Children of Exile

  “That was everything, wasn’t it?” Fred-mama asked me.

  “Except for what you gave me to carry myself,” I said, turning around so she could see the little knapsack already strapped to my back. I’d peeked inside: It held a book to read on the plane, and lots of extra sandwiches and snacks. I’d seen Fred-mama pack a bulging knapsack for Bobo as well.

  “Good,” Fred-mama said. But she didn’t whirl around to head back inside to gather up Bobo and Fred-daddy, to get us all moving toward the airport. She just stood there, so I just stood there too.

  “Mama,” I whispered, and it was the first time in my life I had ever addressed her that way.

  “Fred-mama,” she corrected me, in that same gentle-but-firm tone she’d used with me my whole life. “I’m only your Fred-mama. Your real mama is waiting for you at home.”

  “You’re my real mama,” I said. “You. Not anyone else.”

  It was like I had no choice: Either I had to spit out the angry words inside me or they would make me collapse; they would weigh me down and pin me to the ground, and I would never be able to get up.

  “How can someone be a mama when she hasn’t seen me in twelve years?” I asked. “When she’s never even come to visit? How can you send Bobo and me—and all the other kids—back to a place we’ve never been? And expect us to call that strange place home?”

  “Oh, honey,” Fred-mama said, wrapping her arms around me.

  I buried my face against her shoulder. Fred-mama was wearing a dress I’d once told her was my favorite: It was soft cotton with a pattern of lilac sprigs. When I was younger, I used to study it and tell her which flower cluster I liked best; I used to ask if someday, when I was a grown-up lady, I could get a dress like that, too.

  I expected the feel of that soft, familiar fabric against my face to be the only comfort possible. I expected Fred-mama to offer me nothing but a hug and the same empty phrases the Freds had been giving us all along: You’re too young for us to explain everything. Someday, when you’re a grown-up, you’ll understand.

  But Fred-mama took in a gulp of air that didn’t sound comforting, confident, gentle, or firm.

  “Oh, Rosi,” she whispered into my hair. “You’re the one I feel sorriest for. Well, you and Edwy. Because you two are old enough to understand that something’s wrong.”

  I pushed away from her shoulder so I could stare her straight in the face.

  “I am?” I said. “We are? Then tell me—”

  Fred-mama began shaking her head. The motion looked regretful, apologetic. And a little sneaky. Her dark curls bounced against her cheeks, and her eyes darted about, scanning the quiet street. It was like she was checking to make sure Peki and Meki’s parents had finished loading the truck and gone back inside their house (they had); she was checking to make sure the truck had turned the corner and driven away toward the airport.

  It had, too. Except for us and the row of towering trees out in the boulevard, the street was empty.

  “I’m sorry,” Fred-mama said. “I’m not allowed to tell you anything else. This is all very . . . complicated. But I know you can tell this isn’t how things were supposed to be. Not what we intended. Things . . . changed. All of us Freds—we want the best for you. Your parents undoubtedly want the best for you too.”

  There was something in her voice I’d never heard before, something she’d never before let her guard down to reveal. Was it fear? Anguish? Grief?

  It sounded like she was trying to convince herself, as much as me, that what she was saying was true.

  “I don’t even know my parents!” I said frantically. “They haven’t seen me since the day I was born! How can they know what’s best for me? How can they know anything about me?”

  Fred-mama kept shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “So, so sorry. But . . . just remember. You are a good person. You’ll remember everything we’ve taught you.”

  What was she really trying to tell me?

  The door of our house opened just then, Fred-daddy stepping out onto the porch. He had Bobo perched on his shoulders, and the two of them had to duck down so Bobo didn’t hit his head on the doorframe.

  “It’s time,” Fred-daddy said, and I could hear the strain in his voice too—the strain he was undoubtedly trying to hide for Bobo’s sake.

  Did he also feel sorry for me? If Bobo hadn’t been there, would Fred-daddy have dropped the pretense, just like Fred-mama had? Could the three of us have wept on one another’s shoulders? And spoken freely?

