by Jane Kurtz
Jakarta didn’t let the team unravel. When the coach gestured to call time-out—his voice drowned in the noise—Jakarta instantly made the T with her hands. Pharo tapped Dakar’s shoulder. When she looked up, he said, “Jakarta knows what’s up. She’s coming out of this huddle supaloafed.”
Dakar laughed. “She taught you that word?”
“The Storm point guard is on her like skin. That’s the problem.”
He was right, Dakar saw as the play started again. Jakarta couldn’t seem to get a clear and open shot. But after she had forced a couple—and missed—she seemed to shake herself and settle down. By the end of the first quarter she had only two points, but she also had a bunch of assists. Most important, Pharo pointed out, the Wildcats were eating into the Storm’s lead.
By the half the Wildcats were down by only three. While the team trotted out of the gym, carried by waves of sound, Coach Svedborg looked as if he might explode. “Uh-oh. Lecture time,” Pharo said. Jakarta had her head down. When she got to where they were sitting, she glanced up and gave Pharo a half-smile. But it was Dad her eyes locked on to for one long, slow moment. Then she was gone.
They could still win, Dakar thought as she walked back toward the concession window to buy popcorn for Aunt Lily. Was there still a chance Jakarta could get her record? She tried to remember how many points Jakarta had made before in her good halves. The Storm’s guards were definitely holding her down.
A boy from the middle school jostled her. “What’s happening to Tarzan?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the guy beside him said. “I thought she was supposed to be so great. The Storm is sweeping her into the gully.”
Dakar’s feet felt frozen to the floor.
“Aah,” the first guy said. “She used to be great. But it’s clutch time now.”
Suddenly someone was reaching around Dakar and thumping the guy’s shoulder. Dakar pulled back, startled. “Don’t be such a nimwit,” Melanie screeched at the boy. “Jakarta isn’t clutching. She has nerves of obsidian. You—you nimrod.”
“Whatever,” one of the boys muttered. They walked on.
“What a dolt,” Melanie said to Dakar.
“Yeah …” Dakar could feel a smile just swallowing up her face. “What a scarab beetle.”
When they were done laughing, Dakar asked, “Do you want to meet my great-aunt Lily? She’s in there waving one of our pompoms.”
“Sure. I’ll come sit with you.” Melanie paused. “No, I gotta sit with my family because everyone’s here. Even my cousin. But can I come over to meet her tomorrow? I’ll stand with you right now while you get your stuff, and we’ll concentrate on sending good thoughts to Jakarta.” Melanie closed her eyes and chanted softly, “Be a river, Jakarta.”
“Yeah, come over tomorrow,” Dakar said. “I want you to meet Aunt Lily, and I want to show you my room. Be a river, Jakarta. Be a river.”
The Storm started shooting layups with four minutes ticking down in halftime, but the Wildcats didn’t come out until just before the whistle blew. “Big-time lecture,” Pharo said knowingly. Whether it was the big-time lecture or Melanie’s chant, something must have worked. Emily set a pick, and Jakarta hit a three, first thing. The whole team seemed to loosen their shoulders. Then, in minutes, everyone was on fire. But Jakarta was on superfire. Up. Swish. Up. Swish.
The crowd was on its feet. The crowd was with her. “Tarzan,” they chanted as she took the ball down the court. “Tarzan. Tarzan.”
“Why do they call her that?” Dad shouted to Dakar.
“I’ll tell you after,” she shouted back.
Ten points for Jakarta. Fourteen points. Seventeen. The Wildcats were now dominating. The Storm coach called time-out, and the girl who was supposed to be guarding Jakarta kicked her home bench in frustration. Only ten points from the record, the announcer boomed. Across the gym Dakar saw Melanie doing a victory dance. That must be Melanie’s cousin with his fists in the air.
As the fourth quarter started, Dakar doubted that anyone was worrying about who would win the game. Unless the Wildcats suddenly collapsed, they were going to regionals. “Record,” some people started to chant. “Record, record.” And Jakarta kept knocking down baskets. The Storm players were doing their best to sandwich her in a double team. They were just as determined, Dakar saw, to say, “I guarded the best scorer in the whole state and kept her from running away with the game.”
