So Much for Democracy (9 page)

After a while, Thema's mom comes out with three glasses of lemonade.

“Look what we made for Piper, Mom,” says Thema.

“Oh, look at that,” she says with a laugh. “It's perfect. We should have put that back up years ago.” She takes Thema's place playing with Piper's toes, and Thema and I sip our drinks. Piper laughs and squeals, and Mrs. Ampofo laughs with her.

When Piper's had enough, she squirms, and I help her out of the hammock. She scrambles to the ground and climbs into my lap. She wants to drink some of my lemonade, so I hold the glass for her while she has some.

“You're such a good big sister, Astrid,” says Thema's mom. “I bet your mom is really proud of you.”

It's all I can do not to cry when she says that. I try to smile at her, but I have to look down at Piper instead. I stroke her hair and say, “I try to be a good sister, but it doesn't always work.”

Mrs. Ampofo nods and sips her lemonade. “Life isn't always predictable, but you do your best,” she says.

She's right. I do.

THIRTEEN

Over the next week, it's so hot that Gordo and I beg Mom to let us go swimming at Thema's pool, but she shakes her head every time we ask and says, “It's too dangerous to be out on the roads.” When I ask if that means we shouldn't go to school, she stares at me with an evil eye that Sister Mary would be proud of and says, “Watch it, young lady.”

It's no better on the weekend, when Dad's at home. On Sunday morning Gordo and I get ourselves ready to go to the beach, but when we come downstairs, Dad just shakes his head and says, “Find something to do at home today.”

“Aww,” whines Gordo, and he flings himself into a chair. I feel like doing the same, but I know it will be no use. At least I have a new book to read. The power's been off for days, so I sit outside under the tree and read
Watership Down
until the rain starts and I have to go to my hot, sweaty room. Some days that room feels like a prison.

On Monday I wake early. The power is still off, and I'm sweaty and worn out from sleeping poorly. I get up and go downstairs and out to the front yard. The sun isn't properly up yet, but the roosters are crowing, and a surprising number of people walk past on the street. The air isn't exactly cool, but it's better than inside, so I sit down on the step to listen to the sounds of early morning.

I'm drifting back to sleep when I hear voices at the gate, and Thomas steps into view. He waves goodbye to someone and walks up the drive.

“Asteroid,” he calls. “What are you doing up?”

I stand and stretch. “I couldn't sleep. It was too hot.”

“Hot?” He laughs. He's wearing a windbreaker and toque, and I'm in my T-shirt and shorts. We'll never agree on what hot and cold feel like.

“How come you're here so early?” I ask. We walk around to the little shed on the side of the house where we keep the garden tools, and Thomas unlocks the padlock. “This is my normal time,” he says as he takes off his jacket and toque and hangs them in the shed.

“So you
are
warm,” I say to tease him.

“I am now.” He pulls out a rake and a shovel and takes his shortwave radio off the shelf, then shoos me out of the shed so he can lock it up again. I haven't ever thought about it before, but Thomas is always here when Gordo and I come down for breakfast in the mornings. I've often seen him doing something in the garden. I guess he leaves his house early so he can work before it gets too hot.

As we walk toward the kitchen, he fiddles with the dial on the radio; it wails and shrieks in the still air. A voice wavers and then grows stronger as Thomas gets the station tuned in.

A deep voice booms out, and Thomas stands straighter and holds up the radio.

“Who was that? What was he talking about?” I ask.

“That was Rawlings speaking at his court-martial,” he says. He puts down his rake and shovel to take the cup of tea Abena hands him through the kitchen door.

“Did you hear that?” he asks her. There's a challenge in his voice.

Abena says, “That stuff he's saying about corruption. What's he going to do about it? It's everywhere.” She scowls and blows into her tea mug. Steam clouds her glasses. I glance from one to the other of them, one so happy, the other not impressed at all.

“That's what Rawlings wants to fix,” says Thomas. “He wants to get rid of the hoarders. You heard him.” His face glows, but Abena keeps scowling.

“What are hoarders?” I ask.

