by Jane Kurtz
Jakarta
Missing
BY JANE KURTZ
DEDICATION
To Jonathan, who took 60,000 basketball shots one summer and thus became my #1 basketball hero
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
FROM DAKAR’S BOOK OF LISTS AND THOUGHTS
Spring
Okay. Dad was right. Anyone would have to be crazy to want to live through this kind of winter. I know now about days when the hair inside your nose freezes and you feel like someone stuck a toothbrush up there. I know about days when the wind hits you in the face so hard that you gasp for breath and think you must still be asleep and dreaming of Antarctica. The snow squeaks like Styrofoam when you walk to school, and you can see the breath of every car that passes.
“I knew you’d be sorry,” I can hear him saying. But I’m not sorry.
Winter made me feel solid. Before, I was always a ghost, slipping through places, never leaving a mark. I didn’t belong any of those places. And they closed up behind me like water.
Besides, if I hadn’t lived through torturous winter, would spring make my eyes sting with joy? Outside the back door there’s a vanilla puff of a tree right beside a coral one, like two ice-cream cones. The trees remind me of my leaf quest, which did and did not work.
Is North Dakota as pretty as Kenya can be when the rains finally come and wash the red dust off the flowers? No. But getting through winter makes everything seem glorious. Yesterday the ash trees laid down a green carpet that I could dance on, and I didn’t even care when Mom said it was because of a fungus, since this spring was so wet.
No, I’m not sorry. But I am embarrassed to admit that I still haven’t stopped turning that one moment in the gym over and over in my mind—like the end of a movie … but a movie where I get to be the director, so it always ends the way I decide.
Jakarta dribbles wildly down the court. Sometimes she takes it right to the basket, charging straight at her defender until the last minute, when she steps to the left and goes up, up, flicking the basketball toward the basket with her left hand. The ball slides in and catches on nothing but the bottom of the net. I hear its whispering swish, just before the gym fills with a giant roaring. Other times Jakarta pulls up at the three-point line and launches the ball into the air. It soars in a high arc, up and in. Always, always in.
ONE
Dakar stood at the top of the stairs and held her breath. No voices. No music. No rustling pages. She wanted … the click of a fingernail clipper. The tiniest creak of a chair sending little splinters into the silence. No. Nothing.
She clutched her throat melodramatically. Deadly cholera had swept through the house while she was asleep. She was the only survivor. Nothing to do but go down … into the valley of dry bones.
“Stop it, Dakar,” she told herself. “You’re scaring me.” She grabbed on to the railing. Was this what books called a banister? She’d always wondered, reading those books, what it would be like to slide down a banister. In her imagination it had been a little like flying. Now, staring down at the polished wood, she felt stupid with fear.
“It is a poor life in which there is no fear.” Dad had that pinned on a scrap of paper above his desk. And he said it to her one time—the afternoon the elephant charged them. Dad also thought that if you gave in, even once, to things like fear and injustice and cruelty, they would get a toehold and come back the next time double strong.
All right. A banister couldn’t possibly be as scary as an elephant. Dakar closed her eyes and scooted herself onto the railing. But what if she slid off halfway down and split her lip? What if she went off the end so hard she sprained her ankle? She hastily scooted back off. “You’re such a worrywart,” her big sister, Jakarta, would say. “Dakar, the worrymeister.” By some kind of magic, Jakarta seemed to have inherited 100 percent of Dad’s risk genes.
Thinking about Jakarta made Dakar seasick with longing so that she had to sit down on the top step and put her hands on either side to steady herself, still surprised to feel carpet there. “Isn’t this luxurious?” Mom had said the first day they walked into the house. “We’ve never had carpet before.” She’d stretched out flat in the middle of the living room, laughing as she tickled her palms with carpet strands. But Dakar missed the cool, dark floors of the Nairobi house. She missed the geckos like ghost tongues flicking and licking up the walls. She wasn’t even sure she knew how to make friends with a two-story house. More than anything else, of course, she missed Jakarta.
How could Jakarta have decided to stay in Kenya? Maybe … Dakar chewed her fingernail thoughtfully, sadly … was Jakarta sick of always having to take care of a worrymeister little sister? She glanced up at the banister. Okay. She’d do it. She could become less of a wart, she just knew it.
“Dakar, you think too much,” Jakarta always said.
“Don’t think, don’t think,” Dakar told herself as she climbed onto the banister again. She didn’t dare look down.
She let go. Her stomach whooshed up so far she could taste it, and then she flew off the end, staggered a few steps, and stumbled forward. She landed right in front of the dining room table. Mom, who always sat at the table and read in the mornings, was not there.
Dakar stood up and rubbed her knees. She knew they’d grow big black-and-blue bruises, and she felt a slight tingling of pride. She’d done it—for Jakarta.
Where was Mom? She felt a tingling of nervousness. “Dakar’s famous overactive imagination is at it again,” Jakarta would say. But it really was a mysterious morning, wasn’t it? She cautiously moved to the back door. Her father was chopping wood. His arms rose and fell, and for a second Dakar thought of women pounding corn. He was singing a mournful Celtic tune, not one of the sea chanties or West African songs he used to sing all the time.
