phrase is repeated, voices rollicking off concrete walls, disappearing into Spanish, which the other girls speak when not in the classroom, where they are required to use English.
She doesn’t care, but the teacher does. “Your hair is a mess.” The fault is Juliet’s. Explanations are worse than useless, holes dug in quicksand, speeding her descent.
But when she lays her cheek against the cool plastic bus seat, hair blowing loose in the wind, she is already on the mend. Mercifully, Juliet and Keith are dispensed outside their fence. They clank through the gate, shuffling their running shoes, tossing their backpacks. It is one o’clock, and the rest of the day remains openly, lusciously theirs.
Today the main room of their house hums with volunteers and religion, cigarettes crunched out in clay ashtrays. From a prayer circle on the floor, Gloria rises and greets them with a handful of coins. “Go and buy yourselves a snack. And take Emmanuel.”
The afternoon wants them. Emmanuel is a troublesome pet cajoled and soothed by bribery. The coins are enough for crackers and crema at a little tienda behind their house, not the one with the jam. At almost every house something is for sale: tortillas, or beer, or eggs. The woman at the window peels a ripe mango and passes the pit through the window for Emmanuel to suck on. It is shady in this yard, comfortable with the murmuring cluck of hens, and Juliet and Keith squat on their heels and squeeze the sweet, salty crema onto damp white crackers.
“I hate school,” says Juliet.
Keith doesn’t have to say anything.
“They stole my green barrettes,” she says. “At least, I think so. Maybe I lost them. Maybe they fell under the benches or something. I don’t know.”
Keith says, “I’m thirsty.”
They crave shaved ice drizzled with syrup, sold from the dripping wooden cart that is often at the park. They debate, on their way, the best flavour and the likelihood of finding the cart, and they are almost there before they realize something is missing: Emmanuel. It is too awful to consider him forgotten in the shaded yard, sucking on a mango pit, tended by hens. Juliet blames Keith, who knows their mother will blame Juliet, who is the next thing to hysterical when they are found, as they run down the street, by some children, one of whom holds Emmanuel in her arms. He isn’t crying or scared or sad. The girl hops him on her hip; she is lean, her skirt dark, hair carefully brushed; no taller than Juliet, but older. Breasts under her white blouse.
“ Pobrecito ,” she coos to Emmanuel, continuing to cradle him as they walk together. “ Gordito. Papacito. Muñequito .”
She knows them, but they don’t recognize her until she steps into context, through the Roots of Justice guesthouse gate and around the back to the kitchen, where the cook greets them with an energy that could be mistaken for anger. The girl is the cook’s daughter; the anger, fierce kindness fired by exhaustion.
Out, out, out , the cook whisks the children away from the tiny, sweltering kitchen into the yard. But in a moment she carries out three tall plastic cups filled with sweet, watery milk flavoured with cocoa and thickened with pounded corn — tiste . The plastic is rubbery and pliant between the teeth. The corn sifts like sediment to the bottom and whirls amongst melting ice cubes: sand and rocks. Juliet and Keith sit on cement blocks in the damp yard, and the cook’s daughter, whose name they now know is Marta, sits on her heels and shares her drink with Emmanuel. Neighbourhood children wait outside the gate, but as the skies darken they begin to drift.
The rainy season is upon them, humidity standing amongst thick greens and fat fruits, clouds filling up with warm rain that wants to pour before suppertime, washing the world briefly clean again: the blessed moment before wet turns to steam.
The cook says that the Friesen children must go home too. The guesthouse is empty now, but
She doesn’t care, but the teacher does. “Your hair is a mess.” The fault is Juliet’s. Explanations are worse than useless, holes dug in quicksand, speeding her descent.
But when she lays her cheek against the cool plastic bus seat, hair blowing loose in the wind, she is already on the mend. Mercifully, Juliet and Keith are dispensed outside their fence. They clank through the gate, shuffling their running shoes, tossing their backpacks. It is one o’clock, and the rest of the day remains openly, lusciously theirs.
Today the main room of their house hums with volunteers and religion, cigarettes crunched out in clay ashtrays. From a prayer circle on the floor, Gloria rises and greets them with a handful of coins. “Go and buy yourselves a snack. And take Emmanuel.”
The afternoon wants them. Emmanuel is a troublesome pet cajoled and soothed by bribery. The coins are enough for crackers and crema at a little tienda behind their house, not the one with the jam. At almost every house something is for sale: tortillas, or beer, or eggs. The woman at the window peels a ripe mango and passes the pit through the window for Emmanuel to suck on. It is shady in this yard, comfortable with the murmuring cluck of hens, and Juliet and Keith squat on their heels and squeeze the sweet, salty crema onto damp white crackers.
“I hate school,” says Juliet.
Keith doesn’t have to say anything.
“They stole my green barrettes,” she says. “At least, I think so. Maybe I lost them. Maybe they fell under the benches or something. I don’t know.”
Keith says, “I’m thirsty.”
They crave shaved ice drizzled with syrup, sold from the dripping wooden cart that is often at the park. They debate, on their way, the best flavour and the likelihood of finding the cart, and they are almost there before they realize something is missing: Emmanuel. It is too awful to consider him forgotten in the shaded yard, sucking on a mango pit, tended by hens. Juliet blames Keith, who knows their mother will blame Juliet, who is the next thing to hysterical when they are found, as they run down the street, by some children, one of whom holds Emmanuel in her arms. He isn’t crying or scared or sad. The girl hops him on her hip; she is lean, her skirt dark, hair carefully brushed; no taller than Juliet, but older. Breasts under her white blouse.
“ Pobrecito ,” she coos to Emmanuel, continuing to cradle him as they walk together. “ Gordito. Papacito. Muñequito .”
She knows them, but they don’t recognize her until she steps into context, through the Roots of Justice guesthouse gate and around the back to the kitchen, where the cook greets them with an energy that could be mistaken for anger. The girl is the cook’s daughter; the anger, fierce kindness fired by exhaustion.
Out, out, out , the cook whisks the children away from the tiny, sweltering kitchen into the yard. But in a moment she carries out three tall plastic cups filled with sweet, watery milk flavoured with cocoa and thickened with pounded corn — tiste . The plastic is rubbery and pliant between the teeth. The corn sifts like sediment to the bottom and whirls amongst melting ice cubes: sand and rocks. Juliet and Keith sit on cement blocks in the damp yard, and the cook’s daughter, whose name they now know is Marta, sits on her heels and shares her drink with Emmanuel. Neighbourhood children wait outside the gate, but as the skies darken they begin to drift.
The rainy season is upon them, humidity standing amongst thick greens and fat fruits, clouds filling up with warm rain that wants to pour before suppertime, washing the world briefly clean again: the blessed moment before wet turns to steam.
The cook says that the Friesen children must go home too. The guesthouse is empty now, but
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