“Nothing you have to worry about,” Abena says, but Thomas says, “Rich people who buy up stuff in the stores, then sell it from their homes at higher prices. But that Rawlings, he's going to get rid of them. He's going to—”

Abena interrupts him. “He's in jail. He's not going to do anything.”

It seems like Thomas is in too good a mood to let Abena get him down, because he says, “You wait.”

“Why are you so happy?” Abena asks.

“Because Esi got a big order the other day for more animals, and Rawlings is going to set things straight, and it's a cool day and we might get rain.”

“Hmmm,” says Abena and slams the kitchen door.

“She's never happy,” I say to make Thomas feel better, but he laughs and says, “She doesn't bother me.”

“I'm glad you got an order for more animals,” I say. I can picture Thomas and Esi walking around their neighborhood, looking at houses they want to buy. I can see them sitting under a big tree, sipping tea and playing with the baby they'll have once they get their own home.

Thomas grins. “Someday I'll make animals full-time. I'll import wood from all over the world and make them out of teak and cedar and purpleheart.”

I've never heard of purpleheart, but I know that a lot of cedar grows back home in British Columbia. “When I go home, I'll send you some cedar. The best I can find,” I say.

Thomas gives me a high five, and I go back inside to get ready for school.

By the time I come back down in my uniform, everyone's up and the house has lost its morning calm. Piper tosses her grapefruit on the floor and makes a sour face, and Dad runs around shouting about his wallet, and Mom lectures Gordo about eating more before he goes to school. Strangely, the only one who doesn't say anything is Gordo. He sits at the table for a while, then pushes his grapefruit away and goes upstairs.

“What's up with him?” Mom asks.

I shrug. Gordo's Gordo—that's what's up with him.

In school Sister Mary's talking about Ghanaian history again. She talks a lot about Ghanaian history. This time it's about how the Portuguese sailed along this coast in the 1400s. They were looking for gold and ivory and pepper and slaves. I know Sister Mary wants us to understand why Ghana is the Black Star of Africa, and why the elections are so important, but I really wish she'd get to the point and not spend so much time talking about it.

Now she's talking about how the Portuguese went as far inland as Ouagadougou. I catch Thema's eye when Sister Mary says the word
Ouagadougou
, and we both laugh out loud.

“Astrid, stand up and tell the class what's so funny.”

I can't. I really can't say anything at all, because the laughter is coming up my nose and out my eyes and if I try to speak I'll explode, so I shake my head.

“Thema?” Sister Mary says.

Thema stands slowly but stares at the floor. Thema hates getting into trouble, and when a tear falls down her cheek, I know it's not the laughter making her eyes water.

I swallow hard and stand. “Sister Mary?”

“Astrid.”

“We're sorry. We were laughing about how funny the word
Ouagadougou
sounds. We're sorry.” My laughter's gone now, because I hate seeing Thema cry.

Sister Mary considers me and Thema, standing side by side, our heads hanging.

“Thank you for being honest,” she says, and I'm about to slide back into my seat when she adds, “You two can sit outside until the end of the period.”

Something rises in my throat and almost chokes me. I splutter, but Thema grabs my arm and pulls me outside before I can say anything. I sigh and slump back against the rail.

Somehow, everything I do in school gets me in trouble. I can't seem to get it right.

“Sister Mary hates me,” I say.

“No she doesn't,” says Thema.

“Yes she does.”

Thema sits down next to me so that we're both leaning against the rail. She wipes her eyes and slings her arm across my shoulder. A breeze stirs the red dirt at our feet, and the tamarind pods rustle in the tree across the compound. A goat bleats from somewhere nearby. Thema and I sit together in silence.

Life's not fair sometimes.

When the period's over and break begins, Sister Mary opens the classroom door and kids stream out. As he walks past me, Bassam thrusts a piece of paper into my hand.

“What's this?” I ask, but he runs down the stairs without answering. Thema has a paper too, so we open them together.
You are invited to a party
, they say.

“Bassam's invited us to a party?” I ask.

“Look at your face,” says Thema with a laugh. “You look like you saw a cow fly.”

“Well…” I'm surprised. Bassam tortures me every day. I can't believe he wants me to come to a party.

