Laugh with the Moon

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Shana Burg

  Jacket art copyright © 2012 by Harvey Chan

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Burg, Shana.

  Laugh with the moon / Shana Burg. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Massachusetts thirteen-year-old Clare, grieving after her mother’s recent death, reluctantly travels with her father to spend nine weeks in a remote village in Malawi, where new friends and experiences help open her mind and heart.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-98568-3

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Self-actualization (Psychology—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Death—Fiction. 5. Grief—Fiction. 6. Americans—Malawi—Fiction.

  7. Malawi—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B916259Lau 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011023879

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For my friends in Malawi

  And in memory of Felicity, Norman, and Stella

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Glossary of Chichewa Words

  Author’s Note

  Mbatata (Sweet Potato) Biscuits

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  I press my nose against the airplane window and breathe faster, faster, more, more, more. I try to erase what’s outside. In my mind, I beg for someone to help me. Help me! I want to yell. But you know, who would? Who could? Only Dad, of course, and flying here was his idea in the first place.

  Branches slam against each other in the wind and rain. The jungle is so crowded. How can anything possibly grow in it? My eyes trace a thick vine twisting around and around an enormous tree trunk, desperately trying to choke the life out of it. Who will win: the vine or the tree? I don’t like that vine. I don’t like it one bit.

  I breathe even faster, and by the time the plane jolts to a stop, I’ve covered the window with mist. Now I can’t see outside, can’t see where I’m going to be stuck for the next nine weeks. All I can do is watch my father pack up the medical report he’s been poring over ever since we switched planes a few hours ago. “Come on, honey,” he says, as if he hasn’t just torn me away from home, as if he hasn’t made me leave all my friends and memories behind.

  He tucks the medical report neatly inside his army-green traveler’s backpack. I unbuckle my seat belt and stand. My heart thumps, quick and light, quick and light, never touching down for a full beat. While Dad checks the messages on his cell phone, there’s a creak. Then a loud, long roar. I crouch and wipe off the window to look for the airplane racing down the runway, about to escape. But I don’t see another plane, only forest-green, olive-green, green-gold. And rain, rain, rain.

  A blast of heat fills the cabin. The month of January really is summer in this place. Under my sweater and jeans, tiny beads of sweat bubble up all over my skin. I take off my cotton scarf and stuff it into my backpack while that strange roar grows louder.

  A dark-skinned woman stands in the row of seats in front of me, her head wrapped in a bright red cloth. A tall, thin girl stands beside her, a younger version of the woman. The girl talks to her mother in a language that sounds like fireworks, full of bursts and pops. She holds her hand over her mouth, giggling. I try not to look at her. She probably has so many minutes with her mother she can’t even count them.

  I grab the gold heart pendant hanging around my neck, feel the dent that I chewed right into the middle of it. Mom made it for me a few years ago when she took a jewelry design class at the center for adult education. Dad slips his phone into his pocket and gives me a squeeze around my shoulders. I pull away.

  “How long are you going to keep up the silent treatment?” he asks.

  I check my watch and adjust for the eight-hour time difference between Boston and here. I haven’t spoken for the entire trip, not even during the layover in South Africa. That would put me at a grand total of twenty-six hours and thirty-two minutes, never mind that I was sleeping for at least eighteen of them. It’s so impressive—maybe even a world record—that I actually consider sharing the news.

  But I don’t, because that would break my promise, and in my book, promises are not meant to be broken. Not promises fathers make to daughters, like “I’ll take care of you” and “I always have your best interest at heart.” And not promises daughters make to fathers, like “I will never speak to you until you take me back where I belong.”

  I follow Dad down the cramped aisle. The rumble grows louder and my breath snakes up my throat. Soon I’m at the mouth of the plane. I realize it’s the crazy storm outside that’s making such a racket. Cold raindrops prick me like needles. There isn’t even a tunnel connecting the airplane to the airport.

  A flight attendant stands by the cockpit. “Welcome to Malawi,” she says, and smiles. I know I should smile back. It’s the right thing to do. But I can’t. I doubt I’ll ever smile again.

  A bolt of lightning strikes the treetops. I’m thinking it’s pretty dumb to stand on a metal staircase in an African storm. We could be killed.

  But my father? He’s another story! He inhales the slate-gray sky like it’s full of jasmine, like the smell of this place is a total thrill. Then he clomps down the metal staircase to the runway. I mean, I’m sure he’s clomping, but I can’t hear his footsteps; I can’t even see him very well, because the storm is that vicious, that wild.

  When he reaches the runway, he turns to make sure I’m following. But I’m not. I’m not going.

  “Have a lovely day,” the flight attendant says. “Thank you for flying Air Malawi.”