Dakar watched him warily. Hadn’t Dad sung this very song when he was making waffles on the morning he told them they were going to leave Kenya? “We’ve decided it might be time to spend a year or two on the border of North Dakota and Minnesota,” he’d said, reaching for Mom’s hand over the mango syrup. “We’ll be living only one long day’s drive from where your mother grew up. Hey, we’ve explored the world … now let’s explore the land of ten thousand lakes and the land of the flickertail.”
Jakarta had instantly said, “No. I’m not going.” She had at least fifteen reasons, she said, starting with not being able to make friends in the U.S. Jakarta had said the letters very distinctly. “Youuu. Essss.”
Dakar had wanted to say, “I won’t go, either,” but she desperately wanted the four of them together, and she was pretty sure Jakarta would change her mind. So, instead, she’d said, “But what will you do?”
“I’ll write articles about all my African research,” Dad said cheerfully. “Something I’ve been putting off for years. We’ve picked a town not far from both the University of North Dakota and a branch of the University of Minnesota, so I’ll have resources.” He laughed his rumbling laugh. “It also has an airpor
t thirty minutes away in case I need to get out of town fast.”
Dakar sighed. But Jakarta hadn’t changed her mind. So here she was, and the whole family wasn’t together, anyway, because here Jakarta wasn’t.
Suddenly Dad looked up, stopped right in the middle of a mournful line, and waved. Then he bent, scooped up an armful of wood, and walked toward her, smiling. She had always thought that his smile was bedazzling sunlight and that if she could only get close enough to it, she could get warm and never worry, worry, worry about things again. When he got inside the door, she ran to him and put both her arms around one of his, leaning her head against his shoulder. His beard smelled of incense, and his shoulder smelled of soap and sweat. “Getting some breakfast?” he asked, holding her back so he could look down into her face.
She glanced into his eyes. What was that look? She didn’t like it, didn’t like it at all. “No.” She hadn’t known she was going to say it until the word came out. “I have to get to school early to work on a project that Melanie and I are doing together. It’s … um … about different knots. Sailor knots, I mean. The sea, you know.” The sea? Where did that come from? Dakar, you amaze me, she thought.
He didn’t try to stop her. She waited for him to say, “Wait! You have to eat breakfast,” as she crammed her books into the bag, but he didn’t say anything. Then suddenly he was kneeling beside her, putting his hand over hers. “Dakar,” he said.
“No,” she wanted to say. “No. Don’t say it. Whatever it is.” She pulled her hand out from under his. She wanted to put her hands over her ears.
“There’s been a bombing,” he said. “We tried most of the night to get in touch with someone at the school. But you know how phone lines can be over there even when things are at their very technological best. Don’t worry about Jakarta.” In spite of his words, there was a trapped sound at the back of his voice, and Dakar had a quick thought of a moth in a cage. “Really,” he said, “there’s no need to worry yet. You know how the phone lines can be.”
How phone lines can be in Ah-free-kah? She drew the word out in her mind, the way people would say it there. Why hadn’t Mom come into her room to rock her for a minute and whisper that everything was going to be fine? “I gotta go,” she said.
She was out the door, running down the smooth sidewalk of this square block. When Dad had said they were going back to the States, Dakar had instantly imagined herself as Georgia O’Keeffe, striding along the desert under an azure sky. Or maybe living in a city where skyscrapers stood so close together you could stretch out your arms and touch buildings with both hands … or somewhere that smelled of sea and fog, in an old house creaky with ghosts. She had not imagined Cottonwood, North Dakota, at all. But here she was.
She opened her mouth and let air whoosh inside it. What was happening to Jakarta right this minute? Don’t think. Don’t think. Without thinking, she scooped up a handful of gravel and flung it at Melanie’s window, where it clattered and pinged.
“Kid-hey!” She could see Melanie’s pale face at the window, knew from the shape of her mouth the word she had said. A moment later the door opened. “Get in here.” Melanie pulled Dakar inside, laughing. “What are you doing? What happened to your knees?”
Dakar crossed her eyes and made a fish mouth. “Didn’t you always want to try that thing with the window? They do it in books, you know, whenever someone wants to rouse somebody.”
“I’ve never known anyone who read so much. Anyhow, why are you early?” Melanie tugged on her hand. “Whatever. I wanted you to look at this catalog, anyway. I am in total love with these clothes. Did you eat?”
Dakar nodded yes, but Melanie wasn’t looking at her. Melanie would wear all red to school, if she felt like it, and not care if people made fire siren sounds as she walked down the hall. Melanie said just what she was thinking. The first thing she had ever said to Dakar was “Why aren’t you black?”
“Why should I be?”
“You grew up in Africa. And your name. I expected you to be black.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Yeah, I see that. Wanna come to my house and get something to drink?”
Jakarta wouldn’t have said yes. But Dakar had said yes to Melanie, yes to pop and Kool-Aid instead of powdered milk and Stoney Tangawizi. “Adorned with three tiny rosettes,” Melanie was saying, now. “Isn’t that cool? Breeze tissue linen. I want this blouse. What do you think?”
