Laugh with the Moon Page 8

  My throat closes as it occurs to me what this is all about: Agnes has ratted on me. She must have found Mr. Special Kingsley during chore time and told him it isn’t fair that I get to study vocabulary words instead of sweep the floor just because I’m American.

  “I shall like to request for you to teach the English to the standard one children,” Mr. Special Kingsley says. “One hour each morning while your standard eight classmates practice their English reading.”

  “Teach?” I say. “I can’t … sir … I, uh, I don’t know how!”

  “It would be my great honor for you to educate these students,” he says. “Only until the district sends a replacement. As I explained, the teacher has moved to Kenya with her new family.”

  “How … why …?” I can’t even string a sentence together, never mind teach English to kids who only speak a few words of it.

  Mr. Special Kingsley dabs his forehead with his handkerchief. “Clare, I ask you to help our school.”

  “But I’m just thirteen years old,” I say. “I’m barely even a teenager, sir!”

  “Many of our assistants are younger than you, Clare. I shall be teaching the remaining subjects to the students myself. However, I shall need a moment each morning to tend to my other responsibilities. I cannot teach and run the school all at the same time.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I say. After all, it isn’t my fault that the standard one teacher up and left in the middle of the school year.

  “Clare, please ponder this request during the weekend. Bring me your answer at assembly Monday morning. I promise you, Clare, I shall understand your choice, no matter if it bring flood or flower.”

  As I cross the field back to the standard eight room, the water level rises higher and higher in my mind. There’s going to be a mighty flood all right! Sure, the standard one students behave when Mr. Special Kingsley is around, but what will happen when he isn’t? Chances are I’ll be covered in spitballs in five minutes flat.

  Memory loves the plan, so Saturday morning, I fill my backpack with wire hangers, a bottle of water, an umbrella, a wrench from Dad’s tool kit, and some medical tape, although Dad will only give me a tiny bit. He says it’s too valuable in the hospital.

  I walk the bicycle over to Mkumba village, where Memory is outside bathing Innocent. As soon as Innocent sees me, he jumps out of the tub and runs into the hut to put on his clothes.

  Memory and I wheel the bike through the village in search of Saidi. Once we find him, we explain the plan, and then the three of us mosey back to Memory’s place so Innocent can help us build our invention.

  Behind the hut we find two orange plastic basins, which we’ll use for the container. Then Memory and I unscrew the bolts from the bike frame. Meanwhile, Innocent holds one of the basins still for Saidi, who pierces holes in the bottom of it with his pocketknife. The whole time we’re working, Innocent is yapping up a storm in Chichewa.

  Once Memory and I finally wrangle off the front bicycle tire, Saidi begins an interrogation: “Clare, a most important question: Innocent want to discover why you, Glorious Blessing, visit standard one room in the morning hour with the headmaster yesterday.”

  Of course, I already told Memory all about this, and she promised she wouldn’t tell anyone else until I made up my mind for sure. But now it seems the cat is out of the bag. “If you can believe this one,” I say, and chuckle, because I still can’t believe it myself, “Mr. Special Kingsley asked me to teach English to Innocent’s class until the District Education Office sends a regular teacher. He said I can let him know Monday whether I’ll take the job.”

  Innocent starts blabbering to Saidi in Chichewa again, so I get back to work. My plan is to use the hanger to secure the orange plastic basins to the bicycle frame, but the wire is too stiff to maneuver.

  Memory says she has a better idea. I follow her to a nearby mombo tree, where she peels some thread right off the bark! Back at the hut, we pull the hanger out of the hole in the basin and use the tree thread instead to secure the basin to the bicycle seat.

  Memory and I are admiring our progress when Saidi interrupts. “Innocent offer good deal to you, Glorious Blessing. I suggest you answer yes.”

  “A deal? What are you,” I ask, “his lawyer?”

  Saidi ignores me. “Here is deal,” he says. “All visitors to Malawi must see our beautiful Lake Malombe with fish of all colors. Have you seen this lake?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Good, good. This is good,” Saidi says.