  Rain screams down from the sky. Lightning too. Here I am, five years old again, standing on the edge of the high diving board. I suck in my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. One, two, three! Then I do it. I run down the steps and wait to be taken to my death—too y
oung and too suddenly—just like my mom.

  Not only am I alive when I reach the door to the terminal, but I’m also a shivering mess. I glance around.

  “Bet you feel like a marshmallow that fell into a bag of dark chocolate while someone was making s’mores,” Dad says, and smiles.

  I squirm and make a mental note to send my father to comedy school when we get back. He loves to tell jokes, but usually they’re pretty bad.

  We show our passports to an official and press through the metal turnstile, where an African man wearing a white button-down shirt and black pants waves to us across the small crowd. He holds a handmade sign that says DOKTOR.

  Dad waves to the man as our soggy sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor. “Welcome to the Warm Heart of Africa,” the man says. “I am Emmanuel Mbalazo, the driver for the Global Health Project. I shall transport you to your house.”

  After we collect our luggage and change our clothes, we follow Mr. Mbalazo across the parking lot. It’s cloudy outside and the jet lag is hitting me big-time, but at least the rain has stopped. Mr. Mbalazo puts our luggage in the trunk and opens the back door. I slide in beside Dad. The driver’s side is on the right, which gives me a pretty big clue that everything in this country is mixed up all over the place.

  It’s a tour-hour drive south to the Machinga district, where we’re going to live, but after only a couple of minutes Mr. Mbalazo pulls over. “For your food needs,” he says. I glance through the window at an outdoor market. I’m not in the mood to shop, but what choice do I have? My stomach is growling. Plus, I’m not going to stay in the car by myself waiting to get robbed. Everyone knows that where there’s poverty there’s misery, and where there’s misery there’s crime. I take my backpack off and hold it close to my chest, then slip out of the car behind Dad into the afternoon light.

  The marketplace is a quilt of bright blue, yellow, and orange plastic sheets. On top of the sheets are people trying to sell carved chairs, masks, clothes, piles of peanuts still in the shells, fruits, vegetables, and used clothes and shoes. “Nyemba! Nyemba!” someone shouts. I turn to see a man sitting beside baskets full of different-colored beans. They are the colors of my paints: gold ochre, raw sienna, and violet. I miss my paints. How could I not have brought them? I can’t beat myself up too long, though, because it’s almost impossible to have a complete thought in this noise.

  The sound of a blaring radio blends with the people trying to hawk anything they can grow or make. And there are kids everywhere, pacing the sidewalks, selling dolls and toy cars with long pull handles made from scraps and wires.

  Dad speaks to the vendors in a mix of English and bits of Chichewa he remembers from when he used to live in Malawi. He loads up on strange-looking fruits, bottles of water, grains, and a loaf of bread. Mr. Mbalazo is helping him negotiate a better deal on a bag of nuts when suddenly, five little boys hurry toward me.

  The boys are holding their palms open for money. “Kwacha. Kwacha,” they say. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t even see my father anymore, so I reach into my backpack. There’s my phone, my gum, my barrette, and finally, finally, a quarter.

  Change. I need more. I need some coins for each of them. Their stomachs are swollen. Their belly buttons look like plums. They need to eat. They need new clothes. Where are their parents?

  My fingers dive back into my bag frantically, but they come up empty.

  So I hold the quarter. Who should get it? That boy with the torn shirt? Or that one, pulling a toy car made from twisted hangers and bottle caps? It’s impossible to choose.

  Then I don’t have to: a small hand pries open my fist and scrapes the coin out of my palm.

  “Clare?” Dad calls. The boys scatter.

  I’m shaking. How could he bring me here, to one of the poorest countries on earth? How could he think this is an okay place for a kid like me? It’s a good thing I’m not speaking to him, because if I let loose the string of curse words on the tip of my tongue, I’d be grounded until I turn seventeen.

  Dad hands me one of the plastic bags full of groceries to carry. “You okay?” he asks.

  I glare.

  “Just think,” Dad says, “maybe you can write about it for your project.”

  I groan as I follow my father and Mr. Mbalazo back to the car. Even though my school in Brookline is all the way across the ocean from here, I guess I’ll never really get away from it. Mrs. Middleton, my school principal, dragged me into the office a few days ago and gave me the most atrocious assignment of my life. I have to prepare something to share with the entire grade about what I learn here.

  We put the grocery bags in the trunk. No sooner do I get into the backseat beside Dad than I do what I do best lately: I conk right out. And at least for a while, I leave behind everything that’s wrong with my life.

  When I open my eyes again, the sky has changed from slate-gray to the color of an old bruise. We pass farm after farm after farm, and hundreds of women carrying buckets on their heads and babies on their backs.

