Laugh with the Moon (7 page)

After a couple of seconds, Memory grabs my wrist and yanks me forward. Somehow the spell is broken. I take out my notebook and purple feather pen, and I wiggle onto the bench beside Agnes. Then Memory shoves in next to me, so I’m the egg salad between two pieces of dark rye in a very squishy sandwich. There isn’t even enough room between us to slip in one sheet of lettuce or a thin slice of tomato.

“I am Mrs. Tomasi,” the teacher says, and smiles. “And you …” She tilts her head slowly. “You are a blessing. A glorious blessing from America.” She puts her hands together in front of her chest in a prayer position, cocks her head to the side, and smiles.

“Thanks,” I mumble. Trust me, I’d much rather be invisible than a blessing. But I guess after that introduction, Agnes figures she’ll get another look at me. She turns her head for a quick second, and when she does, her lamb chop elbow pokes into my rib cage.

“Here in Malawi, we are fortunate to speak many languages,” Mrs. Tomasi says. “In fact, class, let us tell Clare our school rules.” Benches scrape against the floor. Everyone stands. Since I’m part of the Memory-Agnes sandwich, I have no choice but to stand up too while the kids recite this poem:

“You may be seated, class,” Mrs. Tomasi says, and the Memory-Agnes sandwich falls back onto our bench. “You see, Clare, Mr. Kingsley believes all the students shall do well to practice English. Our youngest students shall learn the English alphabet this year. Most of our students do speak Chichewa at home, as well as a third tribal language. What languages do you speak, Clare?”

Before Mom died, I was on the honor roll for three years in a row. The last thing I need is to be grilled on my academic achievement. “I speak English,” I squeak out.

Everyone giggles.

Okay, I guess that’s pretty obvious, but I’m not finished. “And Spanish,” I add. Why not? I already know my Spanish numbers, the colors, and the alphabet, and I can conjugate a bunch of verbs. So what if I can’t exactly speak a Spanish sentence yet? I seriously don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t count.

“Lovely,” Mrs. Tomasi says, her voice smooth as melted butter. “Boys and girls, we shall make an exception to the rule for our American student. We shall teach her Chichewa during her visit to Malawi. Then she shall speak three languages as all of you do.

“Boys and girls, what words does Clare need to know?” Mrs. Tomasi asks the class.

“Muli bwanji,”
says a tall boy who sits in the front of the classroom.

I already know that
muli bwanji
means “How are you?” All of the most basic phrases were on the list Dad gave
me. Still, I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want to act like a smart aleck.

“Norman, tell our new friend what
muli bwanji
means,” Mrs. Tomasi says.

The boy turns in his seat. His dark eyes sparkle. “ ‘How do you?’ ” he says.

“ ‘How
are
you?’ ” Mrs. Tomasi corrects. “Your turn, Clare.
Muli bwanji?
How are you?”

“Thirsty,” I croak. “I’m a little thirsty.”

Holy mackerel! You’d think I said
My rear end is sunburned
. Everyone chokes out these quiet little laughs, Memory and Agnes included, which means that my rib cage gets poked from both sides this time.

“Clare,” Mrs. Tomasi says, “you shall say what I do.
Muli bwanji?
”

A light goes on in my brain: a flashing red doofus light! I’m not supposed to
answer
the question, only repeat it. I reach to the floor for my bag, but we’re packed in so tight that Memory has to get up in order for me to grab hold of it. I pull my water bottle out and suck half of it down, not only because I’m thirsty, but also because I need to extinguish the fire that’s burning up my face. While I guzzle, Agnes and Memory both stare. I get the distinct feeling I should offer them some water, but my dentist told me kids can get gum disease from sharing drinks, so, really fast, I twist the cap back on and chuck the bottle into my bag.

When we finally get past the whole
muli bwanji
situation, Mrs. Tomasi asks, “What other words shall we teach Clare?”

The boy who sits at the table in front of me raises his
hand. His hand has a scar the shape of Florida on it. When Mrs. Tomasi calls on him, he turns and looks at me.
“Chabwino,”
he says. “It mean ‘wonderful.’ ”

“Your turn, Clare,” Mrs. Tomasi says.

I can hardly get air into my lungs to activate my vocal cords, but somehow, I manage that one little word:
“Chabwino.”

When Mrs. Tomasi asks for yet another vocabulary suggestion, Agnes’s hand shoots up. “Yes, Agnes?” our teacher says.

Agnes’s voice is sharp like her bones.
“Bongololo,”
she says.

“Why must our new student know
bongololo?
” Mrs. Tomasi asks.

Agnes leans over the side of her desk, and as she reaches for something on the floor, she pokes me with her elbow for a third time. When she sits back up, she dangles a hideous hairy wormy creature in front of me. My heart hammers in my chest.

“Agnes,” Mrs. Tomasi shouts, “this is not how we treat visitors!”

Agnes finally moves the snake away from my face.

Mrs. Tomasi sighs. “In English, you call this centipede. In Chichewa, we say
bongololo
.”

