Authors: Katherine Applegate
His mouth is a line.
It's not a good place.
It's called a nursing home, says my aunt.
And they pay me money
so that I can buy things.
It takes a lot of money to live here in America.
But it's night, I say.
And it's cold.
My aunt touches my shoulder.
You're a good boy, Kek.
You are your mother's child.
Mama will be glad to see you, I say.
I hope she'll get here soon.
My aunt looks at me with
questions in her eyes.
She glances at Ganwar.
He looks away.
Don't hope too hard,
she says in a whispering voice,
and then she puts on her coat and leaves.
When she's gone,
Ganwar and I watch the TV machine.
I'd seen one at the airport
and on the flying boat,
but this machine has
many more stories,
more colors,
more happy people
and mad people.
People are dancing
and singing
and shooting
and kissing.
So many people,
but they still cannot fill
the holes in the room.
The pillow like a mound of grass
under my head is good comfort,
and the blanket is warm as afternoon sun,
but still I can't sleep.
Ganwar lies without moving,
but I know somehow
he is not sleeping, either.
After a while Ganwar sits up on his elbows.
He's just a shadow to my eyes.
What's that cloth you're holding? he asks.
It's from the camp, I say.
It's true,
true enough.
I don't want to say
the whole truth.
Are you glad that you're here, Ganwar?
I ask.
He breathes in and out, in and out.
This is a good land, he says.
There's great freedom here.
But even when you travel far,
the ghosts don't stay behind.
They follow you.
You come here to make a new life,
but the old life is still haunting you.
We don't say anything for a few minutes.
Finally Ganwar speaks.
They're all gone, Kek.
They're all dead.
I want to hate Ganwar for his words.
But I am too weary for anger.
Already there are so many people to hate,
too many.
Not all, I finally whisper.
Not Mama.
He sighs. It isn't good to fool yourself.
I've learned that much.
Hoping isn't foolish, I say.
If I can make it all the way here,
then anything can happen.
He shakes his head.
Crazy boy, Ganwar says.
Hoping doesn't make a thing true.
Remember when you were
no taller than my knee
and you thought you
could talk to the cattle?
They listened, I say.
They just didn't answer.
How about when you
believed you could fly?
Remember how you jumped from the top
of the acacia tree?
I still have the scar on my elbow, I say.
And anyway, the flying part was fun.
Only the landing was troublesome.
You can't make yourself a bird, Kek.
Some things will never be.
A man does not give up, I say.
A man knows when he's defeated, Ganwar replies.
I wipe away a tear
with the soft cloth in my hand.
I don't answer.
I am afraid of what the answer might be.
I have my father's will,
my brother's eyes,
and my mother's light.
She is like newborn sun,
fresh with promise,
the just-beginning moments
before the day
fills like a bucket
with good and bad,
sweat and longing.
Even her laughter has sun in it.
Always when I think of her
I see a cloudless day blooming full,
I feel warmth on my shoulders,
I know hope's embrace.
I am just a boy like any boy.
I make trouble,
I'm lazy,
I kick at the world
when I'm mad.
I don't know why I have been so lucky,
to be so loved.
I am on the flying boat
and so is Dave and
Mama and Father and Lual.
People from my village
are there, and many cows,
and a camel and a gazelle.
Airplane, Dave says,
Try to say it, Kek.
But when my mouth opens,
the only things that come out
are little white puffs,
cloud after cloud.
You must try harder,
Lual says,
and I give him my best scowl.
He laughs, and then
the round windows open
and guns are there
and hating words,
and I am screaming
empty white clouds of fear.
When at last it's quiet,
the seats of Lual and my father
and all the other men from my village
are empty.
They're gone, I tell my mama,
they're dead,
and she takes my hand.
When we step outside
it isn't sky we see,
but endless, barren land
dotted with dead trees.
Mile after mile
day after day
tear after tear
we travel,
to a place of tents and women and children.
Here in the camp we are safe, she says.
The men with guns will not come.
My feet are blistered
and her dress of blue and yellow
is stained with blood,
and all around us
snow falls
and my eyes burn
with the sight of it.
You only make a bridge where there is a river.
âAFRICAN PROVERB
Dave comes for me the next day.
He has snow in his eyebrows.
We drive in the red rattling car
to a new place.
Refugee Resettlement Center, Dave calls it.
It's warm there,
with many chairs
and many more people,
all colors and shapes.
It's my job to answer
a bored lady's questions.
Her fingers bounce on
a machine with many buttons
while she stares at a bright box.
Her fingernails are shiny red,
the color of blood,
and I feel sorry
for her bad fortune.
At first I'm afraid to speak.