  It was useless to wonder about what-ifs. Bobo was there. Bobo was always there for me to think about; I was always responsible for my little brother. I would be more responsible for him than ever, now that we were going home.

  “Ready for our big adventure?” I asked him. I tilted my head back to gaze up at him, perched high above me on Fred-daddy’s shoulders. I made my voice artificially excited, too, as if I was thrilled by the events ahead of me and Bobo should be too.

  I knew my duty.

  Fred-mama patted my shoulder. The pat still held a lingering sense of apology, but it mostly just said, Thank you. Thank you for protecting Bobo. Thank you for being such a good big sister. Thank you for letting us know we can count on you.

  We started walking toward the airport.

  Other kids and Freds spilled out of the houses we passed. It became like a parade, or a flowing river containing every resident of Fredtown.

  I had never seen so many people—or, especially, so many kids—walk so quietly. For one long stretch, I could hear nothing but kids’ knapsacks thudding against their backs; it made me think of the sad tolling of bells. Even the youngest babies seemed to understand that something strange and awful was happening. They rode in their Fred-parents’ arms, clutching onto sleeves and fingers; all the babies seemed to be looking around with huge eyes, as if somehow they knew they had only a little more time left to gaze upon the loving faces they’d learned so recently. Most of the children in the toddler-to-kindergartner range were like Bobo, perched on Fred-parents’ shoulders. It was like some picture Edwy and I might have seen in social studies class, like watching a procession of solemn young rajas swaying atop the backs of elephants. Except these young rajas held on so tightly.

  None of them are going to want to let go when they get to the airport, I thought.

  Neither would the elementary school kids walking alongside their Fred-parents, holding their Fred-parents’ hands.

  Neither would I.

  I walked without touching anyone, but I could still feel Fred-mama and Fred-daddy on either side of me. We were separated by only a few centimeters and a scant scattering of air molecules—that was nothing. I had never been apart from them before for longer than a school day or an overnight at a friend’s house. And even then, I had always known that they were close by, that they would be there instantly if I got hurt or needed them for any other reason. How would this work when they stayed here and Bobo and I went home? How far away would I have to be before I knew I’d lost them?

  “Rosi and Bobo! Two of my favorite children!”

  We were passing the school; the principal, Mrs. Osemwe, was standing out front, passing out hugs. If I’d been paying attention, I probably would have heard her calling the kids in front of us favorites, too. That was one of the things Edwy mocked—the way Mrs. Osemwe and all the teachers used that word for everyone.

  “ ‘Favorite’ is supposed to mean you like someone best,” he’d argued, back when we were still speaking to each other. “For there to be a favorite, there has to be someone you like less. Someone you maybe even hate.”

  “Nobody would hate another person,” I’d told Edwy, too scandalized by his use of that ugly word to dwell on technical definitions.

  But now, letting myself be wrapped into Mrs. Osemwe’s pillowy arms, I noticed that she held on exactly long enough to make me feel comforted. She knew me so well. Pulling away, I met her kind, gentle gaze before she moved on to hugging child
ren behind us—again, in the exact right way. She didn’t have to say or do anything else for me to know Edwy was wrong. It was possible for Mrs. Osemwe to view every single one of the children of Fredtown as her favorite. She had enough love for all of us. All the adults in Fredtown did.

  What would we do without them?

  I stumbled on. It seemed like no time at all before we reached the airport: a long, flat, open field—the runway—and a single simple barnlike terminal. Planes rarely flew in or out of Fredtown, so people commonly gathered around to watch anytime such a miraculous event occurred. I could tell myself that today was no different than any other Special Delivery Day. I could pretend that I was just going to watch a plane land and a dignitary or a bunch of cargo handlers step off—or on—and then I would go back to my ordinary life.

  But if I was just here to watch planes and dignitaries and cargo, and nothing was going to change, everyone around me would be shouting and exclaiming. Probably singing and dancing, too.

  Everyone around me stayed silent.

  No—the younger children around me were starting to whimper and whine.

  “No,” Bobo said quite suddenly, and it occurred to me that this could be his answer to my question way back at our house: Ready for our big adventure?

