‘You okay?’
‘Pinged my wrist. So no sparring.’
‘Is it bad?’
She shakes her head. ‘I got a fight coming up. Not taking any risks.’
I nod.
‘Anything wrong?’ Sojourner’s looking at my phone. I’m holding it thinking about what Natalie said. Thinking about what it would be like to spar against Sojourner. She’s amazing. Would I even land a punch?
‘Texting with my trainer back home. I asked her if she thought I was ready to spar.’
‘And?’
‘She thinks I’m ready.’
Sojourner gives me a soft punch to my shoulder. ‘’Cause you are. You trained great today. Jetlag gone?’
‘I guess.’ I wish.
‘So are you going to spar?’
‘I want to.’
‘So do it!’
‘Wanna get a bite to eat?’ I ask, before I can talk myself out of it. ‘I mean, since neither of us are sparring. I’m starved.’
Sojourner looks at me, staring into my eyes like they’ll tell her whether I’m worth eating with. I keep my mouth closed so I won’t say anything stupid.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘You like Mexican?’
I nod. I’ll eat anything she wants me to eat. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming, Yes!
I shower and change lightning-fast, then wait for her, sitting on the same bench, trying not to feel excited about that, or that we’ve punched the same bags, walked on the same floor, breathed the same air, because it’s ridiculous. I am ridiculous.
We walk along Houston – Howsten – together and I try to think of what to say. I’d like to ask Sojourner about fighting. Sojourner’s had two real fights. Did they push her to another level? But she’s asking me why I’m hesitating about sparring. She seems to think all I have to do is explain to the parentals I’m not going to get any better unless I spar and bingo! – they’ll change their minds. Instead my choice is between defying them or lying to them. I don’t want to do either and I don’t want to talk about it.
I think about asking Sojourner where she goes to school. But what if she’s already at university? She won’t want to hang out with a seventeen-year-old.
‘Do you think I should train with Dido?’ I ask. ‘One-on-one?’ Sojourner nods. ‘She’s not a shouter. My first coach used to whack me on the head with his glove whenever I made a mistake. Never stopped screaming. I don’t learn much when I’m being yelled at.’
‘Ditto. My coach back home in Sydney likes to talk about the similarities between boxing and meditation.’
‘Because you lose yourself?’
I nod.
‘I love when that happens. The moment when it clicks and I’m out of my own head.’
‘We’re mere atoms, part of something much bigger than us,’ I quote Natalie.
‘Like at church.’
‘Um, yeah, I guess.’
‘You don’t go to church, do you?’
‘Why do you say that?’ Which is stupid, given I just spluttered at the mere mention of the word.
‘Because you’re named after a Communist guerrilla and you’re white. Am I wrong?’
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘I didn’t think Jesus was in your life. Did you know Sojourner Truth was a preacher? My mom is too. I can’t go out with you.’
It feels like she punched me. If I were Jason I’d say, I’m not into you and imply she was up herself for suggesting it. I’m not Jason.
‘Oh,’ I say, which does not convey how miserable I feel.
‘That was kinda harsh, wasn’t it? I don’t want to mess you around. You seem like a cool guy. I feel like we can be friends. But I can’t date someone who doesn’t have Jesus in their life.’
‘So it’s not because of the lunar surface that is my face?’
Sojourner stares. ‘Huh?’
I blush. Of course I blush. Every zit on my face burns. ‘It was a stab at a joke. Sorry.’
Her eyebrows go up.
‘A really unfunny joke.’
‘Very unfunny. It’s not about anything like that. I like what I know about you. I just think it’s fair I tell people straight away. Especially white boys called Che.’
‘That was you making a joke. I can tell because it was funny.’
‘I know it’s heavy, but it’s the most important thing about me.’
‘I get that. You could try to convert me, couldn’t you? I could be converted.’
