by Leylah Attar
Kissing Jack was like kissing a slumbering lion. He barely moved, but I could sense the raw power behind his restraint. And deeper still, lurked something wild and dangerous, something that could obliterate me if unleashed. But I wanted it, because it was magnificent, because it swirled over the loss and pain running through his veins, because it was the part of him that was alive. It made me want to thread my fingers through his thick, tawny hair even though I knew it was a bad, bad idea.
Jack didn’t respond, but he didn’t push me away either, and that was okay with me. There is special kind of hell that comes with remembering, in full-blown Technicolor detail, a kiss that never happened. And I had just freed myself from it. I pulled back, my eyes still closed, knowing that I had just stolen an epic moment from life. Someday when I looked back, I would smile in the middle of the street and no one would know why, because it was just for me, so that I could say to myself:
Once in Africa, I kissed a king . . .
I got up, smoothed my dress, and walked away, leaving Jack kneeling by the calf.
“Rodel,” he said, just as I was about to step outside.
Rodelle. Another thing I would always remember—the way he said my name, elle-vating it beyond the ordinary.
He was between me and the exit before I could turn around. He swung me into the circle of his arms and kissed me—not softly or tentatively, like I had kissed him, but hungry and demanding, crushing my body to his. His mouth moved wildly over mine, his tongue exploring the recesses of my mouth, as if I had stolen a piece of him, and he wanted it back. I tasted the whole universe in Jack’s kiss—the blue heat of spinning stars, the birth of distant suns, atoms buzzing and colliding and fusing.
And just like that, in an old red barn at the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro, I found the elusive magic I had glimpsed only between the pages of great love stories. It fluttered around me like a newborn butterfly and settled in a corner of my heart. I held my breath, afraid to exhale, for fear it would slip out, never to be found again.
When Jack lifted his head, my pulse was beating hard and fast at the base of my throat. He traced it tenderly, in gentle fascination, before meeting my eyes.
“Rodel,” he said my name again.
I tried to mask the swell of emotions running through me, but he caught the flicker of something, because his expression turned grim.
“Come with me,” he said, leading me outside by my hand.
We walked past the house, in the soft half-light between afternoon and evening, to the giant acacia tree I’d seen him standing under, the night of the thunderstorm.
“Everyone I love ends up here,” he said, pointing to the four tombstones at the base of the tree. His grandfather. His father. His mother. His daughter. “And this here is my spot.” He marked out an area next to Lily’s grave. “I was born here, and this is where I’ll die. God knows, there are days when all I want is to be with Lily, wherever she is. When I met her mother, I was young and naive. I thought we could make it work. But not many women are cut out for life on the farm, removed from everything and everyone. At first Sarah was taken by it, then she tolerated it, then she hated it. It took away everything good between us. After she left, I vowed never to put anyone else through that again.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned around.
“This thing between us—” his shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath “—it’ll just hurt us both. When it’s all said and done, we belong in different worlds. My home is here, yours is there. I could never ask you to stay, and you can never ask me to leave. It wouldn’t be fair. And I don’t have what it takes to let you in and then let you go. I can’t handle any more goodbyes, Rodel.” He stood at the foot of Lily’s grave, as twilight descended and shadows melted under the canopy of the ancient acacia tree. “The last one destroyed me.”
My fingers ached to straighten the crown on his head, but I stood next to him, my hands by my side, fighting the strangest pull of emotions. My heart was heavy with a sense of loss: his, mine, ours. At the same time, something beautiful had come alive at Jack’s declaration, his acknowledgment of our connection. It was as if a tiny seed filled with magic had taken root. And even though it would never see the light of day, just the fact that it had formed, where there had been nothing before, made me feel like infinite blossoms were blooming inside me.
NIGHTS AT THE farm were slow, welcome pauses when everything hung suspended under the canopy of a star-freckled sky. Goma sat at her old sewing machine, her foot on the pedal, filling the library with a soft whirring. Occasionally, she would get up, measure the fabric against Scholastica’s form, and either nod or get her scissors and tailor’s chalk.
“What are you making?” I asked.
Jack, Scholastica, and I were leaving in the morning to pick up the next child on Mo’s list, and from there we had one more stop before we headed for Wanza.
“I’m sewing some wraparound skirts for Scholastica,” replied Goma. “They’ll last her a while.”
Scholastica looked up at the mention of her name. We were practicing how to write her name. Ever since she had seen it on paper, she’d developed a fascination with it.
Scholastica
Scholastica
Scholastica
She scribbled it on every blank piece of paper she could find. It was as if she was discovering her identity, solidifying it every time she wrote it.
This is me.
This is me.
This is me.
“She looks exhausted,” said Jack. He was seated at his desk, working on some invoices.
“She does, doesn’t she?” I stroked her hair, wondering how much of her apparent tiredness came from knowing it was her last night on the farm. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
She might not have understood the words, but she took her glasses off and laid her head on my lap.
“Well, I’m all done for the night.” Goma snipped a thread and held the skirt up for inspection. She folded it and placed it on the pile of other clothes she’d stitched for Scholastica. “I’ll take her upstairs. Come along.” She held her hand out for Scholastica. “Let’s get you to bed. Twende kulala. Big day tomorrow.”