The clock was ticking down. The gym was writhing with noise. Dakar’s ears pounded, and she felt as if she were caught up in the middle of the hissing ocean. Suddenly, above it all, she heard Coach Svedborg screaming, “Take time out.” Emily, who had the ball, signaled. For a second the Wildcats were milling, huddling, and then a whole new team was out on the floor—all except Jakarta.
“What’s happening?” Dakar shouted to Pharo.
“Only garbage minutes left. Coach is putting in the kids who never get to play. The Storm will never catch us now.”
“What about Jakarta?” Even before he answered, Dakar knew. Nobody else had anything at stake. But Jakarta—Jakarta could get the record. This was her last chance. Last minutes of the last game of the regular season. Dakar chewed her thumbnail anxiously, glancing across the gym to see if Melanie was doing the same.
The Wildcats took the ball on the side. Dakar stared at Jakarta, willing her to run, to leap. Those legs must still be strong—Africa legs. Runner legs. Her arms couldn’t be tired yet. Be a river. Ball in to Jakarta. Jakarta dodged, and one of the inexperienced girls, someone whose name Dakar didn’t know because she’d never seen her in a game before, set a good pick. Jakarta made a jump shot, over the defender’s head. Swish.
“Two more to tie,” someone screamed out.
Two more. Two more points. The game seconds were clicking down. “Foul them,” Coach Svedborg yelled. His face was redder than ever. Someone did. The Storm player made both shots. Now. Wildcat ball. Fifteen seconds left.
Dakar was trembling. She felt connected to every single person in this gym—yes, even the Storm. They all were part of this moment together. They all would remember it for a long, long time.
Okay, okay. Ball in. Crisp. Bounce pass. Right to Jakarta’s willing hands. Dakar felt her heart floating, bursting. Jakarta was thundering down the court. Jakarta was a river, an antelope, a gazelle. The other team couldn’t stop her. Yes! Yes! Hallelujah glory. They couldn’t shut Jakarta down. “Tarzan,” the crowd screamed. “Tarzan.” Two points to tie the record. Three points for a brand-new record—not half Promise Johnson’s—all Jakarta.
“Shoot a three,” Dakar screamed. “A three.”
In the last split second she saw it. Saw it as if she were a camera, catching one fluid motion and freezing it into stillness. Saw Sharyn—the blond girl from that day in practice. Knew. Exactly. What. Was. Going. To. Happen.
And it did.
Jakarta dished. Sharyn arched up. Released. The ball kissed the glass—and went in. Blaaaaaaaap. The end-of-game buzzer blared.
For a moment there was a shocked silence. Then the fans were pouring onto the floor. “Going to regionals,” someone behind Dakar shouted.
“And on to state,” someone else shouted back.
Dakar stood still, staring down at Jakarta.
The fans were pushing around the players, hugging, laughing.
Jakarta wasn’t looking at them, though. She was looking at the coach, and his face was angry, his mouth wide open. Even from here Dakar could read the words. “Why didn’t you take the shot?”
TWENTY-ONE
In the pandemonium Dakar lost everyone else. That was okay, she thought as she walked slowly across the parking lot filled with swirls of people. She felt dazed. Let Dad get Aunt Lily and Mom out of there and safely home. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.
As she was swept along, she caught sight of Melanie for a moment, a few cars away. “Are you okay?” Melanie signed.
True friend Melanie. “Fine,” Dakar signed back. Not fancy fine, she
thought. But fine.
As she got herself free of the people and started walking down the street, though, she had to admit, actually, no, she wasn’t fine at all. In fact, she had never felt so desolate. “And that’s bad,” she said out loud. “Because I have felt pretty desolate before.”
Without thinking about it, her feet found their way to the practice courts where she had watched Jakarta and Pharo so many times. No one would know where she was. So what? she thought defiantly. No one ever thought about her feelings. They wouldn’t care if she froze to death.
She sat on a bench for a long time, shivering. “You’re just feeling sorry for yourself,” she whispered. It was true. But so what? If there was no one else to feel sorry for her, she’d feel it for herself.