The woman wearing the blouse had bare feet. She didn’t look like the type to get worms in her feet, or thorns. Her face was serene. “Expensive,” Dakar said, wishing people could order feet from catalogs. Or faces. Serene faces.
Melanie wrinkled up her face. “At least you didn’t say ‘for cute.’ But I didn’t expect you to be practical. Everyone around here is so extremely boringly practical. Here, close your eyes. I want you to hear these colors.”
Dakar closed her eyes.
“Not just white and black and red,” Melanie said. “Cinnabar. Dusty plum. Oooo, cypress. What color is that?”
“Mmm.” Dakar felt as if she were floating. Dusty plum. The dust was swirling, turning the sky to grainy gray. Where was she? Camels swaying through the dust with melancholy eyes.
“Olive,” Melanie said. “Coral, ivory, flax, chamois. Shhhhhham-waw.” She rolled the word over her tongue and lips.
Coral- and plum-colored blossoms cascading over a wall … what did that remind her of? Somewhere she’d been with Jakarta. “I’m so sorry, my sweet one. So sorry.” Dakar’s eyes flew open. Jakarta had just spoken to her. What would Jakarta be doing speaking to her, unless, unless …
Dakar scrambled to her feet, almost knocking the chair over.
“What’s wrong?” Melanie leaped up, too.
“Let’s go.”
On the way to school she felt herself shivering. “What would you do if something scared you?” she asked. “I mean, really scared you.”
Melanie knew how to make her eyes go so wide open that she reminded Dakar of a cartoon person. “Around here,” she said, “hardly anything really scary ever happens. If it did, I guess someone would give a speech about our brave pioneer ancestors or how community spirit would help us pull through.”
Dakar laughed. This place did seem safe—nothing like walking down a sidewalk in downtown Nairobbery, where she didn’t dare wear any jewelry because one of her teachers had gotten his arm stabbed through by someone trying to get his watch.
“But,” Melanie said, “if I was really and truly scared, I’d go right to my mom.” She stared at Dakar with wide-open green eyes. Light green, Dakar thought. Shadow green. Shiny green. Beetle green. Cinnabar green. Nah, cinnabar probably wasn’t even green.
Dakar wrapped her arms around her shoulders. How could she just go to school, not knowing if Jakarta was safe or not? Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that the idea of sliding down the banister had popped into her mind before she even knew about the bombing. Was she supposed to be getting the message that there was something she could be doing besides worrying? “Don’t mope, do something,” Dad always said. “Big problems require big solutions. You are the hero of your own life.” Too bad his younger daughter was heroic as snail slime.
Heroic as snail slime? But wait a minute! Wasn’t it the simpleton, the weak youngest kid in the family who usually turned out to be the hero in the old stories? For a second she couldn’t breathe. After all this time was the universe trying to send her on another quest?
She put her hands cautiously on her head. On the other hand, maybe deadly cholera had dried up her brains. No, wait. Think this through. People like Odysseus and Gilgamesh knew exactly what they wanted from their quests—they knew they were heroes from the start. But what about Moses standing in front of the burning bush saying, “Send my brother, ’cause I don’t know how to say things right”? What about Isaiah saying, “Woe is me, for I am a man of unclean lips?”
There were heroes who felt puny when the story started. And who didn’t know what to do.
They just … started. “Here I am,” Isaiah said. “Send me.” Okay, Dakar thought as they reached the middle school steps. Send me.
Nothing happened. She had absolutely zero inspiration about what to do next.
Okay. What if she was supposed to do, say, three really brave things? She was pretty sure that had worked once. If it worked this time, maybe Jakarta would not only be safe but also come home and all four of them would be together again, which is what Dakar wanted more than anything in the world. Okay. She knew just the place for starting a quest. “Hey, I’m going in the high school door,” she said.
Melanie looked startled and a little scared. “We’re not supposed to.”
“I know.” The two words sounded so bold that Dakar flushed.
“Wow,” Melanie said thoughtfully. “Well, maybe if they catch us, they won’t do anything. They’ll just think you came from Africa and you didn’t know better … and we’ll say I tried to stop you, but it all happened too fast.” She giggled.
Dakar put her hands to her cheeks as she turned the corner and walked toward the corner of the building. Her face was so hot it was probably purple. What if they got marched to the principal’s office? What if he was a growling, scowling gorilla of a man? What if he yelled at them and handed them instant detention? What if someone called her parents? Weird—Dakar, the Good Kid, breaking the rules. Dakar, the Follower, striding along with Melanie pattering after her.
She wished she felt bold. Bold enough to ask Melanie the questions that were bouncing around her brain. But what if your mom was scared of the same thing? What if it was a real thing like a bomb, something people should be scared of? What if you’d gotten out of practice talking to your mom because you knew what it was like to go without her for months and months? What if you’d learned a long time ago, not because anyone told you but because you somehow knew knew knew, that some things you shouldn’t talk about because they would just make everybody too sad?
