Laugh with the Moon Read online

  I get out of bed, untie one of the five scarves that are still draped over my dresser, and twist it into a ring. I fasten the ends of the ring with two barrettes and set the ring on my head. I carefully balance one issue of Gallery Geek on top of the ring. As I cross my bedroom, I remember how Marcella and I used to practice walking like fashion models whenever we had downtime during play rehearsals. “Walk and swivel, walk and swivel,” she would coach as I strutted down the long hallway behind the stage.

  Now all that practice with Marcella is coming in handy, because I make it halfway across my bedroom before the magazine slides off my head to the floor.

  By Wednesday morning, when Mrs. Bwanali crashes through the door, I’ve made a lot of progress. I’m walking across the house in my pink pajamas balancing Dad’s medical book plus four magazines on my head. Mrs. Bwanali takes one look at me, crosses herself, and says, “Stick the tongue outside.”

  I do, and both she and Dad stare down my throat while I wait for the verdict. I haven’t had a fever since Monday, so I’m hoping for good news.

  “Looks clear to me,” Dad says. “What do you think?”

  Mrs. Bwanali smiles. “I think this girl getting dumb, dumb, dumb. She cannot stay here with me today. She be in my way. Do you understand? I must wash floors. I must clean curtains. Dr. Silver, drive this healthy girl to school. Today!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dad says.

  “Hallelujah!” I shout. I bolt to the bathroom, jump in the shower, and comb the last bit of après-shampooing lissant through my hair. I can’t wait to see my students. I can’t wait to see my friends! I throw on my beautiful uniform, hug Mrs. Bwanali, and run outside.

  A few minutes later, Dad parks at the top of the hill and gets out of the Land Rover. “Where are you going?” I ask. As I step out, my legs feel a little wobbly.

  “I want to have a word with Mr. Kingsley,” Dad says. “Let him know if you’re not feeling good, he should send a messenger to the hospital and I’ll come around to pick you up. Do you have your lunch?”

  “Got it,” I say. I’ve packed a grilled cheese sandwich Dad made for me himself and also a bottle of water. Dad said that even though the other students don’t eat lunch at school, I have to—doctor’s orders! He says he’ll tell Mr. Special Kingsley. Around noon I’m supposed to ask Mrs. Tomasi to use the ladies’. That way the other kids won’t be jealous that I’m leaving class to eat. Once I get outside, I can hide behind the trunk of the blue gum tree and have my sandwich.

  “The water?” Dad asks.

  “Got it,” I say.

  Dad rubs the top of my sweaty head. Then we both walk down the hill. When we cross the schoolyard, I glance at the standard one classroom block. I miss my students so much. Today I’m going to teach them the ABC song. I just hope Mr. Special Kingsley has broken the news: After missing seven days of rehearsal, and with Innocent gone, our production is over before it even began.

  Memory, Patuma, Winnie, Stella, and Sickness are all standing by the flagpole, so I say a quick goodbye to Dad and run to my friends. We hug tight for a long time. “We miss you a lot,” Sickness says.

  Saidi comes over, the soccer ball in his hands. “You survived! You look good.” My friends giggle.

  Saidi rolls his eyes. “I mean, she look healthy,” he says, and gallops back to the soccer game. I watch him dribble the ball down the field.

  “You love Saidi?” Patuma asks.

  “No. No!” I say. I can’t love Saidi, because Memory does.

  “Do you like Norman?” I reply.

  Patuma smiles shyly and looks at the ground. “I must warn you, my poor friend,” Sickness says. “Agnes is more angry than ever in her life.”

  “Angry at me?” I shiver.

  “She say you leave her at the lake with no money to transport home.”

  I gasp. Agnes’s bus fare home was the last thing on my mind that day.

  “She must bake twelve chikondamoyo cakes for the minibus driver to pay for free ride back,” Stella explains.

  “Is she mad at Memory too?” I ask.

  “No, Agnes forgive Memory,” Winnie says. “She feel sorry for the death.”

  That’s when we all look over at Memory. She isn’t even listening to our chatter. She’s staring across the schoolyard at nobody. At nothing.

