Jakarta Missing

by Jane Kurtz

  “All right,” Dad finally said with exasperation. “But this is the only day you’re going to miss. The sooner you get to school, the sooner you’re going to make new friends and stop feeling so out of place.”

  “The sooner the wildebeests will stomp me,” Jakarta muttered.

  Dakar pushed away from the table and went back upstairs.

  Mom was dressed and lying on top of the covers. She patted the side of the bed. “Off to school?”

  “Yeah.” The bed squeaked as Dakar settled onto it. She reached out and stroked Mom’s arm.

  “Got an umbrella?”

  “I think it stopped raining while I was eating breakfast.”

  “It isn’t quite the way we thought it would be, is it?” Mom said.

  “Not at all.” Dakar blinked and bit her thumb. “Why isn’t it?”

  “Just those famous teenage mood swings, I guess.”

  Mom murmured something else, but her voice was so soft that Dakar couldn’t hear. A burst of shouting drifted up from downstairs. “I’ve never heard either Jakarta or Dad be this way before,” Dakar said.

  “Your father hasn’t spent much time in the same house as a teenage Jakarta before, either.” Mom pulled Dakar down for a kiss. “Okay, I don’t like it, either. But it’s nothing to worry about. You have a good day in school, all right?”

  As she left the house, Dakar tried to figure out why people were always telling her not to worry. There was plenty to worry about. When she got close to Melanie’s house, she hesitated, but for some reason she didn’t feel like stopping. Everything was such a jumble. “How’s Jakarta?” Melanie would say again in her bright, eager voice. And what was Dakar going to say? She rushed on to school, not even stopping at her locker before she headed down the stairs.

  “That poor child,” the cook said, shaking her head, when Dakar poured out the story. “That poor little lost child.” She clicked her tongue.

  Dakar watched the cook’s fingers pressing pizza dough into a tray. “What about me?” she said. “Why isn’t anyone worrying about me?”

  “Oh, yes,” the cook said. “You’re a poor child, too. Too bad we’ve got to take the bitter with the sweet, Africa child. Did they tell you that in Africa?”

  Like pomegranates. “I just don’t think things should be bitter all the time.”

  “Oh, my,” the cook said. “Life can be a dry and weary land where no water is. But I don’t b’lieve things are bitter all the time.”

  The kitchen was warm with the thick, yeasty smell of dough rising. “Here’s one thing I will tell you,” the cook said. “You tell her to go to school—”

  “Because she has to grab on to her education,” Dakar said.

  “Because she has to grab on to her education. And you tell her to watch out for my son, Pharo, when she gets to school.”

  Dakar was surprised. “You have a kid who goes to high school?”

  The cook chuckled.

  “You have a son named Pharaoh? Why didn’t you give him a better name than that?”

  The cook scooped tomato paste out of a can with her fingers. “When that boy was born, I called him Moses, but my husband never could tolerate that name. He said, ‘If he’s Moses, he’s in charge of freeing other people. But who’s ever going to free this boy from the bondage?’ My husband had come to study at the university, but now he was homesick and tired of people’s attitudes. So we pushed and pulled that poor baby’s name back and forth, back and forth. I called him Moses. My husband took to calling him Pharo, just to make me mad, I b’lieve.”

  Dakar tried to imagine the cook sitting in a living room in this picket fence town, arguing with her husband.

  “Well, the homesickness weighed on my husband and weighed on him. Finally he just quit school. He went back home. My heart was like wax then. It was melted within my breast. But all I said was, ‘Good. I can call my boy Moses without any complaints now.”

  “Why didn’t you go, too?” Dakar asked.

  The cook slid the pizza on a pan. “Well, there was my vow not to put this body onto an airplane again. More so, I wanted my boy to grow up in a place where he could grab hold of an education. Still, I did fret. Finally, I opened my Bible and put my finger on the page to see if God would send me a message directly.”

  Dakar nodded. She knew people who did that. A girl in Egypt said her grandfather used to do the same thing with the Koran.

  “My finger fell on ‘God is the anchor of my soul.’ That’s a message, I said. My body is meant to stay put and not go flopping all around the world.”

  Dakar shook her head dubiously. “I don’t know. The Bible says God is light, too. Light flickers all around.”