I’m kidding. But for a second there, walking beside her, looking at her profile, those big soft lips, those eyelashes that curl up so high, I’m thinking, maybe there is a God? I could worship a God that resembles Sojourner. I realise if I told her she’d freak out. Or maybe she’d expect blasphemous thoughts from a white guy called Che.
‘Nah. Converting people is the fast track to letting your beliefs twist into something ugly. You believe what you want to believe, Che. Or don’t. Take care of yourself, be good to others. You don’t need religion for any of that. I’ve known plenty without God who are good people. I don’t judge.’
I nod. That’s pretty much my ethics in a nutshell. Along with preventing others from doing harm, particularly younger sisters…
‘If you ever start to question,’ Sojourner says, ‘if you start to think about seeking a different path, then we can talk.’
‘So you won’t talk to me until then?’
Sojourner gently punches my shoulder. ‘Sure I will. We’re talking right now. I’ll eat with you too. But I won’t talk to you about God, religion or spirituality.’
‘Or dating?’ I smile to show her I’m kidding.
She laughs. ‘Or dating.’
I don’t flinch, but it hurts. I try not to think about how much I love the sound of her laugh. Or looking at her lips. Sojourner isn’t interested in me. I have to deal. It isn’t the first time the girl I want hasn’t wanted me. Or the second, or the third.
Though, wait, is that what Sojourner’s saying?
‘Do you mean,’ I ask her, ‘that if I were religious you might be interested?’
She looks at me sidelong. ‘You’re not religious.’
‘But say I was?’
‘Are you asking me to tell you if I think you’re cute?’
Of course I am. Everything I’ve said to her is basically an announcement that I think she’s gorgeous. ‘I like you,’ I say. ‘I think you’re—’
‘Hey, girl. You are fiiine.’
I turn to see a man leering at her. ‘Whatcha doing with that nasty-looking white boy?’
‘Minding my own business,’ she says, without turning her head. ‘Try it.’
The man makes a hissing sound but he keeps walking beside her, leaning in like he’s about to touch her, then pulling away.
I open my mouth to tell him to piss off as he increases his pace to stride ahead of us.
I close my mouth, deflated. What the hell was that? The man disappears down a subway entrance. I think about chasing after him. How dare he talk to Sojourner like that?
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
Sojourner blows air through her teeth. ‘It’s wind.’
‘Sorry,’ I blurt.
‘For what?’
‘I should’ve said something. Told that guy off. He was out of line.’
‘What would you have said?’
God. I have no idea what I’d have said. ‘Don’t?’
‘That’d work,’ Sojourner says, laughing. ‘Hell of a comeback. The wit alone would slay him.’
I blush more intensely. She doesn’t seem bothered. I want to kill that guy. ‘I’d let him know that wasn’t okay.’
‘He knows. He doesn’t give a damn.’
‘But—’
Sojourner puts her hand on my arm. ‘It sucks, but you punching him ain’t going to change anything. Happens all the time. It’s no big deal.’
I know that’s not true.
I don’t know how old I was when Sally first talked to me about haras
sment. She was determined no son of hers would ever harass anyone. Sally and Georgie both say they’re hassled on the street every day. They hate it.
I put my hands in my pocket because they’re shaking. I should have done something.
‘Listen, yes, Che, it’s bad. But if I let it get to me I’d lose my mind, or kill them all, you know?’
I nod. I want to kill every man who’s ever harassed Sojourner. Or Sally or Georgie or any other woman.
‘Would you come to church with me?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Come to church this Sunday, to the evening service. You say you’re interested in me, so come see a big part of my life.’
‘I thought you weren’t trying to convert me?’
Sojourner smiles. ‘I’m not. But I thought you might be interested in seeing what it’s like. Have you been to a church service?’
I haven’t. ‘Sure, I’d like that,’ I say. Why not?
That night I sleep. A deep sleep uninterrupted by New York’s cacophony of car horns, sirens, and people shouting.
I dream about Sojourner.