  All of us girls exchange a look. Then I throw my arm around Memory on one side, and Sickness holds her hand on the other. “Tiyeni,” I say, and together, the bunch of us get going to class.

  When Mrs. Tomasi spots us coming through the doorway, she claps her hands together and smiles. “Clare!” she says. “What a glorious blessing! The Lord has delivered you.”

  I slide onto the bench next to Agnes. “Hi, Agnes,” I say, figuring it’s as good a time as any to start fresh. But Agnes won’t even look at me.

  Mrs. Tomasi assigns everyone chores before handing me a list of new vocabulary words. But I’m not the same girl I was the last time I was here at Mzanga Full Primary School. I leave the paper on the table and grab a grass broom from the pile in the corner. I’ve just begun to sweep the floor along with Memory and Stella when Mrs. Tomasi tries to snatch the broom right out of my hands. “You must rest,” she says, tugging at the broomstick. My cheeks feel flushed.

  “I want to,” I say, and tug back. “I want to clean.” And for some strange reason, I really do. But I know she’s right. It’s too soon, and I don’t want to land myself back in the hospital again, so I let go.

  At the daily assembly, I line up on the field between Memory and Sickness. When the standard one students frolic onto the grass, I get a huge lump in my throat. I miss Innocent so much that it takes a few seconds before I notice a man standing at the front of the standard one line. He’s wearing a blue sport coat and tie. It looks like the District Education Office finally sent a new teacher. I guess I won’t be teaching the ABC song after all.

  I heave out only one sob before a hand takes mine. I turn. It’s Memory. She looks away, but not before I spot a tear weaving its way down her cheek, and I hear a tiny voice shout, “Mzungu! Clare!” The standard one students break out of line and run to me. In twos and threes they welcome me back with warm hugs and Chichewan whispers.

  Mr. Special Kingsley limps over. “Welcome back to Mzanga, Clare,” he says. “I did intend to explain to you that a new teacher has arrived for our standard one students, but there was a problem with bullfrogs.” He gives an embarrassed grin and stares at the ground. “Bullfrogs create … bullfrog babies underneath my office floor,” he says. “And therefore, I try to move bullfrogs and was delayed in reaching you with this message.”

  I sniffle and little Felicity wraps her arms around my waist.

  “You are loved, Clare,” Mr. Special Kingsley says, and smiles. “We are all drinking from the fountain of joy that you have returned to us. We do hope that you and Memory shall resume the practice of the show with the children now.”

  “Oh, sir,” I say. I pat Felicity on the head and she runs across the field to line up with her standard one classmates. “There’s no way we can do the play now,” I say. “I mean, we couldn’t. We’ve missed so much practice. How would we ever teach the kids their lines, make the costumes, and build a set? There’s hardly any time left.”

  I’m completely freaking out, when Memory taps my shoulder and glares at me, her eyes hard like pebbles. “The children have lost a classmate,” she says. “They shall not also lose their show.”

  “Of course we shall do the play, Clare,” Mr. Special Kingsley continues. “The chiefs have already issued invitations. The villagers are buzzing with excitement. We cannot cancel. I have made arrangements with the new standard one teacher so that you two girls shall resume the practice schedule as it was before.”

  Memory stares at her flip-flops. “I … I cannot work on the play,” she says. “Only Clare now.”

  My heart is in my throat. It will be hard enough for me to step back into that classroom and work on the show Innocent helped us
write. I can’t even imagine what it would be like for Memory. No one argues with her. It will be me in charge. Me all alone.

  After assembly, Memory and I trudge back to the standard eight classroom in silence and misery. We’ve both untied the scarves around our waists, since we won’t be needing to look like teachers anymore.

  No sooner do we pass over the threshold than we catch wind of a fight.

  “When was your uniform purchased?” Agnes shouts at Saidi’s back. “Standard two?”

  It’s true. Saidi’s pants stop at his shins, and his shirt is so tight it looks like the buttons will pop off any minute.

  “Your uniform is so old that it shall fit an ant,” Agnes says. “No one wants to marry a poor farm boy such as you, Saidi!”

  “Be quiet, Agnes,” Memory says, but Agnes won’t stop.