I take another look. That’s when I see it’s true. The little thing does have a hundred squirmy legs that are all wiggling in different directions at the exact same time.
“Bongololo,”
I whisper while Mrs. Tomasi points to the doorway and Agnes flings the vile bug outside.

“What do I tell you?” Memory says, loud enough for Agnes to hear. “The girl is
satana
.”

I nod once. Then I crack the knuckles on each of my fingers and pray, pray, pray that I won’t cry.

After vocabulary, it’s time for math. “Handlebar,” Mrs. Tomasi says, “please fetch a new chalk.”

“Handlebar?” I whisper to Memory.

“Before the birth of this boy, the father ride the mother to hospital to deliver baby,” Memory whispers. “The mother sit on bicycle handlebar to get there.”

I never thought about it before, but suddenly, I want to know what my mother was doing right before I was born. Watching a movie on the couch? Walking through a museum? Was she nauseous? Did she feel fine? What did she do when she felt me kick really hard? Was she scared or excited? And did she ever consider naming me anything but Clare? I feel like a book with the pages torn out at the best part.

When Handlebar returns to the classroom a few minutes later, he’s holding something that looks like a potato. With a small knife, Mrs. Tomasi peels off the top of the vegetable and uses it to write equations on the board, until finally, Mr. Special Kingsley rings his bell. Must be time for lunch. “Excuse me,” I say to Memory. “I need to get my bag.”

“Oh, no!” Memory tells me. “It is not the time you think.” Agnes cackles and Mrs. Tomasi says, “Mr. Kingsley rings bell to send youngest students home. The senior classes learn for many more hours.”

“Well, then, when do we eat lunch?” I whisper to Memory. But it’s Agnes who answers.

“My profound and sincere apology to the Glorious Blessing from America,” she says. “Here in the Warm Heart of Africa, we do not eat lunch.”

Tears burn the corners of my eyes. I try Marcella’s trick: I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth and silently recite the alphabet backward. My tears stay hidden, but my stomach growls right out loud.

“Perhaps if you drink the rest of your store-bought water,” Agnes says, “your American belly shall feel full.”

B
y the time school really lets out, I don’t even know if I have enough energy to walk up the hill. Dad’s surrounded by kids. They check out the Land Rover like it’s a rocket ship while he presses his stethoscope onto one little chest after the next.

When I show up, he pats the top of my head.
“Muli bwanji?”
he asks, as if the silent treatment is so old I’ll probably just forget about it. I throw open the Land Rover door and get in. While I wait for him, I decide he’s right. This silent treatment is getting tired, so as soon as he wraps the stethoscope around his neck and opens the door, I scream, “Hungry! For your information, they don’t even serve lunch in this place!”

Dad looks surprised, but I don’t know if he’s surprised because I’ve actually spoken or surprised about lunch.

I fold my arms and stare out the window.

“I thought they’d at least give you some porridge,” he says. “That’s what they always used to do.” He turns the key and waits for the swarm of kids to get out of the way.

“I want to get out of here,” I say.

Dad reaches over and takes my hand. I pull it away. As soon as we turn into the driveway, I throw open the Land Rover door and run right past Mrs. Bwanali, who’s carrying a bucket of clothes outside to wash by hand. It looks like it’s going to take her forever. Too bad this dumb house doesn’t come with a washing machine.

I slam my bedroom door shut and yank off my sneakers. They are teeming with heat. I also tear off my soggy socks and shove on the ruby slippers Marcella wore when she played Dorothy last year. She gave them to me as a going-away present. “Just so you’ll remember there’s no place like home,” she’d said.

I climb under the mosquito net and collapse in bed on my stomach. A minute later, Dad knocks on the door. I don’t say anything, but he goes ahead and trespasses because there isn’t even a lock on the door.

“Where’d you get those?” he asks.

I bang my heels together three times. One of the slippers falls off and clatters to the floor.

“Here,” he says. He pushes aside the mosquito net and throws a banana and a bag of chips onto my bed. The bag crackles as I pull it open and inhale the salty potato scent.

“I’ve got to get back to the hospital for a few hours. But, Clare?”

I chomp on a pile of chips.

“You’re going to be fine.”

Then that’s it. Dad walks out of the room and out of the house. Lately, I wish he’d walk out of my life.

I’m sketching a self-portrait. I’m lost on a raft in the ocean. I doubt anyone will ever find me. There’s a shark fin in the background. Maybe I’ll get eaten. Or maybe first I’ll starve.

Mrs. Bwanali knocks on the door. “Yoo-hoo!” she calls.

“Come in,” I mutter.

She carries over a tray with
nsima
and boiled pumpkin. “For you,” she says. But other than those two words, she doesn’t try to talk to me at all. She doesn’t pull aside the net and sneak a peek at my sketchpad either. She just sets down the tray on top of the dresser, and before I can say
zikomo
, she’s gone.

So I eat in my bed while I watch the sky change colors out the window—dianthus pink, manganese blue, cobalt violet. It’s shortly after I hear the first bush baby cry that I remember the night critters, and I carry the empty tray back into the kitchen, where Mrs. Bwanali’s standing at the stove. Lentils whimper at the bottom of her pot under a cloud of smoke.