  “It is?” I weave the tree thread through the hole in the second plastic tub. This basin will be the cover. “Why is this good?” I ask.

  “Good because Innocent give promise,” Saidi says. “Innocent shall take you to lake, if you give promise back to Innocent. You can win this trip to Lake Malombe if you agree to teach English to standard one students. Innocent say that Mr. Special Kingsley is …” Saidi looks at Memory and yawns extra loud.

  “Boring,” Memory says.

  I crouch down to look Innocent in the eyes. I don’t bother to tell him that some people, like movie stars and teachers, are born to take center stage, and that I’m definitely not one of them. Instead, I say, “I will seriously consider your offer.” While Saidi translates my words, I cringe with guilt, because I’m a rotten liar. I already know the answer. Sure, I can babysit. But teach a whole class? No way!

  I’m on the couch staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation with Innocent over and over again in my mind, when Dad gets back from the hospital. He’s wearing his blue hospital scrubs and clogs. “So, I was thinking more about what you told me last night,” he says, “about Mr. Kingsley’s request.”

  “And it’s crazy!” I say. “I mean, it’s probably against the law to ask a kid to teach.”

  “For money, maybe, but as a volunteer, probably not,” Dad says. “Plus, your mom was a teacher before you were born, you know.”

  “Of course I know that,” I say. I’ve heard the story a million times. Dad was sitting in the Coffee Connection on Harvard Street, moaning and groaning as he tried to figure out what to write for his essay on the application to medical school. Mom was at the next table correcting student papers, trying to figure out what was wrong with the man beside her. Finally, she leaned over and said, “Excuse me. Do you need a doctor?” And when Dad told her what was the matter, they both laughed until Dad was snorting and Mom had tears running down her cheeks. The rest, as they say, is history.

  “I’m not Mom,” I tell Dad. I mean, she was better than me in so many ways. She could speak in front of a class or at a gallery opening, no problem. She could go into a room full of strangers and leave with five best friends.

  “I know you’re not her,” he says, and steps into his bedroom to change. “But you do have a lot in common. Just sayin’.”

  So I lie there on the couch and imagine my mother teaching her fourth-grade students to read and write, which she did until I was born and she decided to pursue her art full-time. I think about Innocent, how his eyes smiled when I told him I’d consider teaching his class. And I think there’s a reason I work behind the scenes in the school theater, sewing costumes and designing sets for real actresses like Marcella.

  Then I doze off.

  I dream I’m at the Franklin Park Zoo on a sunny fall afternoon. Sunlight sparkles through the trees. Mom and I walk down the cobblestone path holding hands. Dead leaves crunch under our shoes until we stop at a dark green bench in front of the flamingo pool. We sit there hand in hand and watch the funny pink birds. I rest my head against her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid,” Mom says.

  “But it’s—it’s not me,” I stutter. “I can’t.”

  “You’re not who you used to be,” she tells me. “Not anymore.”

  Dad comes down the path wearing hospital scrubs and a tall yellow hat, but then I realize that he isn’t who he used to be either. He’s the Man with the Yellow Hat from the Curious George books I used to read as a kid. “Come
on,” the Man with the Yellow Hat says. “Let’s feed the lions.”

  “Go ahead,” Mom says. “I’m too tired to move.”

  “Be right back,” I say, and unthread my fingers from hers. I follow the Man with the Yellow Hat to the lion cage. The cage is a huge mosquito net hanging from a cloud. There are hundreds of lions roaring and snarling. My heart is pounding. I can’t breathe.

  “They’re just hungry for their food,” the man says. “Don’t be scared.”

  “Do they want to eat me?” I ask, trembling.

  “No,” says the Man with the Yellow Hat. “Not today, anyway.” He laughs and pushes over a wheelbarrow. The basket on it is bright orange and full of scraps of raw meat. “Hold on,” the man says, and I squeeze the familiar handles. Suddenly, I’m inside the cage with the Man with the Yellow Hat. “You can do this,” he assures me.

  And I do. I can’t believe it, but I do.