  “I shall marry a businessman in the city,” Agnes announces while my useless tongue rolls over in my mouth like an echo with nothing to say. I may be speechless, but that won’t stop me from making my feelings known. I slip onto the bench and lift my hand like I have to scratch an itch on my forehead. Then I jab Agnes in the ribs with my elbow while Saidi cranes his neck over a book Norman has open on the table.

  “Visit the seamstress,” Agnes shouts at Saidi’s back. “Mrs. Kumwenda shall make you look better.”

  Suddenly, there’s a strange sound at the back of the room.

  Mrs. Tomasi stands in the doorway clearing her throat, wrapped in a bright orange and red dress, looking just like a fire-breathing dragon. And I guess it doesn’t matter what country you live in, teachers will go to desperate measures to get your attention, whether it’s by slamming a yardstick against the chalkboard like Mr. Papasanassi did back in fourth grade or by sneaking up on you and scaring you to death with silence.

  Mrs. Tomasi glares at us for a full minute, and when she finally speaks, her voice is calm and low. “Old Helix was the eldest spider in all the bush,” she says. I pinch the extra fabric of my uniform at the waist and think about how I’d like to clock Agnes.

  “The old spider was older than the malambe tree,” Mrs. Tomasi says. “The old spider was even older than the purple sky. One day, Old Helix got so old that his legs ached when he crawled across the savannah. This made him grumpier than even the crocodile.”

  A warm wind blows through the doorway. I reach up and run my hand over my hair. It feels like straw. It’s definitely going to rain.

  “In the morning, the wife of Old Helix woke her husband. ‘Muli bwanji?’ she asked, inquiring how he was.”

  After a couple minutes, I forget about Agnes and I forget about my hair. All I can picture is Old Helix.

  “ ‘You are a bad wife. A mean wife,’ Old Helix replied to the spider who had cooked his food, sewn his clothes, and raised his five thousand children for six hundred years.”

  Our eyes follow Mrs. Tomasi as she slowly walks to the front of the classroom. “At the beginning, the wife was gentle with her husband. For she understood that he had reason to be grumpy. ‘Please be kind,’ she said. ‘Remember, I have cooked your food, sewn your clothes, and raised your five thousand children for six hundred years.’

  “Old Helix only grunted. Morning after morning, when the wife of Old Helix would ask, ‘Muli bwanji?’ the husband would taunt her. ‘You are an ugly wife. A dirty wife. A bad wife.’

  “One day, the spider wife could bear it no longer. At night, under a swollen moon, she crawled across the bush to find her mother, who was thousands of years older than she herself. The spider wife shook her mother awake. ‘My husband aches. His body is sore. Yet he is a mean spider. What shall I do?’

  “The mother itched her front legs together. Then she advised her daughter. The next morning, when Old Helix awoke, he knew something was wrong—something more than the pain in his joints or the pull in his jowl. When he tried to button his shirt, he realized what it was. ‘Where is my leg?’ he wailed with shock.

  “The wife of Old Helix held the leg of her husband in her mouth. She dropped it at his feet. ‘Here is your leg, my good, kind, faithful husband. You have seven more.’

  “The spider wife looked at her husband with gentle eyes, for she did not mean to hurt him, but she was wise and had followed the advice of her mother. ‘Remember, husband,’ she said, ‘if you want to keep what is yours, you must protect what is ours.’ And with that, the wife of Old Helix left her aching husband a lighter burden to carry across the bush floor.”

  A faint smile crosses Mrs. Tomasi’s lips. “Agnes, rise,” she says.

  Memory leans over and sticks her shoulder into mine. The two of us exchange gleeful stares, like two witches about to watch a frog boil in a scalding-hot cauldron.

  “So, what shall we learn from this?” Mrs. Tomasi asks.

  Agnes studies the tabletop. “I learned we shall respect each other,” she mumbles.

  “Very good,” Mrs. Tomasi says.

  A few minutes later, we go outside for science. We’re going to learn about birds. Saidi is standing with his arms crossed, staring out at the soccer field.

  I go over to him. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll sew you a new uniform.”

  “I hate school,” he says. Then he kicks a rock so hard that he cuts open his big toe and it bleeds all over the dirt.