  “It doesn’t go leaping from the candle,” the cook said. “So we stayed put. But we started getting the letters. It was always Pharo this and Pharo that. And one day when I called my little boy Moses, he said, ‘My name is Pharo.’ And I thought, well, let him have what’s left from his daddy.”

  The bell rang. The cook pointed one doughy finger at the door.

  “Okay,” Dakar said. “I’m going. And I’ll tell Jakarta.”

  Having something to tell Jakarta helped the day go faster. In math class Melanie tossed a note over when the teacher wasn’t looking. “Where were you?” it said. “My cousin says everyone is très curious about Jakarta.”

  Dakar had never passed a note in class before. “Sorry,” she scribbled. “Come over for supper. My mom won’t care. At least you can meet Jakarta.” Her face itched as she waited for the right moment to toss the note back. Dakar, the former Good Kid, the former Follower, was now also a note tosser.

  When they opened the door of the house, a hot, peppery smell rushed out—a smell of Maji. Dakar gave a luxurious sigh, feeling like a little kid.

  “What is it?” Melanie asked. “What’s that smell?”

  “Come on,” Dakar said, heading for the kitchen. “You’ll see.”

  Mom looked up and swiped at her sweaty face. “You’re Melanie,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here. We need lots and lots of onions chopped. Both of you can help.”

  She looked great, Dakar thought with a clunk of relief, handing a knife to Melanie and grabbing one for herself. “How did you manage Maji food?”

  “Jakarta smuggled the injera and the bere bere pepper out for a surprise. We’re making the wat.”

  “What wat?” Melanie laughed and sliced through the onion with an awkward chop.

  Dakar made a face. “I’ve only heard that joke about fifty thousand times, you know.”

  “Dakar,” Mom said, “I need to tell you—”

  The door slammed. Suddenly Jakarta was there, all lighted up like a pumpkin. “Heaven,” she said. “I’m in heaven. I love it, love it, love it. Hey.” She grabbed the knife out of Melanie’s hand. “What are you doing? You’re chopping those onions waaaaay too thick.”

  “This is Melanie,” Dakar said hastily. Good. That was over. “Come on,” she said to Melanie. “Let her do it since she’s so thrilled to. The onions are making me cry, anyway.”

  “Wow,” Melanie whispered as they left the kitchen. “Très intimidating.”

  Dakar nodded. Behind them, Mom and Jakarta were talking in Amharic and laughing. She thought about taking Melanie up to her room, but there were too many private things like the gourd Wondemu gave her the day she left Maji and—even worse—the clock that blinked constantly because Dakar didn’t know how to set the time. She took her downstairs, instead, and showed her the room in the basement. “Just like a horsetail,” Melanie said, picking up a fly whisk and whisking herself with it.

  “That’s the point.”

  When they came back up, Dad was laughing uproariously as Jakarta tried to show him how to do the eskista dance, shaking her shoulders skillfully, one at a time and then together. “Your dad’s a riot,” Melanie whispered.

  Dad and Jakarta were still in a boisterous mood at supper, scooping up big mouthfuls of wat with the injera and feeding each oth
er the way people did at feasts. Dakar watched them contentedly, her mouth exploding with the peppery and sour tastes she loved. Why couldn’t things always be festive like this?

  “How’s the girls’ soccer team here?” Jakarta asked between bites.

  Melanie swished a piece of injera around her plate and nibbled the edge of it. “Uh …” she said.

  “I don’t think there’s a girls’ soccer team,” Dakar said quickly.

  “Nope,” Melanie said. “No boys’ soccer team even.”

  Jakarta raised one eyebrow. “Whose idea was it to live here?”

  Mom looked a bit defensive. “When I saw the pictures of this house, it seemed just right for what I had in mind. We could also afford it, and it’s a manageable distance from the other things we need.”

  Jakarta frowned.

  “Come on,” Mom said. “There must be something you like about being in the United States. We can drive at night and not be afraid.”

  Dad smiled his most bedazzling smile—as if he were sun, Dakar thought, and they were planets orbiting around him. “I never worried about driving at night,” he said.

  “Living here has to be better than some things we’ve tried,” Mom told Jakarta. “Boarding school, for example.”