“He invited the whole class. He does it every year, and his house is amazing, so you have to come,” says Harpreet, plunking down next to us.

I bunch the paper in my hand and throw it into the trashcan.

“What are you doing?” Thema asks.

“There's no point. Mom will never let me go.”

Thema reaches into the trash and pulls out the paper. She smooths it out and hands it back to me. “You never know,” she says.

I bunch it back up and toss it away again. “Yes, I do.” And I do. Mom will never let me go. The only places she ever lets us go these days are school and Thema's house, and that's only because Dad makes her.

“No, you don't,” says Harpreet. She fishes the paper out and hands it to me. I take it and shove it into my pocket. I know she won't, but it's not worth getting into a flip about.

Mom lets Thema come over on Sunday afternoon after her family gets back from the beach.

We have a snack, then head outside. It's so hot, all we have energy for is sitting around under the tree, listening to the chickens next door. There isn't a cloud in the sky, and the heat makes a haze over everything.

Gordo wanders outside and sits in the grass with us. He moves slowly.

“Where are your friends?” I ask. I'm really telling him to bug off, but he doesn't seem to get the hint, because he says, “I sent them away” and then slides down into the little hammock Thomas slung for Piper after I told him about the one we made at Thema's house. It's too small for Gordo, but he stays in it anyway.

He stares at the sky and rocks slowly.

“Gordo, go ask Abena for some lemonade,” I say, but he doesn't move.

“Gordo,” I say again.

He stares at me but doesn't say anything, so I say, “Are you okay?”

“I don't feel good,” he says.

I lean over and touch Gordo's forehead. It's hot, so I put my hand on Thema's to compare. She's hot too, so it's hard to tell if Gordo's head is warmer than it should be. It's so stinking hot, we all feel like we're burning up. “Do you have a fever?” I ask.

Gordo doesn't answer except to close his eyes.

“Maybe we should go get your mom,” says Thema.

“No. I'll get him some lemonade,” I say. Mom's in the house having a nap with Piper. I could go and get her, but the thought of that makes me feel like lead.

When I come back with a glass of lemonade for Gordo, he's fallen asleep, so I leave the glass next to the hammock and walk to the front of the house with Thema to wait for her mom to pick her up.

After Thema leaves, I go back to Gordo to see if he's drunk his lemonade. He's still asleep. The lemonade was never cold, because of the power being out, and now it's full of ants. I tip the liquid onto the grass and watch the ants swim away. Gordo's forehead is definitely hotter than it should be now, and his face is dry and flushed. His breathing is even but heavy. I know I should go and tell Mom. I know I should, but instead I sit on the ground next to him and push the hammock so it sways. Gordo groans and stirs but doesn't wake up.

I touch his forehead again, and this time I have no doubt. He's got a fever.

I draw in a long breath and focus.

“I'm going to run you a bath,” I say to Gordo. Piper's had fevers hundreds of times, and Mom always runs a cool bath and sponges her down in it. Maybe if I can get Gordo's fever down, he'll feel better and we won't have to tell Mom.

“Come on, Gordo, wake up,” I say.

I reach into the hammock and pull on his arms until he opens his eyes and says, “Stop it. What are you doing?”

“You're having a bath,” I say.

“I don't want a bath.”

“You're having one anyway,”

“You sound like Mom,” he says, pulling his arms out of my grasp and snuggling back into the hammock.

It's true. I sound like Mom. That thought makes me try even harder.

“Come on,” I say again. This time I push the hammock over so that Gordo almost tips, and he grumbles as he gets out of it. I push him into the house and up the stairs. He moans, but I say, “Shhh. The baby's sleeping,” and he quietens.

When we reach the bathroom, I turn on the tap and pray that water comes out. It does. At first it's brown, but after it runs for a few minutes, it turns clear, and I put the stopper in the tub and say, “Climb in, Gordo.”

He sits on the edge of the bathtub and refuses to move, so I take a cloth from the cupboard and soak it in the bathwater, then squeeze it over Gordo's head. The water slides around his ears and down his nose.