  I dish out food to the lions. They look like beasts but they have human faces. Faces of children. One lets me pet him. Another lets me ride on her back. I’m having so much fun that I almost forget my mother, until I remember. I remember what I almost forgot. “My mother!” I gasp. “Let me out!”

  Frantic, I run back to the bench. It’s been hours. My mom is gone. I scream and run around the zoo past all the animals, but I can’t find her anywhere. Then I look at the sky, at the moon. “You know what to do,” says the Man in the Moon.

  “I do?” I ask.

  The Man in the Moon winks and says, “You do.”

  When I get to school Monday morning, there’s some kind of drama going on near the soccer field. All the players are crowded around the edge of the field. And kids big and small are gathered in a giant knot. When I get to the bottom of the hill, Winnie runs over and tells me what the fuss is about. “Memory bring the book in a traveling washbasin,” she says. Winnie’s eyes are wild with excitement. “No one can believe! You shall have to move through the students to glimpse.”

  I laugh. Of course, I already know what this incredible invention looks like. And I’m glad everyone thinks the bookmobile is as cool as I do. Now Memory can take our schoolbooks back and forth from the trading center without worrying about them getting wet or ripping in the rains. And finally the top of her head can have a rest too.

  When Mr. Special Kingsley shakes the school bell, the crowd breaks up, and I see Memory wheel our invention across the grass. She’s grinning brighter than the midday sun. Who knew that an old bicycle and two cracked plastic washbasins could bring so much joy? Those old basins were no good for bathing anymore, but we patched them up with Dad’s medical tape, and now they work great. One tub holds the books, and the other works as the cover to protect the books from the rain.

  I catch up to Memory as she parks the bookmobile behind our classroom. Then we go inside and settle onto our bench. Mrs. Tomasi’s busy talking to Oscar and Norman up front, and everything’s fine until Agnes leans across me to tell Memory, “Only a girl whose arms bend like the palm leaf in the breeze cannot carry her load without special assistant.” Suddenly, Memory shoves me, and without thinking, I automatically bang into Agnes, who falls right off the edge of the bench onto the floor.

  “Brilliant!” I tell Memory. No sooner do I raise my palm to high-five Memory than Saidi runs over to help Agnes up off the floor, while Mrs. Tomasi glares at us, unsure of what to make of the strange scene.

  The truth is, no matter what Agnes has said to Memory, the whole time I’m copying over my new vocabulary words, I’m the one whose arms are bending like a palm leaf in the breeze. And not only my arms, but also my legs and my whole entire body. Yes, I’m furious at Agnes for insulting Memory, but also I’m terrified. What I’m about to do is crazy! When Mr. Special Kingsley finds me after assembly, I force myself to spill the news.

  “Clare,” he says, and grins. “You are a brave lion. This I know all along.”

  I look at Mr. Special Kingsley sideways. First, I’m not brave. I’m shaking from head to toe, and sweat is dripping down my armpits. Second, what an odd choice of words, because the first lesson I’ve planned is called Animal Bingo. The idea popped into my brain after I woke up from my nap on Saturday. The goal is to teach students the English names of different animals.

  After I thought of it, I spent hours making forty Bingo cards. Each one has nine squares and each square has an animal sketch inside. I sketched snakes, dogs, cats, lions, monkeys, and bears. Then I cut up paper into tiny pieces so the students can place the pieces on top of the squares on the Bingo cards. By last night, I had used up an entire sketchpad, and my hand was throbbing, it was so sore.

  I follow my headmaster into the standard one classroom. Innocent smiles up at me from the floor. Hello, Dimples! And I think that all my work preparing for this lesson was worth it.

  Before I can get started, though, Mr. Special Kingsley wants to make a formal introduction. He wipes his forehead with his handkerchief and speaks to the kids in Chichewa. They jump up, throw back their shoulders, and belt out a welcome song for me. As they sing, I count them. One, two, three … thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine. I’m not even halfway through counting when I get a sick feeling. I don’t have nearly enough Bingo cards.