  Mr. Mbalazo slows down as a herd of furry brown creatures with spiky horns charges across the road. It’s crazy, but I’m jealous. Jealous of how they know exactly where they’re going. Where? I have no idea, but obviously they do. They have a purpose. A life.

  I haven’t felt like sketching in days, but now my fingers itch for charcoal. Still, I’m too lazy to actually bother pulling out my pad, even though it’s right there in my bag. I want to remember these unscrewed-up gazelles, but since I haven’t drawn them, I’ll probably forget they even exist. I forget everything these days, like why I used to think my father was cool, why I used to love to read, and my mother.

  And tell me, who does that? Forgets her own mother? I knew her for thirteen years, and even though there are pictures of Mom all over the house, when I close my eyes, I can only see her in pieces. Her spray of freckles. Her light green eyes. I don’t know what kind of brain damage I have, but for some reason, unless I’m staring at her photo, I can’t picture her face whole.

  Sometimes I wonder if I have a tumor, because my memory’s getting so bad. A few months ago, when I was sleeping over at Marcella’s house, I told her I was scared. Being in the dark made it easier to talk.

  “Ginkgo,” Marcella whispered from her bed.

  “What?” I asked from my cot.

  “Ginkgo. It’s this herb that fixes your memory,” she said.

  Hope twisted in my chest for the first time in so long.

  “My grandpa takes it. We’ll get it tomorrow. You’ll be fine.”

  I sighed and looked at the clock. It was already past midnight. In less than twelve hours, I might be cured. I could hardly sleep from the excitement.

  In the morning, we went straight to the pharmacy on the corner of Beacon and Harvard streets. I took ginkgo biloba capsules every morning for a week, but when I closed my eyes and tried to see my mother, it was the same old thing: her perfect teeth, her long lashes, her dangling red earrings. The reception was still bad and I couldn’t get all of her to appear.

  By the end of the week, I started to panic. But when Marcella asked how it was going with the ginkgo, I told her great and thanked her for the excellent suggestion. I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t happy. Why would Marcella want a friend who isn’t happy? Everyone wants to hang out with Marcella—she’s the captain of the field hockey team, she’s pretty without looking like everyone else, and she’s smart—and I don’t want to take any chances and give her up to someone like Crystal, who’s always inviting Marcella to parties and trying to get her to join the superpopular crowd.

  Now Dad takes out the loaf of bread and a bottle of water. “Hungry?” he asks.

  I nod and he tears off a hunk. I only manage to eat a few bites before we pass a man with a stick over his shoulder. My stomach lurches. A bunch of plucked chickens dangles from both ends of the stick. Don’t think about it! I tell myself. Forget you are here.

  I drop the hunk of bread on my lap and grab my
cell phone out of my backpack. I need to text Marcella to tell her what I just saw. I need to send an SOS. I’ve got to get out of here! I press the power button. I tilt my phone away from Dad, but the words “no signal” appear on the screen.

  Did I groan? I must have, because Dad snaps the cap back onto his highlighter pen and peeks over my shoulder at the phone. “Excuse me, Emmanuel,” Dad says. “I had heard that there’s phone reception in Malawi now.”

  “Near everywhere,” Mr. Mbalazo says from the front seat. “Here in the southern bush, most especially in the rainy season, I do fear it can be spotty.”

  “I was planning to get you a chip,” Dad says to me. “But I guess it’s not going to work.”

  I swallow. Even without reception, I can open the photo of Mom and me at the lighthouse on Marblehead Neck. There are hundreds of sailboats in the harbor. The sun is dripping silver sparkles across the ocean like fairy dust. Mom’s arm is around me. I tap the tiny screen and enlarge the photo. I stare at the place where her arm touches my shoulder until the photo turns blurry from my tears.

  Dad grabs my hand. “It’s okay, honey,” he says.

  I pull my hand away, hurl my phone into my bag, and feel myself choke.

  We drive for miles and miles while the grainy dusk settles in and the colors disappear from the sky. There are no condos. No buses. No restaurants. Just jungle on both sides of the dirt road.

  “You shall be home in an hour’s time,” Mr. Mbalazo says. I know he means well, but I want to scream: Home? My home is across the ocean, more than seven thousand miles from here!

  Then again, I should say my house. My house is across the ocean, more than seven thousand miles from here, because I don’t have a home anymore. I know I don’t look like your average homeless person. But that’s what I’ve become. I mean, we still have a house on Russell Street, but it’s just brick and wood and plaster now. There’s no smell of cinnamon toast in the morning or paintings set on easels all over the living room. There’s no one shouting out the questions to the Jeopardy! answers on the TV. And there’s no one learning to play the banjo, rather badly, while I’m doing homework. These days, when I’m in that house where I have lived my whole life, I feel the wind and chill of winter as much as the man who sleeps on the church steps on Beacon Street.