  I wanted to tell him, Oh, me neither, Bobo. Let’s you and me just stay here. Let’s not go anywhere. Let’s not have anything change.

  I saw that my Fred-daddy was trying to lift Bobo off his shoulders and Bobo was digging in his heels, tightening his grip.

  “Here, Bobo,” I said, reaching for him as I switched my knapsack to one side. “I bet Fred-daddy’s back is getting tired. Why don’t you ride your sister-horsy for a while instead?”

  Bobo looked back and forth between our Fred-daddy and me. He stuck out his lower lip.

  “Stand on my own,” Bobo demanded, distrust in his voice.

  Our Fred-daddy put Bobo down on his own two feet. Bobo immediately dived for our Fred-daddy’s legs and coiled his arms around Fred-daddy’s knees.

  Part of me wanted to do the exact same thing.

  Fred-mama crouched down beside Bobo.

  “You’re a big boy,” she said. It sounded like she was holding back tears. Could Bobo hear that in her voice too?

  “We’ve raised you to be strong and true and kind to others,” Fred-mama went on. She patted Bobo’s back. “You have to think about your parents, about how much they’ve missed you, about how happy they’ll be to see you again. You have to be kind to them.”

  It sounded like Fred-mama was having a hard time thinking about being kind to our real parents.

  “Come with us,” Bobo wailed, his face against Fred-daddy’s leg. “Some of the Freds are going home with us.”

  I waited for Fred-mama or Fred-daddy to deny this, but they didn’t.

  Now, how did Bobo know that? I wondered.

  “It’s only the Freds who meet certain criteria,” Fred-daddy said helplessly. “The ones whose children are particularly . . .”

  “Vulnerable,” Fred-mama finished for him. Her face twisted with more misery than I had ever seen on anyone’s face.

  Normally, our Fred-parents would have defined a big word like that for Bobo, but neither of them attempted that now.

  “The fact that Fred-mama and I aren’t allowed to go—that just means the people in charge know that you and Rosi are strong and capable,” Fred-daddy added. “And you have each other.”

  “Don’t want to be strong,” Bobo wailed, still clutching Fred-daddy’s leg. “Want to stay with you!”

  I wanted to cry with him. I wanted to throw myself to the ground and pound my fists on the dirt and scream at the top of my lungs. I wanted to act like a five-year-old too. Maybe even a baby.

  You can’t, I told myself. You and Edwy are the oldest kids in Fredtown. You have to set a good example.

  I glanced around, suddenly curious to see how Edwy was dealing with all this. He was probably standing a cold, careless distance away from his Fred-parents; he was probably slouching and shrugging and rolling his eyes.

  I couldn’t see Edwy or his Fred-parents anywhere nearby, and the crowd was packed too tightly to see very far out. And now the commotion was overwhelming. All the adults must have started their good-byes at the same time as my Fred-parents, because just about every kid I could see was screaming and crying and wailing and desperately hugging.

  And yet somehow, above all that noise, I could hear another sound: an airplane engine zooming closer and closer. I looked up, fixing my eyes on one dark speck in the blue, blue sky. The speck grew bigger and bigger; it transformed from a speck into an evil winged creature. Then it dropped from the sky and rocketed across the runway toward all of us kids and Freds. The engine noise became overpowering; it drowned out the screams, the cries, the weeping.

  Then the plane came to a stop and lowered a set of stairs. The engine noise stopped, too. Maybe there were still kids crying; maybe Bobo was still wailing at the top of his lungs right beside me. But I didn’t hear any of it. It felt like the whole world had gone silent and still and frozen, waiting for what came next.

  A man stepped out of the plane, and—

  He wasn’t a Fred.

  I’m not sure how I could tell, in that very first split second. He was dressed in dark pants and a loose white tunic—nothing a Fred wouldn’t wear. He was an adult, and every adult I’d ever seen was a Fred. He had two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears, one nose, and one mouth.

  Maybe it was silly, but I checked these things, because I was trying to figure out what was different.

  Was his face too rough? Were his eyes too hard? Was the curl of his lip a little too surly?

  How could I look at a man and know right away that he wasn’t a Fred?

