times. You need to be very careful in America. You need to be on the lookout at all times. You need to—”
“Are you two all right?” Mrs. Buckworth was suddenly squatting on the floor next to us.
“Very big feet here,” I answered. “Very funny smell.”
Mrs. Buckworth put her hand on my shoulder. “I know this all must seem so crazy.”
“No crazy,” said George.
I looked up and squinted my eyes. “I will maybe get squashed. I will maybe get stolen.”
“Babo scared,” said George.
I elbowed him. “I am NOT scared.”
“Ohhhh,” said Mrs. Buckworth. She put her arms around me like I was her baby. My face was touching her purple jacket and her neck smelled like Melon. “It’s okay, Betti. I’d be scared if I were you,” said Mrs. Buckworth. “I really would. Just stick with me, okay?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be stuck to Mrs. Buckworth—she was a Melon and I hardly knew her—but I did want to squat with her there on the airport floor for a long long time; it was quieter, like being under a tent. But Mrs. Buckworth took my hand so she wouldn’t be scared, and I tugged on George’s hand, and the three of us stood up together so things wouldn’t seem crazy. We were led along in a wave of towering tall people. I couldn’t let George get lost again.
We rode down on stairs that moved and I was absolutely sure my feet would get sucked inside. I didn’t want to lose more toes.
“George, are you scared now?” I asked, clinging to him.
“Why would I be scared, Babo? This is fun!”
I was supposed to be the brave one because I was the leader. But George asked his new mommy if he could ride up and down the moving stairs again and she let him do it three times. He laughed and squealed as we all waited. Everyone always loves George.
I kept whispering last-second things into George’s big ear.
“If it’s too horrible living with the Melon, you come and find me, okay? Just try not to get lost. And I know you’re not going to be able to sleep for a while, you’ll miss my stories before bed, but—”
“Babo.” George tilted his head and looked at me. “Maybe my mommy will tell me a story before bed. Maybe I can ask her.”
“But you won’t understand her, George! She’ll just say a bunch of foreign goop!”
Then George’s new mommy hugged him for about the tenth time. I heard her trying to speak words in our language. She sounded like a four-year-old baby, and George answered in English like a four-year-old baby. They were a perfect, out-of-order match.
“Bye, Babo!” George yawned and waved. “I hope I get to see you really soon!”
Then all I saw was George’s back, walking away from me with his mommy.
George is weird, but he’s the only one who understands everything.
“Betti?” Mrs. Buckworth touched my shoulder and I jumped. She put her arm around me, and red-haired Lucy reached for my free hand. Mr. Buckworth gently took my bag from me—my whole life in an orange bag—and carried it over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Standing in front of us like scary glass soldiers were the airport doors that opened out into the world of America. That’s when Mrs. Buckworth asked, “Are you ready to go home, sweetie?”
“Yes,” I said. All I could think about was running like crazy and jumping back on that big bird airplane. “Yes. Home.”
Home Sweet Melon Home
HOME IS A weird thing.
We rode in a long brown car that Mrs. Buckworth called “the wagon.” It didn’t look like any wagon I’d ever seen. Or like Big Uncle’s taxi. I sat in the back next to Lucy as cars zoomed by us from every side. I wasn’t sure if the Melon cars were all zooming away from some dangerous hot spot, or if they were zooming toward something very important in the center of their market.
Either way, I was right about America. Way too big. A leftover kid could get lost in about one second. I squinted my eyes and looked up at the sky; the tops of tall buildings disappeared in
“Are you two all right?” Mrs. Buckworth was suddenly squatting on the floor next to us.
“Very big feet here,” I answered. “Very funny smell.”
Mrs. Buckworth put her hand on my shoulder. “I know this all must seem so crazy.”
“No crazy,” said George.
I looked up and squinted my eyes. “I will maybe get squashed. I will maybe get stolen.”
“Babo scared,” said George.
I elbowed him. “I am NOT scared.”
“Ohhhh,” said Mrs. Buckworth. She put her arms around me like I was her baby. My face was touching her purple jacket and her neck smelled like Melon. “It’s okay, Betti. I’d be scared if I were you,” said Mrs. Buckworth. “I really would. Just stick with me, okay?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be stuck to Mrs. Buckworth—she was a Melon and I hardly knew her—but I did want to squat with her there on the airport floor for a long long time; it was quieter, like being under a tent. But Mrs. Buckworth took my hand so she wouldn’t be scared, and I tugged on George’s hand, and the three of us stood up together so things wouldn’t seem crazy. We were led along in a wave of towering tall people. I couldn’t let George get lost again.
We rode down on stairs that moved and I was absolutely sure my feet would get sucked inside. I didn’t want to lose more toes.
“George, are you scared now?” I asked, clinging to him.
“Why would I be scared, Babo? This is fun!”
I was supposed to be the brave one because I was the leader. But George asked his new mommy if he could ride up and down the moving stairs again and she let him do it three times. He laughed and squealed as we all waited. Everyone always loves George.
I kept whispering last-second things into George’s big ear.
“If it’s too horrible living with the Melon, you come and find me, okay? Just try not to get lost. And I know you’re not going to be able to sleep for a while, you’ll miss my stories before bed, but—”
“Babo.” George tilted his head and looked at me. “Maybe my mommy will tell me a story before bed. Maybe I can ask her.”
“But you won’t understand her, George! She’ll just say a bunch of foreign goop!”
Then George’s new mommy hugged him for about the tenth time. I heard her trying to speak words in our language. She sounded like a four-year-old baby, and George answered in English like a four-year-old baby. They were a perfect, out-of-order match.
“Bye, Babo!” George yawned and waved. “I hope I get to see you really soon!”
Then all I saw was George’s back, walking away from me with his mommy.
George is weird, but he’s the only one who understands everything.
“Betti?” Mrs. Buckworth touched my shoulder and I jumped. She put her arm around me, and red-haired Lucy reached for my free hand. Mr. Buckworth gently took my bag from me—my whole life in an orange bag—and carried it over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Standing in front of us like scary glass soldiers were the airport doors that opened out into the world of America. That’s when Mrs. Buckworth asked, “Are you ready to go home, sweetie?”
“Yes,” I said. All I could think about was running like crazy and jumping back on that big bird airplane. “Yes. Home.”
Home Sweet Melon Home
HOME IS A weird thing.
We rode in a long brown car that Mrs. Buckworth called “the wagon.” It didn’t look like any wagon I’d ever seen. Or like Big Uncle’s taxi. I sat in the back next to Lucy as cars zoomed by us from every side. I wasn’t sure if the Melon cars were all zooming away from some dangerous hot spot, or if they were zooming toward something very important in the center of their market.
Either way, I was right about America. Way too big. A leftover kid could get lost in about one second. I squinted my eyes and looked up at the sky; the tops of tall buildings disappeared in
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