  “You know,” Dad said, “I never realized that Dakar had trouble sleeping in school. I wonder why no one ever told us.”

  Dakar kicked at the table leg. Did Dad have to talk about something embarrassing like that in front of Melanie? She concentrated on making her eyes cool and smooth as eggshells. She was Donbirra. Nobody needed to know what she was thinking.

  “It’s all fine to say now why didn’t anybody tell us,” Jakarta said, suddenly fierce. “You didn’t know because you didn’t want to know. Because if you knew, how could you have chosen your precious work over us?”

  Dakar was shocked. She didn’t know where to look. Not at Mom’s stunned face. Not at Dad, either. A Sahara of silence stretched out until she thought she would have to say something.

  But Jakarta was the one who broke the silence. “I’m leaving.” She got up from the table and ran for the front door.

  “Wait.” Dakar pushed her chair away.

  Behind her, she heard Melanie say, “Wait, wait.”

  They must look funny, she thought. Jakarta running down the sidewalk, Dakar running after. And she could hear Melanie’s footsteps behind her. Luckily, Jakarta slowed up and let them catch up.

  “Shall we show you around?” Dakar asked. “There’s this great place.”

  “Sure.” Jakarta stared into the distance, her voice trembling. “Show me around, okay?”

  “Jakarta isn’t anything like what you said,” Melanie whispered as they walked. “Not anything at all.”

  Dakar signaled for her to be quiet. “Thanks for helping with supper.”

  “How do you get the onion into such little pieces?” Melanie asked Jakarta. “You know, I never actually touched an onion before.”

  Jakarta whirled around. “How did you become friends with this nimrod?” she asked Dakar. She marched ahead of them a few steps.

  “What’s a nimrod?” Melanie whispered.

  “Nimrod was a mighty hunter in the Bible,” Dakar whispered back. Calling someone a nimrod made a good boarding school insult. It sounded bad, but you could always say, innocently, “I was comparing you to a mighty hunter.” She shook her head. How could anyone possibly be in sixth grade and not have touched an onion?

  “Let’s take Jakarta to the magic place,” Melanie said cheerfully.

  Dakar hesitated. But why not? Usually it was Jakarta who discovered all the cool places—the bat cave behind the waterfall, with its musty smell. The maze of paths wild pigs had trampled out.

  Jakarta turned around to look at them and waved her arm in a big arc. “I guess some of the leaves are pretty, but why would anyone live here when you could have fuchsia and orange bougainvillea and roses and lilies and carnations and pink pyrethrum?”

  “Wait until you see the best place,” Melanie said. “Dakar said it’s the kind of place where you could fight the Allalonestone.”

  Dakar tried to swallow, but a lump of ice was caught in her throat.

  Jakarta turned and looked at Dakar. “You told her about the Allalonestone?”

  If she weren’t already turning to ice, Dakar thought, Jakarta’s voice would do it. Liver. Stomach. She couldn’t even feel her fingers anymore. She opened her mouth. Shut it. Fish mouth. She wanted to say no, but that would be pretty pointless.

  “It’s okay,” Melanie said cheerfully. “I know the incantation.”

  Jakarta looked at Dakar. “Don’t … say … a … word,” she said. “I’m going for a walk. A long, long walk.” She started to run.

  “You don’t know your way around this town,” Dakar yelled after her. Jakarta didn’t even hesitate. “She doesn’t know where she’s going,” Dakar said to Melanie when even the sound of Jakarta’s footsteps had died away. “She’ll get lost and never come home, and it will be all your fault.” She knew she was being irrational.

  Melanie looked stricken. “Someone will show her the way home.”

  “I said not to tell anyone,” Dakar said.

  “But I just said it to Jakarta,” Melanie said. “She helped make the incantation up.” Her eyes were like a scared ferret’s eyes, Dakar thought. For some reason those small, scared eyes just made Dakar all the angrier.

  “You promised,” Dakar said. “You gave me your total, solemn oath. You’re not a true friend. You’re not my friend at all. Stay completely away from me from now on.”

  She ran all the way home, hoping Mom or Dad would know what to do. When she opened the door, the smell of bere bere was the only thing left of the supper. She couldn’t even hear any voices. “Dakar, relax,” she told herself. People didn’t vanish. “Mom?” she called. “Dad?”