She’s wearing that tulip dress, then she isn’t wearing that dress. We’re chest against chest, kissing. I can smell butterflies. They’re everywhere, tiny and golden. Sojourner’s hair floats around her. Her hands are against my chest, then my belly. I’ve never felt so happy. There’s a light as bright as the sun. It gets brighter and brighter and brighter.
And explodes.
I wake smiling. I’m wet.
I slide out of bed to clean myself, taking a step in the dark towards the bathroom.
‘I was good today,’ Rosa says.
I jump and half yelp, feeling my cheeks burning, though she can’t know why I was out of bed.
Rosa is at the foot of my bed. In the dark I didn’t see her.
She laughs. A genuine laugh. Though she is getting better at making her fake ones sound real, I can still tell the difference.
‘What the fuck, Rosa?’
How long has she been standing there, watching me dream about Sojourner?
‘You shouldn’t swear in front of me. I’m only little.’
The parentals’ policy on swearing is that it’s okay if we’re sure it’s not going to upset anyone.
‘You scared me.’
‘I know. You yelled. I’m studying sleep. I’ve been watching you.’
‘That’s creepy, Rosa. Don’t do that.’
I’ve just dreamt about sex with Sojourner. I’m covered in my own jizz and there’s my little sister staring at me. ‘Never enter my room again without knocking first. It’s beyond creepy.’
Rosa shrugs.
‘You want to pass for a normal person? Don’t tiptoe into people’s bedrooms at night! Ever.’
‘I can be creepy in front of you.’
‘No, you can’t! You need to go now.’
‘I’ll go watch the parentals.’
‘No, Rosa. You can’t watch anyone sleep. Okay?’
‘If they wake up they’ll think I was sleepwalking. People do that. I always know what to tell them.’
‘Go to bed, Rosa.’
She shakes her head and turns the light on.
‘Why are your pants wet?’
‘I had an accident,’ I say, which is true.
If Rosa didn’t exist would I be okay with lying? Did I lie before Rosa was born? I realise I don’t remember much from before then. The thought makes me feel bleak.
‘You wet your pants? Like a baby?’
‘I wet my pants, yes. So now I’m going to have a shower and change and you are going back to your bedroom.’
Rosa doesn’t move, so I ask a question calculated to annoy her. ‘Did you write your essay?’
Rosa nods. ‘I wrote about how I learned that I’m not allowed to leave the house without you or them accompanying me. Even though I know how to read a map and not to get in a car with a stranger. I learned to not be rude to the police because they can lock you up or kill you if they want to and they won’t get in trouble. I concluded that our society doesn’t let ten-year-olds be independent and brave and explore even if that’s what parents say they want and that’s why most ten-year-olds act like babies. I wrote that in the Amazon there are three-year-olds who already know how to skin and gut an animal and sharpen their own knives, who don’t act like babies. I concluded that I learned that our society is broken.’
‘Sounds like a great essay. What did the parentals say?’
‘They hadn’t read it before I went to bed, which means I also learned that writing the essay was a waste of time. Did you know that when you sleep your legs move like you’re trying to run? Did you dream about running?’
‘No.’
‘Do you remember what you dreamed about?’
I don’t answer.
‘I never remember my dreams. I might not dream. It’s another way I’m not like other people. Most people dream.’
‘How do you know? I’m sure there are other people who don’t dream or don’t remember their dreams.’
Rosa doesn’t say anything. She continues to stare at me. I feel cold and so creeped out I’m close to simply picking her up and carrying her to her own room.
‘I think you were dreaming about a girl,’ Rosa says, looking from the wet patch on my pants to my face. ‘I know which girl, too.’ She leaves, shutting the door behind her.
I realise I’m sweating.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I don’t go back to sleep. In the dark, or as dark as New York City gets, I go downstairs to have breakfast. Sally is already there, nursing a cup of coffee.
‘You too, huh?’
I nod, grab a bowl and spoon and put my breakfast together. Sally’s already cut up some fruit. I pull up a stool opposite her.
On the street people are yelling, and further away are police sirens. Weirdly, that’s beginning to seem like quiet. Now’s the time to talk to her about Rosa again.