  The man at the top of the stairs held up something in his right hand—a piece of paper.

  “There’s been a change,” he announced. He sounded triumphant, gloating. “We’ll be taking only the children. All the Freds have to stay here.”

  Several of the Freds began protesting: “No!” “That’s not fair!” “That’s not what we agreed to!”

  The man waved the paper at us as if it had magical powers to silence Freds.

  “It’s what your leaders agreed to,” he said. “They had no choice. You have no choice but to obey.”

  Someone must have scrambled up the stairs to check it out, but I couldn’t really see. Something had gone wrong with my eyes. Or maybe the problem was my brain. All I could think was, I’m going to a place with no Freds. No Freds at all.

  I didn’t even know what the difference was between Freds and the type of adults my parents were. No one had ever explained. But I knew it had to be something big. The thought No Freds, no Freds at all . . . kept spinning in my brain, tangling my mind in knots.

  And then I started noticing the hubbub around me again because Fred-mama was shouting in my ear: “You’re going to have to watch out for Bobo and all the other little kids! Please, please, take care of them all . . . and yourself. . . .”

  Fred-daddy thrust Bobo into my arms, and then we were all swept forward, shoved toward the airplane.

  My arms wrapped automatically around Bobo, but I was so dazed and numb that Fred-mama had to help me hang on. She had to place one of my hands on Bobo’s shoulder and one under his rear so he didn’t slip out of my grasp.

  “Make sure you put Bobo’s seat belt on when you get on the plane!” Fred-daddy urged me. “Make sure you put on your own!”

  Around me, other Fred-parents were telling their children, “Don’t forget to brush your teeth every night!” “Remember to share your toys!” “Remember everything we’ve taught you!” “Remember to be good little children!”

  Good little children, good little children, good little children . . .

  I saw children crying and clinging to their Fred-parents’ legs. I saw men yanking babies from their Fred-parents’ arms. I turned back to my own Fred-mama and Fred-daddy—maybe to grab onto
them as hard as I could—but the crowd surged just then, pushing Bobo and me up the stairs. I couldn’t see my Fred-parents anymore. I hadn’t even had a chance to tell them a proper good-bye.

  “Wait!” Bobo screamed, squirming in my arms. “Have to tell—”

  I couldn’t even hear what it was that Bobo wanted to tell our Fred-parents. But it was too late. If I let go of Bobo, I might lose him too.

  “They know you love them!” I yelled at Bobo, the crowd carrying us farther and farther away from our Fred-parents. “They understand whatever you were going to say!”

  I stumbled onto the plane. Rows of seats stretched out before me. Little kids were falling down and getting stepped on. While Bobo clung to my neck, I reached down and pulled up Nita, one of the ten-year-olds, who was crying on the floor.

  “Help the little kids into their seats and buckle them in,” I told her. “Then sit down and fasten your own seat belt.”

  The crowd pushed forward, so I didn’t have time to see whether Nita did what I told her or not.

  Eight-year-old Rosco was cowering in the row behind Nita’s. He was sucking on his thumb. An eight-year-old!

  “Help the littler kids,” I told him. “Remember? That’s what you’re always supposed to do. Wherever you are, in Fredtown or going home.”

  I tried to sound like a Fred; I tried to make my voice hold the same quiet authority a Fred voice always contained. And maybe it worked, because Rosco popped the thumb out of his mouth and said, “Oh. Okay.”

  In the last glimpse I caught of him he was turned around, easing his little brother, Rono, into one of the seats.

  I kept going down the aisle. There was still a part of me that wanted to scream and cry and pound my fists on the ground—or run back and grab onto Fred-mama and Fred-daddy and refuse to leave. Or maybe even suck my thumb like Rosco. But it helped a little to try to keep my voice calm; to focus on soothing the smaller children, drying their tears, lifting them into their seats, getting them to assist one another. By the time we were about halfway down the aisle, Bobo was walking alongside me instead of clinging to my neck; he was like my little assistant, a five-year-old telling four- and three-year-olds how their seat belt buckles worked. It made my heart swell a little with pride.