  The note was on the table. “Gone to take your mom to rent a car,” it said in Dad’s handwriting. “I love you both.” That was Mom’s writing. “Be good. I’ll be back soon.” After that. Mom had scribbled in little, shaky letters, “Jakarta, don’t you dare think for a minute that I didn’t agonize even more than you did over boarding school.”

  Dakar grabbed the note and tore it into bits. “I hate Jakarta,” she said out loud in the empty room. “I wish she had never come home.” Now she was truly and totally ice.

  ELEVEN

  When you were ice, Dakar discovered, you didn’t have to think. Or maybe that wasn’t right. You still had think so you could figure out things like integers, but you didn’t have to feel anything. And you didn’t have to think about feelings.

  When she saw Jakarta getting ready to go off to her first morning of school, she knew instantly that it wasn’t very smart for Jakarta to wear a khanga or carry a kiondo slung over her shoulder, but she didn’t have to care—and she didn’t care.

  Jakarta argued in the kitchen with Dad about it. “Why not?” Dakar heard Jakarta shout. “I don’t mind what wildebeests think. Why should you mind?” But Dakar didn’t care that they were arguing again. She was ice.

  When you were ice, you didn’t have to worry about walking with Jakarta to school but could watch her stride off, watch her leg muscles ripple under her skirt. You could drag your own slow way and walk by the high school door as if Jakarta were someone else’s sister. Jakarta was standing off a little to the side. Kids were eyeing her, but no one had gotten very close, and Dakar didn’t blame them. Jakarta had a murderous look in her eyes, and Dakar half expected her to start swinging her kiondo. Pow. Pow. Dakar imagined kids falling right and left, holding their heads. But Jakarta didn’t start swinging. She just looked around and said loudly, “Yes, I grew up in Africa, and no, I never saw Tarzan. So don’t anyone bother to ask.”

  When you were ice, you didn’t have to shiver inside, praying that a savior would show up for Jakarta. Actually, though, a savior did arrive. He was taller than she was, and he walked right through the crowd of kids and looke
d at Jakarta. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said back in a fierce voice.

  “My mom told me to look for you. I’m Pharo.” Jakarta looked at him for a minute. Then the two of them went off.

  “Whoa,” Dakar heard someone say. “That girl is Tarzan all right.” But that was okay. She was ice. She didn’t have to feel anything.

  When you were ice, you could sit in math class and watch Melanie giggling with another girl and you didn’t even have to wonder what they were writing about in that note they were tossing back and forth when Mr. Johnson’s back was turned. You didn’t even make the effort to see the cook. You found a corner of the cafeteria and ate as fast as you could.

  You didn’t have to feel anything after school, either, when the telephone rang and it was Mom saying, “I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly. Dakar? Dakar, are you there? I tried to tell you when we were chopping the onions that I talked to Aunt Lily’s doctor, and he said I should get here as quickly as possible.” You didn’t have to feel. You could just say, “Uh-huh,” and get off the phone.

  That night, when Jakarta and Dad sat at the table having a hot political argument, you could tell yourself it was nothing; you were used to political discussions. You could pretend you didn’t notice that Jakarta and Dad seemed to have grown rough edges and rubbed against each other like a cheese grater rubbing against a cheese grater.

  The next night, when Jakarta and Dad sat in stone silence, you could be a stone, too. It was safe being a stony lump of ice. You didn’t even have to ache with longing to hear Mom’s voice.

  Jakarta must have been aching, too. “I want to call Mom,” she told Dad late that week. “Please show me how to make a long-distance call.”

  “You can’t,” he said gently. “Aunt Lily doesn’t have a phone on the farm. Apparently she likes life reeeeal simple. But Mom said she would call us from a neighbor’s house every week.”

  “Why did you make her go?” Jakarta asked ferociously. When Dad started to answer, she put her hands over her ears and ran out the door.

  After Dakar helped Dad do the dishes, she went out and found Jakarta sitting on the porch. Jakarta had slipped her arms out of her sweater, wrapping the knitted arms around herself in a kind of hug. She’d been crying again, and the tears left shiny streaks on her face.