pad down the steep wooden stairs.
The air is balmy and warm, and the light rain patters friendly fingers across the wide woven hat. I pull the string from the end of my long braid, tugging until my hair falls loose around my shoulders. A lot of the cloying heat has been washed out of the air, and I drink the freshness in wide gulps.
Mud puddles dot the yard and I step around each one, making a game out of choosing a path through this watery maze. At every turn I face a new decision. Right or left? Around the pineapple-shaped puddle, or over the skinny loopy one? I lose myself in this game of choice, loving the way my feet follow exactly where I want them to go and that it is me, all me, directing the events.
Before I know it, I have reached the end of the yard. I turn back to look at the house, which looms high off the wet ground on wooden posts. No one is on the porch. There is nobody checking to see what I might do. I think of the many watchful eyes that policed my every move on the inside, and I feel giddy at my own power.
I turn my back to the house and push through the barrier of trees that ring the property.
The forest is like a big green pocket that I have fallen into. Trees, vines, bushes, branchesâthere is greenery everywhere. I have never seen so many plants in one place. The rain cannot reach me through the leafy covering, but there is a steady plop-plop-plop of bigger drops gathering on the plantain leaves above me, collecting into miniature pools, then sending wet surprises tumbling down my back.
A trail leads into the woods and I walk along it, soaking in the wonder around me. Between the plants and the lush wildlife, I almost miss the noise at first. Then it comes againâindistinct but unmistakable, and getting closer.
The sound of voices.
Speaking in English.
Without stopping to think, I duck off the path. I squat down and pull a leafy bush in front of my face. Then I part the leaves just enough to peer through. I donât have long to wait. Around the bend in the road strides a tall, gangly man. His face is red and sweaty, and his breath comes in short puffs. The pack heâs carrying towers over his head. Right behind him is a young woman, maybe the same age as Isra but with skin as pale as coconut milk. Two braids of red hair brush her shoulders. Her face, unlike her companionâs, is fresh and clear, and wears a teasing smile. She is whistling.
âTam! Will you stop that already?â the man barks.
I shrink farther back in the bushes, but his voice is more exasperated than angry.
âWait, wait,â Tam replies. âIâm just getting to the good part.â She whistles louder and scoots along the path, now shoving her shoulder into her companion. He stumbles and nearly falls, rights himself, then stops in the middle of the trail, hands on his hips.
They are just a few paces from my hiding spot, and I watch with wide eyes. How strange it is to hear this exchange in English! How strange, for that matter, to hear English spoken by anyone other than Mama. It was always our special language, our secret language. Though Iâm sure some others inside must also have spoken it as well, I never felt Mama wanted me to search them out. It was just another thing she liked keeping to herself.
These strangersâ voices sound different, though. The words are like rubber bands, stretching and twanging in unusual places. I hope they will talk more, but they just stand glaring at each other. Or rather, the man glares, and the womanâTamâstands there smirking. I notice how under his gaze she puffs out her chest, lifts her head, pulls her shoulders straighter. She raises her eyes until they are level with his. Then she slowly licks all the way around her lips, curls them into an Oâand starts to whistle again.
I canât help it. I am so transported by this exchange that I let out a startled laugh. It comes out halfway between a gasp and a shriek, once I
The air is balmy and warm, and the light rain patters friendly fingers across the wide woven hat. I pull the string from the end of my long braid, tugging until my hair falls loose around my shoulders. A lot of the cloying heat has been washed out of the air, and I drink the freshness in wide gulps.
Mud puddles dot the yard and I step around each one, making a game out of choosing a path through this watery maze. At every turn I face a new decision. Right or left? Around the pineapple-shaped puddle, or over the skinny loopy one? I lose myself in this game of choice, loving the way my feet follow exactly where I want them to go and that it is me, all me, directing the events.
Before I know it, I have reached the end of the yard. I turn back to look at the house, which looms high off the wet ground on wooden posts. No one is on the porch. There is nobody checking to see what I might do. I think of the many watchful eyes that policed my every move on the inside, and I feel giddy at my own power.
I turn my back to the house and push through the barrier of trees that ring the property.
The forest is like a big green pocket that I have fallen into. Trees, vines, bushes, branchesâthere is greenery everywhere. I have never seen so many plants in one place. The rain cannot reach me through the leafy covering, but there is a steady plop-plop-plop of bigger drops gathering on the plantain leaves above me, collecting into miniature pools, then sending wet surprises tumbling down my back.
A trail leads into the woods and I walk along it, soaking in the wonder around me. Between the plants and the lush wildlife, I almost miss the noise at first. Then it comes againâindistinct but unmistakable, and getting closer.
The sound of voices.
Speaking in English.
Without stopping to think, I duck off the path. I squat down and pull a leafy bush in front of my face. Then I part the leaves just enough to peer through. I donât have long to wait. Around the bend in the road strides a tall, gangly man. His face is red and sweaty, and his breath comes in short puffs. The pack heâs carrying towers over his head. Right behind him is a young woman, maybe the same age as Isra but with skin as pale as coconut milk. Two braids of red hair brush her shoulders. Her face, unlike her companionâs, is fresh and clear, and wears a teasing smile. She is whistling.
âTam! Will you stop that already?â the man barks.
I shrink farther back in the bushes, but his voice is more exasperated than angry.
âWait, wait,â Tam replies. âIâm just getting to the good part.â She whistles louder and scoots along the path, now shoving her shoulder into her companion. He stumbles and nearly falls, rights himself, then stops in the middle of the trail, hands on his hips.
They are just a few paces from my hiding spot, and I watch with wide eyes. How strange it is to hear this exchange in English! How strange, for that matter, to hear English spoken by anyone other than Mama. It was always our special language, our secret language. Though Iâm sure some others inside must also have spoken it as well, I never felt Mama wanted me to search them out. It was just another thing she liked keeping to herself.
These strangersâ voices sound different, though. The words are like rubber bands, stretching and twanging in unusual places. I hope they will talk more, but they just stand glaring at each other. Or rather, the man glares, and the womanâTamâstands there smirking. I notice how under his gaze she puffs out her chest, lifts her head, pulls her shoulders straighter. She raises her eyes until they are level with his. Then she slowly licks all the way around her lips, curls them into an Oâand starts to whistle again.
I canât help it. I am so transported by this exchange that I let out a startled laugh. It comes out halfway between a gasp and a shriek, once I
Similar Books