  I do a quick scan of the floor and gulp. There are at least a hundred and twenty students in this room! Even if they work in pairs, there aren’t enough cards to share. And their song is almost through. If I can’t teach them to play Animal Bingo, then what on earth am I supposed to do? As the song ends and the students sit back down, I turn around to ask Mr. Special Kingsley this question, but he’s gone. Never mind bending in the breeze like a palm leaf, I must have been hit on the head with a coconut. What was I thinking!

  I make a break for it but Innocent beats me. He stretches his arms and legs as wide as he can across the doorway to block my escape. Over Innocent’s shoulder I spot our headmaster, a small blue dot strolling back to his office. Innocent’s bright pink bottom lip rolls over. He furrows his brow. “Freckles!” he shouts.

  “What?” I croak.

  “Freckles!” say more than a hundred students who sit side by side on the cracked concrete floor grinning at me, shiny white teeth against shiny black skin.

  I really need to sit down, but surprise surprise, there isn’t a chair anywhere in sight. Instead, I cough and cough. For a minute, I can’t stop. Innocent issues his order again: “Freckles!”

  I grab my heart pendant and grind my teeth into the dent.

  And suddenly, here’s my mother. All of her. She’s wrapped in her green bathrobe, pointing to her face. “Freckles, Clare,” she says, as if I’ve gone thick in the head. “You know, these things. My beauty marks. And yours.” She dots her finger across her own face.

  I stare in disbelief.

  “Teach the children freckles,” she says. “It’s simple, really.” Then she laughs a fluttery laugh, like an elm leaf spiraling to the ground in a breeze. There’s no doubt about it. It’s really my mother speaking to me, teaching me.

  “Frrreckles!” I shout, and point to the little dots on my face.

  “Frrreckles!” the students call back.

  I sigh. “That was pretty good,” I say.

  “Yes, it was,” Mom says. “That’s my girl!” She beams proudly.

  I step away from the doorway to the middle of the room. My finger trembles while I point. “Nnnnose,” I say.

  “Nnnnose,” they repeat.

  I take off my sandal and wiggle my foot. “Ttttoes,” I say.

  “Ttttoes.”

  “You’ve got it! You’ve got it!” Mom says. She leans against the classroom wall to watch.

  After five minutes, I’ve burned through everything from fingernail to eyelash to tooth. By the time Mr. Special Kingsley returns with the chair from his office, my mother’s gone. “I shall sit on the side here and complete my work while you teach,” he says. “If you require help, please do ask.”

  If I require help? I pace back and forth, trying to f
igure out what else I can possibly do with the students. I teach the words knuckle, nostril, and armpit before Mr. Special Kingsley finally looks up. His cracked glasses are halfway down his nose. “Perhaps you might teach the children a game. An American game,” he suggests.

  I swallow and glance at my backpack on the floor. I’ve got nothing against common sense, but right now, it doesn’t help. My mind is blank. Game. Game. I can’t think of one, so I wiggle my nose and chant in my mind:

  Hocus-pocus full of fear,

  Make forty more Bingo cards instantly appear.

  No luck.

  “What do the children in your country do for fun?” Mr. Special Kingsley asks.

  “Fun?” I say, as if it’s a word in a foreign language.

  The truth is it’s been a really long time since I had fun back home. Last May, the day after Mom’s heart attack, instead of meeting Marcella and Sydni at Jamaica Pond, I lay in my bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about how incredibly far it was from the floor. In July, for my thirteenth birthday, Dad took Marcella and me to a fancy restaurant at the top of the Prudential Center, but instead of admiring the sunset while eating cake, I sat in the restaurant bathroom and cried as Marcella pounded on the door. When October came, I should have been painting a picture of fiery leaves that littered our front lawn. But instead, I sat on the front steps without my jacket and felt the windy chill burn my cheeks raw. And when the holidays finally crashed into our lives in December, I didn’t trudge through Coolidge Corner with Dad to get hot chocolate as the snow fell. Instead, I walked on the icy sidewalks by myself and thought about how my father and I hadn’t watched a single vintage superhero episode together since our lives had turned upside down.

  “I mean, the children in the United States of America. What do they do to enjoy themselves?” Mr. Special Kingsley asks.