It's OK, Kek, Dave says.
It's called paperwork.
You can't make a wrong answer here.
The bored lady asks her questions again,
and this time I answer.
Soon I grow sleepy,
and after a while her words
begin to fall like raindrops on the floor.
I try to understand,
but all I hear is a river of words,
rushing and thundering
and pushing me beneath the surface.
Now and then a word I know
darts up like a sparkling fish,
but then it's all dark
moving water again.
We are there a long time.
I don't think
I like this America paperwork,
I whisper to Dave.
It makes for
too many yawnings.
Dave leads me to another room.
A woman sits behind a pile of papers
tall as a termite mound.
Is this Kek, by any chance? she asks Dave.
One and only, he says.
Kek, meet Diane.
Diane stands and shakes my hand.
She isn't much taller than I am,
but her grip is strong
and she meets my gaze
with eyes that say she is a friend.
We've been trying to get more information
on your mom, Kek, Diane says.
Here's what we've got.
She hands many papers to Dave.
My hope flutters high
like a bird I cannot catch.
I ready my heart for the words I need to hear:
Found her. Good news. Coming here.
Those are the words Diane must say.
Those are the stars that will guide my path home.
This is a very difficult process,
I'm afraid, Diane says.
Refugees in that area move frequently,
and tracking someone down can be
almost impossible.
We've sent out an inquiry
about two camps on the border.
Diane pauses.
I wait to hear the words,
to see the stars.
After your camp was attacked,
some people made it to the places we're contacting.
I don't want you to get your hopes up, Kek.
We'll know more in a while.
Diane looks at some papers.
Dave looks at his shoes.
I am still hoping, I say at last.
I want to sound fierce and certain
as a great lion.
But I sound like a lost cub,
even to my own ears.
Of course you are, Diane says.
We all are.
Thank you for your looking, I say.
Diane nods. You're very welcome.
I'll be in touch with Dave as soon as we hear anything.
We head outside.
The icy air kicks at my chest.
We walk to Dave's car in silence.
Only the snow talks.
We climb in.
Seat belt, Dave says softly.
I am glad he doesn't ask how I am feeling.
I don't know whether to feel
hope or fear.
Dave pushes a knob
and the music box sings.
The song races ahead while I stumble behind,
just one more thing I cannot know.
That night,
I try on the school clothes
in the box Dave has brought for me.
I pick a button shirt with flowers on it
and soft red pants,
but Ganwar rolls his eyes.
Those are pajamas, he says.
You wear them when you sleep.
I try again.
Ganwar shakes his head.
The kids will eat you alive, he says.
This is bad news,
since I didn't know that America people
like to eat each other.
Ganwar must see the fear in my eyes
because he explains:
It means they'll beat you up.
Oh, I say. I feel relieved.
You mean like at the camp?
I'm not much of a fighter,
not like my brother and my father
and my cousin.
I'm used to losing fights.
It isn't so bad,
if you cover your face
and other important places.
Ganwar finds a pair of hard blue pants
and a shirt the color of sand.
Jeans, he says. T-shirt.
I put them on and parade
through the TV room
like a great ruler.
Ganwar groans.
It's just school, Kek.
My aunt hushes him.
Let him have his fun, she scolds.
In the bathing room
I look hard in the shiny glass.
I wonder if I look
like an America boy.
I'm not sure if that would be
a good thing or a not-good thing.
The next morning,
I don't know what I am feeling.
I'm excited, yes,
because to go to school and learn
is a fine honor.
But I'm worried also.
I don't know so many things.
I don't even know
what I don't know!
My belly leaps
like a monkey on a tree.
In the camp we had a teacher
some days, yes,
some days, no.
Some days I was too ill
with the fever to go.
Some days the teacher couldn't come
because of the men with guns.
But on the good days,
the teacher might arrive
with a piece of chalk
and maybe even a book.
Mostly he would help us
learn English words,
so we would be ready
to leave the camp someday.
But sometimes there would be
singing, or a story
or numbers on our fingers and toes to count.
I liked the stories the best.
Once there was
a lion who could not roar â¦
Once there was
a man who sailed the sea â¦
Once there was
a child who found a treasure â¦
The stories would lift me up,
the words like a breeze beneath
butterfly wings,
and take me far from the pain in my belly
and the tight knot of my heart.
I hope they will have stories
at my school.
If they don't know how,
perhaps I can teach them.
It isn't such a hard thing.
All you must do is say
Once there was â¦
and then let your hoping find the words.
Dave takes me to school.
When I see it, I use the words
I learned from the TV machine:
No way!
It's big enough to graze
a herd of cattle in,
made of fine, red square stones
and surrounded by many