The Friendship Matchmaker Goes Undercover

  And so he did.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said, after I’d finished my spiel. “Chris is going to teach me how to play soccer?”

  “He’s going to teach you how to play all kinds of sports. In his words, ‘I’m going to go back to the basics, like catching a ball.’ Sound good to you?”

  Antony sat deep in thought. As the seconds ticked his eyes widened with excitement. “Actually, it’s not a bad idea at all,” he said enthusiastically. “It would be awesome to go out onto that field at lunchtime and actually kick a goal!” He grinned. “Where’s Chris? Let’s get this friendship thing started.”

  That was more like it. Finally something was going right.

  Tanya, Emily, and I were in the library helping Mrs. Weston set up for the kindergarten book fair. Ms. Pria had asked Tanya and Emily—again assuming they were best friends—so I’d quickly invited myself along.

  We were sitting at a desk near a row of bookshelves sorting out piles of bookmarks when Majur came in, slamming the library door behind him. Mrs. Weston was in the back room. The library was pretty much empty.

  “If you need a good door to slam,” Emily said, “try 5C. It’s got better springs and slams beautifully.”

  Tanya chuckled and Majur gave her a half smile. “I just want a place to sleep,” he said. “But the bed in the office is used. And we not allowed in our classroom.”

  He looked around the library.

  “Sit near us and just put your head on the desk,” I suggested.

  He shrugged like he had no choice and pulled up a chair at the desk near us.

  “Did you stay up late?” Tanya asked.

  “Yes. I was helping my aunt write a letter for a job. Her English is not so good. Also she is very angry. She has been trying to find a job but they say, ‘What is your work experience?’” He yawned. “We have been living in camps. We don’t have any work experiences.”

  “She’ll find something,” I said gently.

  Majur placed his head on his arm and closed his eyes. But Emily wasn’t going to give him a chance to sleep.

  “What was it like for you in Sudan?” Emily asked. “Ms. Pria told us a bit and I looked some stuff up online about Darfur.” She scrunched up her nose. “But there was too much. I didn’t know where to start. How bad was it?”

  I was embarrassed for her. She had no clue how to be subtle. She must have noticed the disapproving look on my face because she started to backtrack, telling him to ignore her. But Majur raised his head and shrugged again. He was always doing that, like he had so much weighing down on his shoulders and he was trying to throw it off, one conversation at a time.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Not many people ask. The teachers are too scared, I think. That I will get upset. Except Ms. Clarity.”

  “Sometimes there are things people think are too hard to talk about,” Tanya said offhandedly. “Not for the person talking, but the person listening.”

  I felt stunned. Was she talking about me? I’d always listened to her. In this library. In that beanbag corner over there. I felt like I was going crazy. Had I always been a bad friend to her? Or only recently? How would I ever start to fix the damage?

  “I live with eleven people in a small house,” Majur said, interrupting my thoughts. He sat up straight in his chair. “It is hard for me to do my homework. It is always noisy and crowded. My sisters are smaller than me and they run around. I look after them when I come home. I not complaining. I lived in tents, and worse . . .” Then he grinned. “But there was no Ms. Pria in Chad.”

  I giggled.

  “Do you miss Sudan?” Tanya asked.

  “Yes and no. I only know my country in war so I cannot remember much good.” He shrugged. “I miss my family. We do not know what happened to some of them. I feel confused here in America. It is a beautiful country. Peace and no killing. Maybe it will take time to feel this is my country too.”

  “Of course it’s your country!” I insisted, Emily and Tanya nodding along with me.

  “How did you get out?” Emily asked. “What happened to your family?”

  “Is it as bad in Darfur as Ms. Pria told us?” Tanya asked.

  He shrugged again. “The rebels attacked my village,” he said, his voice slow and quiet. “I saw my friends killed. My family, we running in all directions and escaped. I was with my mother and sisters but we lost my father. We try escape to the border, to Chad. We walked for days. In swamps with big mosquitoes.”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  “We had to hide from the rebels. We were so hungry and there was no water. My older brother, Nwyal, was so thirsty. He did not listen to our mother. He drank the bad water and got infection. He died on the way.”

  There was no emotion in his voice. But I think I knew why. I think he might have been numb or in shock, like he’d been in a freezer room for so long that he hadn’t had a chance to thaw.

  “Did you find your dad?” Emily asked.

  He shook his head. “No. When we reach the camp in Chad we find out later he was killed.”

  The three of us were too stunned to speak. Anyway, I wouldn’t have known what to say.

  It was then that I noticed somebody at the desk behind the bookshelves. I took a closer look.

  Chris.

  But that didn’t make any sense. Chris Martin had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the library. For him to be here voluntarily was serious. Were things really that bad that he’d become a recess and lunchtime refugee too?

  He must have heard everything Majur said. The way his chair was tilted in our direction. It was obvious. He didn’t even have a book open. Just a car magazine on the desk. We locked eyes.

  I tried to read the look on his face. It was a combination of embarrassment, confusion, and guilt. I wasn’t going to rat him out. I turned my gaze away, back to Majur.

  “Many members of my family were killed. By the rebels. And if not the rebels, by malaria. My cousin died of hunger. Once they dropped bombs on our camp. Many died.”

  “That’s awful,” said Tanya, shivering.