She was surprised—and also not surprised—to hear footsteps. She was surprised—and not surprised—that it was Jakarta who cared enough to find her.
“Hey,” Jakarta said, settling down beside Dakar.
“How did you know I might be here?” Dakar asked.
“Mom and Dad sent me to Melanie’s house. Melanie and her mom drove over to check the magic place. I thought you might be here. Pharo walked me over.” Jakarta gestured with her chin and Dakar glanced back. In the dusk she could barely see Pharo leaning against a tree. He waved.
So they had all cared, Dakar thought with relief. Then she scolded herself. “You’re such a baby. Why do you make them prove themselves?”
She looked at Jakarta’s face, which was wet with something. Tears? Sweat? “Why did you do it?” Dakar blurted out.
It was obvious that Jakarta knew what she meant. “I don’t know why I did it,” she said, slumping over. “Coach wanted that honor for me so bad. He took a chance on me, you know. He worked hard with me. Why didn’t I give him what he wanted?”
“Yes,” Dakar wanted to yell. “Why didn’t you?”
“But I knew Sharyn would make it.” Jakarta went on as if she were arguing with herself. “We practiced that exact shot a zillion times. And that basket meant a zillion times more to her than to me. Her only game points of the season, you know.”
“That’s not the point,” Dakar wanted to say. “Why do you have to join Dad and be the patron saint of lost causes?” But maybe it was the point. She wished she didn’t feel so all confused.
After a few minutes Jakarta said, “Probably my motives weren’t that pure.”
She put her head in her hands, and suddenly Dakar wanted to hug her. It was hard to have a pure heart.
“I might have done it,” Jakarta said, “because I wanted to show Dad he was wrong. That sports isn’t all about greedy grabbing and self-glory.” She laughed—a low, sad laugh. “I also have to admit I just might have done it to make Coach mad. Because sometimes he reminds me so much of Dad, and it was all mixed up in my mind with getting back at Dad.”
Dakar slid her mouth down into the front of her coat. Her breath warmed her chin and neck. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” she said in a muffled voice.
“You know how God was always doing miracles in ancient Israel, making the sun stand still and sweeping people up in flaming chariots?” Jakarta said. “Do you know why it never seems like God does those kinds of things to save people these days?”
“Huh-uh.”
“You know how the Apostles’ Creed says Jesus ‘ascended into heaven and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty’? Would you be able to do miracles with someone sitting on your right hand?”
“That’s not funny.” Dakar liked the sound her voice made inside the coat. It made her sound like a little, petulant kid—and that’s what she was, she thought fiercely. Just a little kid.
“Sorry.” Jakarta laughed. “I thought it was when I heard it. It’s a boarding school joke.” Her voice suddenly got serious. “Oh. One last thing. Some little piece of me did it because I wanted Dad to be proud of me.”
Dakar sighed.
“He and I are going back to Kenya,” Jakarta said.
“I know,” Dakar said. That was it, she thought. That was what the desolation was about. The second she saw that last basket, even though she didn’t know she knew, she knew.
“Of course, I’ll stay through state,” Jakarta said. “I think we might win. But I miss soccer. I miss Africa. This isn’t home. Pharo promised to come visit me. His mom wants to visit, too. I wish you’d come with us.”
Dakar’s heart was being squeezed in half. Maybe she should go. She thought about the jacaranda trees, fat, fancy flowers drooping over the fences and onto the ground. But every place was beautiful. And people could make a difference every place, too. Even if Jakarta’s name wasn’t going to be on the wall o’ jocks forever, look how her basketball playing had made people come out from behind their television sets and come and sit together and cheer. Look at Aunt Lily and the cook making plans to plant beans. For that matter, look how the cook got brave enough to visit her sister. I made a difference, too, she thought in amazement.
Dakar unzipped the top of her jacket and let the freezing air shock her lips. Everything else felt numb.
“Last time I went off,” Jakarta said, “you came to boarding school after me. You know, Mom has Aunt Lily.”
It was probably true. Mom didn’t need her. But there was so much she needed to learn about Mom. And about Cottonwood.
“I’ll miss you,” Jakarta added. “It’ll be harder when we don’t have each other.”
