Sweet Peril (12 page)

“Don’t leave me,” she begged through drunken, pained tears. My eyes stung. The thought of having to leave her the next day made me sick to my stomach. I wished I could pack her up and take her with me. All I could do was hope that we’d earned her trust and that she’d hold the glimmer of optimism in her heart to get her through each day.

As she fell asleep curled in my arms, her words haunted me.
Don’t leave me
.

I woke before Zania in the morning, parched. I went downstairs to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. At the bottom of the stairs I noticed a room in the corner with the door ajar. It was dim, but I could make out pictures stuck on the walls. Holding the glass, I tiptoed to the room and pushed the door open.

It appeared to be some sort of fancy office, but the space had been cheapened by newspaper clippings and pictures tacked and taped across the walls in a sickening collage. I took a few steps in and read headlines about battles and wars, primarily in the Middle East and Africa. Genocides and mass slaughter attacks were highlighted. Some of the pictures were too gruesome to warrant more than a glance. I took a step back, realizing with disgust that this was Sonellion’s shrine to
hatred. Prepared to leave, I glimpsed a picture on the desk that caught my morbid curiosity. It was an African child, a toddler, naked, crying on the ground with a woman leaning over her. What in the world was she doing? Slick fear ran through me.

“That is his most recent pet project.” Zania’s husky morning voice made me jump and spill some water. Even with puffy eyes and a tiny bruise, she was stunning.

“What’s she doing to the baby?” I prayed she would refuse to tell me.

“Female circumcision.” Her voice was quiet. She wouldn’t look at the pictures. “They remove the parts that allow them to enjoy sex.”

My insides rolled, and I brought my free hand to my mouth while the hand holding the glass trembled. She took it from me and walked out of the office. I followed her into the kitchen.

I stood there, sick and numb. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Did your father not teach you about the evil wiles of the female race?” Her tone was tainted with sarcasm. She set my glass on the marble counter and crossed her arms. “Women have no self-control and cannot be faithful. We aim to seduce every man we encounter because we cannot help our natures. In this way they are
helping
females and ensuring their loyalty.”

I ran past Zania, thinking about the tiny girl in the picture. I made it to the bathroom just in time to lose my glass of water in the toilet. I coughed as I crouched on the ground, tasting acid.
Oh, God above . . .
this was the project Sonellion was working on right now—the thing my father hadn’t wanted to tell me.

I wouldn’t cry in front of Zania. I closed my eyes tight and
tried to shut out the memory of those images.

“You are ill?” Zania asked from the doorway. I shook my head, wishing I could stand.

“Sometimes I get . . . overwhelmed by all the pain,” I explained.

Zania stared down at me with her awesome mane of black waves like I was the strangest creature she’d ever seen. I wanted her to think I was strong and worthy of aligning herself with, but I felt weak. I fumbled for the tissues. Zania pulled out two sheets and handed them to me before squatting at my side. I blotted my dampened, scratchy eyes.

Her gaze searched me for any sign of falsehood or insincerity as I blew my nose. “You helped me last night,” she said.

“We tried. But that guy worked fast.”

Zania peered at the floor and let her hair fall, blocking her face. Her hand shook.

“You held me like a mother,” she said.

“I was glad to be there for you.” I gave her my warmest heartfelt look. “I have to leave today. I wish I could stay or take you with me. I came here to bring you the good news and I hope when the time is right you’ll be an ally.”

“How can a woman like me help? I do not bother with self-control as you do. Look”—she held out a shaking hand—“even now I tremble for the poison my body craves. And it helps me face my tasks. It numbs the hatred.”

I closed my eyes. I understood that. I really did.

“You’ll get yourself killed if you keep drinking.”

“I do not care.”

“But I do.” I grabbed her hands in mine and spoke with all
the earnest conviction in my heart. “Think of all the little girls the Dukes will have in future generations. Girls who will grow up without the love of a mother. Girls who are doomed to hate their lives. We can change that, Zania! I don’t know how, but I know it can happen in our lifetime. We need you. All I ask is that you keep yourself alive and be ready. Please.”

I felt her hands shaking in mine. Her eyes were wet.

“I need a drink,” she said in a small voice. A bitter laugh followed from far in her throat.

“No,” I choked out. I couldn’t very well send her to rehab or stay by her side to nurse her through detox. What I was asking her to do was nearly impossible and we both knew it.

“All things are possible,” I whispered, just as much for my own benefit as hers. I leaned forward and we hugged. She was breathing hard, clinging to me with the same grasping urgency she had the night before.

“My sister,” I murmured. “You can do it.”

I
received a text message from Dad during the homecoming football game, telling me to check my email. I ditched my school-spirited party crew in the bleachers and took off for home. Dad had hooked me up with a supersecure server last year for our communications. My hands actually shook as I fired it up.