‘David’s sleeping like a baby. I was tempted to wake him up by asking him if he was asleep. He hates that. Sorry you didn’t get the good sleeper genes.’
I snort instead of telling Sally that genes don’t work like that. I think about the genes Rosa and I share, but who we are isn’t genes alone. Thank God. I’ll take not sleeping over psychopathy.
‘There are worse things,’ I tell Sally. ‘Like these bananas, for instance.’
‘We’ll find the good bananas. I promise.’
‘Rosa,’ I say. ‘I’m worried about her. I know you don’t think her running off like that was a big deal.’
‘I didn’t say that. I said I don’t think she realised the dangers. She’s young and thoughtless.’
‘Right,’ I say, ‘but I don’t think she gets why she shouldn’t do whatever she wants to do. I’ve been doing a lot of reading. I think—’
‘What ten-year-old does?’
‘Me,’ I say. ‘When I was ten I got it. Rosa doesn’t understand why she should follow rules. She doesn’t care if she gets caught. How many ten-year-olds do you know like Rosa?’
‘More than you’d think,’ Sally says, but she doesn’t name any. None of the cousins or her friends’ children are like Rosa. ‘She’s not average, obviously. How many ten-year-olds are doing calculus? Yes, she’s not always great in social situations. But Dr Chu said she’s done well, that she’s in the spectrum of normal for her age.’
Dr Chu hasn’t seen Rosa since she was little. ‘She’s not two anymore. Or three. Or four. She’s ten.’
‘I know, Che. Rosa sees the world differently. We’ve always encouraged you both to explore—’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the fact that she doesn’t care what you or anyone else thinks. Rosa doesn’t think anything is her fault. Rosa doesn’t care. It’s more than that. Rosa can’t care. She doesn’t have any empathy. She’s like Uncle Saul. I think she has antisocial personality disorder.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous.’
‘No need to shout, Che.’
I’m not shouting, though my fists are clenched. I relax my hands.
‘I know she’s not a normal ten-year-old. Not many ten-year-olds play chess the way she does. You weren’t a normal ten-year-old either, Che. You were obsessed with violence. You wanted to know about guns. Guns! Then Papa taught you how to punch and you wanted to learn kickboxing, you always wanted to see people fighting—’
I’ve heard all this. ‘That’s not the same thing. I never hurt anyone.’
‘Your father did. When he was young. But he learned not to give in to his violence. It scares me how much you love boxing.’
‘I’m not David. I’m not violent. I’ve never even been in a fight.’
‘Yes, but you want to be in fights.’
‘In a boxing ring. Under controlled circumstances. Wearing protective gear. Why are we talking about me? I’m not the problem. Rosa is.’
Sally’s face tightens. She takes a deep breath. ‘I know you worry about her. You two are close. But you have to accept that she’s not like you. You were always sensitive.’
‘For a violence-obsessed thug?’
‘I never said you were a thug, Che. You’re not. But there’s something in you that—’
‘Am I sensitive or am I a thug?’
‘You’re not a thug. You’ve always worried about everyone else. I swear you were ten going on thirty. You were responsible and never selfish. Rosa’s not like that. But most ten-year-olds aren’t. Most are selfish. Do I wish she was less selfish, more sensitive? Yes! Sometimes I wish you were less sensitive. You’re so easily hurt, Che.’
I’m not sure I recognise the Che she’s talking about.
I run along the East River. I wasn’t expecting this many other runners. The sun isn’t even up, yet there they are: ears stoppered with headphones, not seeing, let alone nodding at, the other runners pounding past them. I half wonder if one of them might be Leilani, but she doesn’t strike me as someone who would get up earlier than she has to.
In the pre-dawn darkness the river looks like an oil slick. I imagine aquatic megafauna lurking beneath, all jagged teeth, talons and poisonous tendrils. Creatures Rosa would feel kinship with.
My Sister Rosa Page 10