  The bullfrogs are croaking up a storm, Fred is pecking at the sunflower seeds, and Dad and I are sipping limeade on the veranda. “Did any of your patients ever admit to giving you Fred?” I ask.

  “Nope,” Dad says. “Still a mystery.” He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. “On a more urgent matter,” he says, unfolding the sheet. “This letter was delivered to the hospital.”

  He hands it over:

  To the American Doctor:

  Your daughter told me you work at Machinga District Hospital. I don’t know her name, but it is a fact that while visiting Lake Malombe, she and her friends stole two mopeds from my property. Though you are not your brother’s keeper, you are your daughter’s. Either replace the mopeds (deliverable to the Chomp and Chew Stop) or I’ll be forced to press charges with the authorities.

  Yours sincerely,

  Derek Witmore

  Owner, The Chomp and Chew Stop

  Lake Malombe

  “Press charges?” I scoop Fred off the floor. “Will I be in …” I can hardly stand to say the words. “Solitary confinement?” The letter shakes in my hand. Everyone knows that prison food is even worse than hospital food. Plus, the uniforms in jail are bound to be uglier than the uniforms at school.

  “Don’t worry, Clare. Tell me where Saidi put the mopeds. I’ll drive them back to this Derek fellow,” Dad says.

  I suck up the rest of the limeade with the straw—every last drop—before I break the news. “They were stolen,” I admit. “The night we brought Innocent to you, someone swiped them from the hospital parking lot.”

  Dad rubs the stubble on his chin. “That does present a bit of a dilemma. I guess in that case I’ll have to buy two brand-new mopeds.”

  “You don’t have to bail me out, Dad.”

  “It’s a small price to pay. I’m just thankful you’re okay. Really, it’s no problem, kid.”

  Maybe it’s not a problem for him, but it is for me. I spend hours trying to think of a plan so that Memory, Saidi, and I can buy back the mopeds ourselves, and every two minutes I make another suggestion.

  “I know! We could sell groundnuts in the trading center.”

  “Wouldn’t make enough profit,” Dad says, swirling his straw in his drink.

  “We could work in the hospital.”

  “Child labor laws, plus too much disease.”

  But then Dad suggests that maybe the three of us can volunteer for the hospital without actually going inside it, and he could compensate us for our work. “You know, cooking food for the orphans. Something along those lines.”

  In the morning while I’m brushing my teeth, I come up with an even better idea. Dad says he’s going to send a messenger
with a note to let Derek know our plan.

  Dad insists on driving me to school, even though I really am feeling completely fine. When I get there, I walk down the hill and find Memory hanging out in the schoolyard with Patuma and Winnie. First, I spill the bad news about Derek’s letter. I think we were all praying that he’d forget to track us down, even though in the back of our minds, we knew that sooner or later this day would come. Before Memory’s jaw hits the field grass, I give her some desperately needed encouragement. “Not to worry!” I say. “We can be our own saviors. I have a plan.”

  But when I tell her we’re going to paint murals to decorate the hospital wards and cheer up the patients, Memory looks like an evil spirit really has landed on me.

  “Never mind,” I say. “It was a stupid idea.” How could I ask her to return to the very same place where her brother died? My face burns with humiliation. “I’m so stupid! I’ll think of something else. I promise I will. There’s got to be something else we can do to buy—”

  Memory throws back her shoulders. “I shall do it,” she says.

  “What?” I say. “No.” I grab her hand. “I won’t let you.”

  “For Innocent,” she says. “That is what he want, I know. To make other children smile like he do always.”

  “Really?” I say.

  Memory nods once.

  “If you change your mind …”

  “Change the mind?” Winnie says. She whispers something to Patuma in Chichewa, and the two of them giggle. “We change from our school dresses to the chitenje when we gather the firewood. We change the bathwater. But change the mind? Perhaps the sorcerer might perform such a trick, but Memory, she is not the sorcerer,” Winnie says, and giggles again.

  “Anyone can change their mind,” I say. “You decide to do something different. That’s all it means.”

  “I decide I shall do this,” Memory says. “I shall do this job. I have the power to change the mind. However, I choose to keep the mind. Now, where is that boy, Saidi?” she says, scouring the soccer field. “We must share the plan with him as well.”