Dakar nodded. They wouldn’t have each other, and they’d still have the arrows that flew by day and the pestilence that stalked in darkness and, underneath it all, the Allalonestone. “I wish you’d stay,” she whispered.
“I guess we’ll have to be water babies,” Jakarta said softly. “Find boats and hang on.”
“Jakarta,” Dakar said, “do you know where the water babies go?” Her teeth were chattering, but she told Jakarta everything. About the pool. Jakarta knew that part. About how the current pulled the boats out of the pool. About the waterfall. “It’s no good being water babies,” she said. “Once you go over the waterfall, there’s no way back home.”
Jakarta sighed. Then she stood up and pulled Dakar to her feet. “You’re cold.”
“Freezing.”
“Let’s go. Pharo is probably freezing, too.”
Dakar took a step. It felt strange to step on a numb foot.
“Just a second,” Jakarta said, hanging on to Dakar’s hand. “I remembered something. When the water babies fall into the water, they’re all right. They can always go to Mother Carey. Mother Carey sits in her pool and makes old beasts into new ones.”
Oh! That was what was so important about Mother Carey. The three brave things she and Jakarta had done that day in Maji were, first, to make princesses from the petunias in the enchanted, forbidden garden and, second, to go by themselves on the path to the waterfall and gather water babies. The third thing was to take everything—the princesses, the water babies, and their paper dolls—to the rain barrel they weren’t allowed near because Dad said it was dangerous.
“Just this once we can,” Jakarta had said. “Because it’s Mother Carey’s peace pool, and we need to tell Mother Carey that we trust her and we need her help.”
They had solemnly put the princesses and water babies and paper dolls in the rain barrel, one at a time, saying the incantation. When they looked up, there was Mom, watching them, holding out her arms.
Dakar could feel the strength in Jakarta’s hand, even though they both were wearing mittens. No matter where they decided to live, she and Jakarta would always be the red rose and the briar.
“Promise me that you’ll do one thing before you leave, okay?” she said. “Promise that just once you’ll come in my room and sing ‘Barbry Allen.’”
TWENTY-TWO
“Tut, tut,” Pharo said, tapping her lightly on the head. “Didn’t I warn you about winter? Don’t be scaring us like that.”
On the way home Jakarta and Pharo walked on each side of Dakar
and took her hands. Dakar tried to fight them off, but they wouldn’t let her. Pharo held one hand, and Jakarta held the other. They swung her arms, laughing.
“Got to warm you up,” Pharo said.
Dakar scowled. “Better warm Jakarta up. She’s the one everyone is going to be mad at.”
“They’ll be mad for a couple of hours because she wasn’t what they wanted her to be,” Pharo said. “By tomorrow they’ll be over it, hey.”
Dakar stared up at the moon. It was astonishing that the whole world could turn white, like the inside of sugarcane. Everywhere she looked were different shades of white: ivory and parchment, oatmeal and bamboo. Beyond this world were the hearts of stars and the whole hundred-million-year-old universe. She shivered.
“You okay?” Jakarta asked.
Dakar nodded. It was all hard to figure out. Between the Allalonestone and the waterfalls, life was a scary place. Lots of times you didn’t know the way to Mother Carey, and you couldn’t always even hang on to the people in the boat with you, no matter how much you wanted to.
But the cook and Aunt Lily were right. It wasn’t all bitter and terrifying, either. Sometimes it was unbelievably beautiful. She squeezed Jakarta’s and Pharo’s hands with her numb fingers.
She had learned one thing in Cottonwood so far, she thought. No, two. One, you couldn’t get so caught up in safe that you forgot to be fully alive. Two, courage and kindness and friendship and truth sent magic splinters into the universe, but you had to practice them, which meant sometimes having to go on quests and sometimes even giving up and letting go. Wait. Was that two things or three?
When they got close to the house, she saw that its windows were breathing light out into the street. Mom and Dad and Aunt Lily all were looking out the front window. Mother Carey, she thought in surprise. Of course. That was the house’s name.
Mom opened the door. “Thank goodness you’re all okay,” she called. “Come get warm.”
