Jakarta Missing by Jane Kurtz

frozen spots that sometimes popped up in her stomach and lungs would go away if she could just get home. So why were the spots still there?
    â€œJakarta’s coming home,” Dakar whispered to herself, and instantly felt better, even though the day crept along and she had to keep trying to think of things to do to keep from dying of impatience. By the time she got to math class, she was writing numbers the way her Egyptian friends wrote them. The numbers looked quite a bit like American numbers, but different in a cool, poetic way. She remembered practicing her numbers on a train in Egypt sitting beside Jakarta and watching mileposts whip by. They had just said good-bye to Mom and Dad, who were going to go off and have an adventure together, and the numbers helped her keep from crying.
    Oops. She hadn’t heard a word of math class. She looked up quickly. “You are the engineers of the world’s future,” Mr. Johnson was saying. “You need to have a good foundation in math because it’s going to be up to you to fix the world’s pollution and other problems.” Dakar drew a scowling hoodie face. It was a good thing Jakarta would be here soon. Jakarta was interested in being an engineer of the world’s future. Jakarta thought about that kind of stuff.
    She shifted on the chair. Now what would make positive and negative integers go fast ? Whole numbers were comforting. What was scary was realizing that between any two whole numbers was an infinity of fractions and other things that made everything too dizzifying and unpredictable. When it came to infinity, all the peace on earth and goodwill could only go so far.

SIX

    W hen Melanie met Dakar at the door on Saturday, the first thing she said was, “Do you know sign language?”
    Dakar shook her head. “Not even one word.”
    â€œEverybody in the whole world knows ‘I love you.’” Melanie showed Dakar. “One of my aunts is taking a class because she’s going to be a teacher. She’s teaching me a bunch of other words.” She signed again. “Know what I just said? ‘Help me. I’m a buttery potato on fire.’”
    â€œIf I was a potato,” Dakar said, “I’d want to be a buttery potato.”
    â€œIf I was a butterfly,” Melanie said, “I’d want to be an empress butterfly.”
    â€œIf I had to be a butterfly,” Dakar said, “I’d want to be a big strong blue one.” Melanie was staring at her with a look of fascination. “If I had to be a pizza,” she added, laughing, “I’d be a greasy one with cheese sliding off in six different directions.”
    Melanie made a magnificent leap toward her room. “Inside the magic room,” she said, “we can be anything we want. Hurry.” So Dakar hurried. Melanie had put a gauzy purple scarf over the lamp so the room was lit in dim softness. Some kind of incense burning filled the room with a smell of black silk and yellow amber. Melanie pulled a green cowboy hat out of the box in the middle of the room.
    â€œHuzzah,” Dakar said dryly.
    Next, Melanie pulled out a scarf from a box and draped it around her head, making a veil. “Is this more like it?”
    â€œIt definitely fits my stories better,” Dakar said. “I could think of one to go with that.”
    â€œCool.” Melanie plopped on the bed. “I knew it. I just knew it.”
    Dakar looked into Melanie’s eyes, which blinked over the top of the veil. “Okay, I’ll tell you a story from Somalia. I’ve never been there. Too dangerous. But usually when my dad comes home from anywhere, he tells me stories.”
    â€œWhy did he go to Somalia?”
    â€œSome medical thing.” Dakar tried to remember if he had ever told them, exactly. People desperately needing help. War probably. There were always so many sad true stories.
    â€œWhere all have you lived?” Melanie