Bahati let out a long sigh as they left the room.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There is absolutely nothing to do out here,” he moaned. “I’m bored out of my mind, and it’s only 8 p.m. Don’t you crave the lights and action, Jack?”
Jack glanced up, and then went back to what he was doing.
“How about we play book charades?” I asked.
“What is book charades?” Bahati perked up.
“It’s charades, but with these.” I pointed to the shelf. “We pick a book and see if the other person can guess the title.”
“I’ve never played charades with two people. That’s silly.”
“Oh, come on! I’ll go first.” I pulled a book off the shelf, read the spine, and placed it, cover down, on my chair. “Okay. Here goes.” I held up three fingers.
“Book, obviously. Three words.”
I nodded and tried to communicate the first word, holding my nose up and walking haughtily around the room.
“Fart! You smell a fart!” exclaimed Bahati.
I glared at him and shook my head.
“Sounds like . . .” Bahati interpreted my ear-tugging gesture. “Cowboy!” he said, as I pranced around.
“Pride and Prejudice,” said Jack, without looking up.
I turned to him with my mouth hanging open. “That’s right. First word sounds like ride. That’s what I was trying to convey,” I said to Bahati. “Okay, your turn.”
“So, who wins?” he asked, removing another book from the shelf.
“Jack, I guess,” I replied.
“But he’s not even playing.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just get on with it, Bahati.”
Bahati made a face when he checked the book he was holding. He put it aside and thought about it for a while.
Bahati motioned for me to keep going.
“Bum, arse . . .” I stopped when he jumped on it. “Arse?”
He nodded, but wanted me to expand.
“Butt?”
He shook his head.
“Derriere, bottom . . .”
“No, what you said before!”
“You’re not allowed to speak. Stick to the rules. So . . . arse?”
“God, you English! Never mind. Moving on to the second word.” He sashayed like a diva across the room, hips swinging, fanning his face, and fluttering his lashes.
I was about to take a guess when Jack piped in again.
“Don Quixote,” he said, head still bent over his desk.
“That’s right!” said Bahati, holding the book up for us to see.
“How the hell is that Don Quixote?” I asked. “You pointed to your arse.”
“Ass, as in donkey. But you say arse, which doesn’t work. So then I moved on to being a hottie. Donkey hottie.” Bahati clapped his hands together. “Don Quixote.”
“That’s just . . . there’s just no way in hell . . .”
“You try to pull off Don Quixote. Besides, Jack got it.” Bahati gloated.
I glanced at Jack. He was busy writing something, but I caught the slight upturn of his mouth.
“No.” I walked over to him. “I don’t believe it. Something’s not right here.”
Jack put his pen down and sat back, regarding me with eyes that looked like rain on wild, blue forget-me-nots. “What are you saying, Rodel?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” My eyes narrowed on him. I grabbed my book and swiveled on my heels.
“Where are you going?” he called after me.
God. That voice. It made me feel like I should be marching straight to his bedroom.
“Out. With Mr. Darcy,” I replied, heading for the porch. It was my favorite thing to do at the end of the day—snuggle up with a good book on the swing.
I wasn’t too far into my date with Mr. Darcy when Mr. Warden showed up, blanket in hand.
“I thought you could use this,” he said. “It’s chilly out tonight.”
I ignored him and kept my nose stuck in my book.
“Yep, definitely some frost in the air.” The porch swing creaked as he sat down next to me.
“All right, fine,” he said, after he got tired of listening to the crickets chirp. “No one ever touches those books, except for you, so everyone pretty much has its own spot. I could tell which books you and Bahati picked.”
I kept my eyes on my book for a few moments. Then I reached for a corner of the blanket Jack had brought and tugged it across my lap. Jack might have smiled, and maybe I did too, but it was just the tiniest bit. Book nerds find that kind of thing sexy—a man who knows his book shelves like the back of his hand.
Oh, my dear, dear Darcy, I thought. I’m in so much trouble. I know I’m in deep when even you can’t hold my attention. I hold my breath every time I pass his door. My skin tingles every time he sits next to me.
I flipped my book shut and cast my glance at the crescent moon. It hung amongst clusters of stars, its halo bright against the charcoal sky.
“I’m scared, Jack.”
“Of what?”
Of never feeling about anyone else the way I feel about you.
“Of tomorrow,” I replied. “After what happened with Juma, I don’t know what to expect.”
Jack was quiet for a moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“I want to show you something.” He flipped through it until he found a video. “This is the last dance performance I have of Lily’s. I recorded it a few weeks before she died. The look on her face—it’s pure joy.”
Lily lit up the small stage. She hopped off her right foot, then her left, swinging her arms in fun, upbeat moves. It was half choreographed, half free-style, and she couldn’t stop smiling through it. When she finished, she pointed to the camera and sent her dad a flying kiss before taking a bow.
“She always told me to sit in the front row, so she could find me.”
