have pizza and watch.

“Near the end of the season the Lady Wildcats are playing with ice in their veins and fire in their bellies,” the reporter began.

“With Jakarta, we have a whole new look,” Emily said into the mike. “She refuses to lose. She doesn't like to lose at anything. From the first day she practiced with us, she was kicking everybody when we were running sprints.” On the screen Jakarta let loose a long three and it swished in.

Dakar ate her pizza, shyly watching the girls laughing and giving each other high-fives. “Look, Mom,” she wanted to holler. “Look, Dad. Jakarta's on television.”

The next evening Dakar was surprised to look around and realize that the bleachers were more than half full. The gym quivered with noise every time the girls were bringing the ball down the court. It dropped into silence when a Wildcat was making a free throw. The funniest thing was what happened after Jakarta made her fourth three-point shot. Someone started it up and others took up the chant: “Tarzan. Tarzan. Tarzan.”

Dakar's invisibility cloak had holes in it now. “Is that Tarzan girl your sister?” kids asked her. Kids she didn't even know. She tried to give them Donbirra eyes of eggshell calm, even though she often felt just like what the reporter had said about the Lady Wildcat team—either ice or fire or both.

By this time the leaves were mostly off except for some pale lichen green leaves in a little tree in front. While Dakar waited for more leaves to come down, she carried armloads of wood into the house. When the fireplace box was full and she still didn't have any more leaves to rake, she figured out how to use the vacuum cleaner. At least it made some noise in the house. The next day, when Jakarta had an away game, she walked to the store to read labels and then buy dust spray and glass cleaner for her smudges. Then, rather than spend time in the empty house, she sat in the gym and watched Jakarta practice.

Sometimes Jakarta shot three-point shots, making one after the other, moving steadily around the key. “I want to be able to make it from anywhere,” she told Dakar. Sometimes she practiced jump shots or left-handed layups. Saturday, when almost nobody was in the gym yet, Jakarta stood just inside the free throw line and threw the ball, over and over, to a blond girl standing near the basket. Over and over the girl shot. Neither one of them moved, and the girl never missed.

Dakar began to feel dizzy, as if she were caught in the loop of a movie. The blond girl wasn't one of the starters. Dakar had never even noticed her sitting on the bench. There was something weird about the way she was standing. But she sure could make baskets from that spot.

When the rest of the team started coming in, Dakar wandered back home to see if there was anything to rake. The leaves from the little tree in the middle were finally coming down, dusting one spot on the lawn with a light green cloak. It didn't take long to rake them up. Most of the leaves had been picked up by the town's trucks. Only two neat piles remained. “I've made your lawn look so nice,” she told the house. “Won't you tell me your name?” The house smiled enigmatically.

Dakar walked back to the gym. Two practice teams were scrimmaging. Coach Svedborg ran up and down the court, red-faced, looking as if he thought he could see everything if he could always be right there, close enough. “Lollipop passes,” he shouted. “You'll just be
handing
the ball to the other team with passes like that. Gift-wrapped. Here you go, ma'am.”

Dakar wondered how he had enough breath to shout this much and run, too. Emily faked a move to the left, but her defender wasn't fooled. She flicked at the ball and stole it. Suddenly everyone was thundering down toward the other basket.

The B team point guard took the shot from about the free throw line. The ball wobbled around the rim. Even Dakar could see it was clearly coming off. Jakarta was in there, jostling, elbowing. She was leaping. Hands were everywhere, but somehow, even though she wasn't the tallest player, it was Jakarta's hands that were pulling the ball down, tucking it in as she swung her elbows. Then she was dribbling down the court, two steps ahead of everyone.

“Go in!” Coach Svedborg screamed. “Take it on in. Finish it off.”

But Jakarta didn't. With her nearest defender still two steps away, Jakarta dished the basketball to Emily.
Swish
. Emily laid the ball in the basket.

“That was
sweet
,” Jakarta said, grinning. Her hair was coming out of its braids, and sweat flew everywhere as she shook her head. “Really sweet.”

“
Not
sweet,” Coach bellowed. “We can't afford to lose another game. Take those shots, Jakarta. Don't take stupid chances.”