Patti came in my room, looking surprised to see me.

“It’s from Dad,” I told her. She stood over my shoulder and read along.

I have another prospect, but the timing hasn’t worked out yet. In the meantime I want you and Kopano to go to London to inform the girls. Your itinerary is attached.

Sweet! I was going to see the twins! I printed my itinerary and deleted the email. Patti squeezed me tight from behind as I grinned.

A week later, in the middle of October, I was skipping school to fly to England. I sent Jay and Veronica a vague message telling them I’d be out for a few days doing some stuff for my dad. I could tell them where I’d gone when I got home, even though mentioning Marna might not be a good idea with those two.

Kope flew down from Boston and met me at the departure gate for our flight from Atlanta. I could hardly contain my excitement as we boarded the plane, and Kope seemed to be lighthearted, as well. Our last trip had been so stressful, but this one had a different feeling.

I looked forward to sitting next to Kope during the flight since we hadn’t on the way to Syria. Being the diligent do-gooders we were, we both took out our schoolwork after takeoff.

I turned to Kope and found him watching me, a heavy book open on his lap. It was always a little startling to discover his serious eyes on me, and he must have sensed my surprise because he gave a shy smile and let his attention fall back to his book.

After several hours I needed a break from math problems and history facts. I laid all my stuff in the open seat between Kope and me. He closed his book and laid it with mine.

I looked down at his texts
. Population and Development Studies. Biological Studies in Public Health
. His eyes were on his hands as he rubbed his palms back and forth. I wished I knew how to make him more comfortable around me. He used to be more open, but lately it was like he was too careful.

“How much longer do you have in college?” I asked him.

“This is my final year.”

“Oh, wow, that seems fast.”

He glanced down at his books. “It will be two semesters early. I’ve taken classes every summer.”

A small grin formed on my lips when he said “semes
tahs
” and “summ
ah
.” His accent was beautiful, with similar sounds to Jamaican English and the Queen’s English, but something all its own. I watched him with avid curiosity before he caught my eye and looked down at his light-brownish-pink palms.

“And what are you studying?” I asked, bending one leg up in the seat and positioning myself to face him.

He kept his eyes on his clasped fingers, nodding his head as he answered. “The spread of disease among populations. Primarily HIV and AIDS.”

Anytime I could get Kope to open up felt like a small success.

“Do you miss Malawi?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“What’s it like there?”

He paused and tilted his head, face serious. “Everyone lives in huts with no electricity.”

“Oh,” I said, frowning. A dimpled grin spread across his smooth face and I gasped. “You’re messing with me!”

I was so delighted by his teasing that I reached out and gave his upper arm a little smack, before remembering myself. I wrapped my arms around my leg and held tight. Kopano gave a small laugh, finally meeting my eyes.

“That is what everyone thinks about Africa,” he said. “And it is like that in some parts, but we also have large cities, same
as America.” While he was talking, his hand reached up and touched the spot on his arm where I’d hit him.

“What do you miss most about it?” I asked.

He leaned in against the armrest and his demeanor took on a dreamy reverence.

“The waters of Lake Malawi are like crystal.” The name of his country sounded magical on his lips. “Wild animals and birds everywhere. I miss the nights with no artificial light to dim the stars. But mostly I miss the sense of community among the people. There is much that can be improved among the leadership, but the people are kind. They respect the land and one another.”

I watched as he reined in his passion. We’d both leaned in, trying to keep our conversation hushed.

There’d always been something commanding about Kopano’s presence. Seeing him worked up showed a man willing to battle injustices firsthand. He could go head-to-head with the men who’d been led to their downfalls by his own father. My admiration deepened. I glanced at his book about diseases.

“Is AIDS really bad there?” I probably sounded ignorant, but he didn’t seem to mind.

He rubbed a hand across his brow, which now bore a deep crease. “One in fourteen people. Orphanages are overrun. It’s not acceptable.”

One in fourteen people. That would be one or two people in each of my classes at school. No wonder the subject made him so distraught. Seeing his love and concern, I reached my hand out and took his. He shifted in his seat and his back
straightened. I waited while he yielded to the feel of my touch and seemed to relax. I wanted to be a friend to him—to be able to comfort him. I hoped he could accept it for what it was.

He turned our wrists so that my hand was on top and he could look at it. My skin was pale against his. With his other hand he ran a finger over the small rifts and valleys of my knuckles, looking at my skin as if it held some universal truth. As he lavished attention on my fingers, the gesture of friendship I’d offered somehow morphed. He raised his hazel eyes to mine. Differing feelings flashed through me. Not wanting to send mixed signals, I gave him a smile and slipped my hand from his. I gripped the armrest, still feeling his pleasant touch on my skin.