“She’s amazing.” I couldn’t bring myself to use the past tense, not with her energy and enthusiasm coming through so clearly.
“She wasn’t always easy with it. This was her, the first time she got on stage.” Jack showed me another video.
It was a different Lily, younger, but also unsure and nervous as hell. She was part of a group, and she lagged behind everyone because she was taking her cues from them. Her moves were small and stilted, as if she were dancing in a box that restrained her. She didn’t make it all the way through. Instead, she walked off the stage and slipped behind the curtains, while the rest of the group completed the performance.
“She was terrified because she looked different from all the other kids. Being biracial isn’t easy for a kid. She seemed to be okay in class, but up on stage with all those people watching, she lost her nerve. I didn’t think she’d want to go back. But she did. She watched this over and over again. And each time she accepted herself a little more, saw her own beauty, practiced the moves, gained more confidence. She asked me to record her next performance. And the next one. Then she watched those. Over and over again. Until she could go back and laugh at her first attempt.” Jack put his phone away and turned to me. “It’s okay to be scared, Rodel. I’m scared too. I stood in that parking lot, paralyzed by fear. I haven’t been able to shake it off. I don’t know if I ever will—if I’ll ever believe that the world is a safe place. Then I watch Lily’s videos, and you know what she says to me? That fear is a liar. Don’t let it whisper in your ear. Turn that shit off. Do what scares you. Over and over again. And one day, your fear will become so small, you’ll be able to laugh at it.”
“Big lessons from a little girl,” I replied. “I wish I’d met her.”
“You would have liked her. I lived for the times when she came to visit. I loved watching her race across the plains, in grass that was almost as tall as her. She was my flower, my rising sun. Blue jeans and a rainbow T-shirt.” He rocked his foot, setting the swing into a soft, lulling motion. “Nothing’s going to hurt you or those kids, Rodel. I’ve been at war ever since I lost Lily, only I don’t know who with. And it kills me. Because every fiber of my being wants to find them and destroy them, and I can’t. But if anyone . . . if anyone touches a hair on your head or tries to harm those children, I will rip them apart. I don’t want to play by the rules anymore. I don’t want to see them behind bars. I don’t want them getting a fair trial. I want them dead. I will put them six feet under, Rodel, so help me God.”
He clasped my hand under the blanket and threaded his fingers through mine. He’d held my hand once before, but this felt different, possessive—like he was staking his claim. A curious swooping pulled at my insides. We both knew there was a line we couldn’t cross, but it didn’t stop Jack’s arm from going around me or my head from leaning on his shoulder.
For a few hours that night, Jack and I sat out on the porch, with the scent of wild jasmine in the air, and nothing but the squeaking of the swing, and the buzzing of night insects breaking up the silence.
SOMETIME DURING THE night, I had fallen asleep on the swing, and Jack had carried me to bed. I might have awoken when he scooped me up, but the feeling of being wrapped up in his arms was so delicious that I’d faked it. And then replayed it over and over in my head until I’d fallen back to sleep.
This is it, little sis, I thought, when I got up the next morning. We’re going to pick up the last two kids on your list and get them to Wanza.
There was no answer, and for a while, I wondered if it was some sort of sign from her, a warning not to go. I shook off my unease and got out of bed. I was making things up—my conversations with Mo, and now the silences too.
I had filled my parents in on what was happening.
They weren’t too happy that Jack and I would be away for the next few days. They had lost one daughter and they wanted the other one back, safe and sound. A part of me longed to head home to them, and to my little stone cottage by the river, but another part, the part that had shifted and changed, felt a sharp pang at the thought of leaving. It was also the part that leaped to life when Jack opened his door, at the opposite end of the hallway, with sleep-rumpled hair, and nothing but his boxers on.
Good God, imagine waking up to that every day.
He was half-shadowed as he stood in the corridor, but it turned his body into a sculpted study in light and dark. For a quick, satisfying beat, his self-contained demeanor slipped, as his eyes raked over my bare shoulder, grazing the skin where my top had slipped off.
“Thank you for umm . . . carrying me up the stairs last night,” I said, attempting to cut through the crackling that happened whenever we got within a few feet of each other.
Jack didn’t say anything, but he must have caught the flush on my face, because a corner of his mouth turned up, but just barely, as if he’d been in on the whole thing all along.
Well, I’m not sorry. Not sorry at all.
“Good morning.” Bahati came out of his room, looked left at me, looked right at Jack, and then made a beeline for the bathroom.
“Hey, I was going to—”
“You snooze, you lose,” he taunted, shutting the door on me.
“Shh. Keep it down!” Goma stuck her head out of her room. “Scholastica and I have been up all night.”
“Everything okay?” asked Jack.
“She’s running a fever. I’ve given her something for it, but she’s in no condition to go anywhere today.”
Goma held the door open so Jack and I could step inside. Scholastica was sleeping with the covers thrown off.
“Her skin feels clammy,” said Jack, sitting down beside her.
“We can’t leave without her.” I pressed my palm to her forehead. It was hot to the touch.
“We have to. Today is the day Mo and Gabriel are supposed to be picking up the kid in Maymosi.”