  It was so awful, I thought to myself, that it didn’t feel real. We were sitting in a library surrounded by posters of books about green eggs and ham and a mouse with a cookie, and Majur, just a kid like us, had seen such horrible things. I didn’t understand. How did he go from that to lunch orders and school bells? I felt helpless, like anything I said would be dumb. I’m not even sure Majur was expecting us to respond.

  I guess Chris must have been thinking the same thing, because when the bell rang a while later and we all stood up to leave he was still sitting, staring at the floor.

  That night I was checking my e-mail when I noticed Chris had sent me and a bunch of other seventh-grade kids an e-mail, which was empty except for a link to a website about the war in Darfur. That was it.

  “Dribble the ball, Antony!” Chris cried. “Control it! Don’t kick it!”

  “All right,” Antony cried back. But he put too much power into his foot and ended up kicking the ball across the grass.

  “Try again,” Chris said, after Antony had retrieved the ball from under a tree. “You’ve got to use parts of your foot. Move the ball down the field, don’t kick it. Got it?”

  “Yep!” Antony’s face was bright red but he looked happy.

  It was lunchtime and I was at a secluded grassy area in the elementary school section. It was where Chris was secretly coaching Antony.

  I was with Emily.

  Tanya was at choir practice. Emily had asked me to hang out with her. I told her I planned on watching the younger kids play ball, assuming she’d ditch me for the others. But she’d happily agreed.

  I’d positioned us at a bench that had a view of Chris coaching Antony.

  It was a funny thing about Chris. Even though he’d call Antony an idiot every now and then, he was surprisingly patient. It was like Antony was his star player and Chris was the coach of the Olympic soccer team.

  “What??
?s going on?” Emily asked, motioning toward Chris and Antony.

  I pretended I didn’t know what she was talking about. But she was too smart for that.

  “Come on,” she pressed. “What’s going on with Chris? He was actually civil all day yesterday. Not one horrible word. Did you mix up some special potion and spike his drink?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I ended up telling her. It felt good to get it off my chest. And I was pretty proud of myself too.

  “That’s so funny,” she said, laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I snapped.

  “It’s a brilliant idea, Lara. Look.”

  I turned to see Chris and Antony laughing their heads off. I’d never seen Chris so relaxed. No, that wasn’t it. I’d never seen Chris laugh so hard with somebody, not at them.

  I watched Chris for the next week. In class I’d hear him talking to Antony about game plans and rules. “You’ve got to control the ball. When someone passes it to you, trap it with your leg or chest. Then you can either set up a shot or pass it on.”

  Ms. Pria kept catching them talking. The first two days of class she was constantly yelling at them. “Chris and Antony!” she’d shout. “Focus on your work.”

  But Ms. Pria wasn’t an idiot. She must have noticed that Chris was so busy talking to Antony about soccer rules and strategies that he didn’t have a chance to give anybody a hard time. He was using every spare moment to coach Antony.

  In a perfect world, Antony would have been enough. But that’s not how things work in the real world. Chris had been hurting. He’d lost his soccer friends and it wasn’t something he was going to get over just like that.

  When, during PE the next morning, Mr. Raj gushed about Majur being the best player he’d ever come across, I stole a glance at Chris. His face was full of hurt.

  When the bell rang for the end of recess, I walked past Chris and Antony, who’d been playing together again, Chris teaching Antony his moves. Chris waved at Antony to ignore the bell.

  “Just take this last shot,” he called out.

  Antony’s face was scrunched up in concentration as he balanced himself, studied his foot and the ball, and then kicked. The ball sailed between their lunchboxes (makeshift goal posts) and Chris jumped up. “Awesome shot!” he cried and high-fived Antony, who grinned proudly.

  I followed as they walked in the direction of the classroom. On the way they passed Majur, who was with Chris’s old friends.

  Majur and the guys were all laughing and shouting, talking about the game they’d just played. Chris’s friends didn’t even see Chris and Antony, and walked straight past them.

  Chris pretended not to notice and put on the tough-boy act, roaring into the ear of a smaller kid walking in front of them, who yelled in fright. Chris laughed his head off.

  He didn’t fool me for a second.

  In the IT lab the computer Chris first sat down in front of wasn’t working so Ms. Pria told him to sit at the last free one, which happened to be right next to Majur. Chris slowly walked to the chair and sat down, ignoring Majur.

  Ms. Pria had set up some exercises on Mathletics. I watched Chris. He logged on and started opening up different menus, instead of doing the work. Then I watched Majur. He looked frustrated. I saw his screen. An error message had popped up. Majur kept clicking on the mouse and keyboard but nothing happened on the screen. The computer beeped every time Majur clicked a button. He gave up and scanned the room for Ms. Pria, but she was busy talking to Mr. Smith, who was standing in the doorway. I was about to get up and offer to help him when I noticed Chris steal a glance at Majur. Then he leaned over, casual as anything, and grabbed the mouse. Majur looked surprised but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s frozen,” Chris said, as he pressed some buttons on the keyboard. “You have to press Control, Alt, and Delete at the same time. Then Task Manager opens and you have to do this.” He showed Majur what to do, and Majur watched him carefully.

  “Thanks,” Majur said when Chris had finished.

  Chris didn’t say anything, just went back to his computer.

  Chris came up to me as we all filed out of the hall when the bell rang for lunch.

  “Do you think Antony would come over to my place on the weekend if I asked him?”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “I just think it’d be good to coach him for longer than recess or lunch. If he’s going to be any good I need more time. Now I know what my dad meant when he used to complain it was torture teaching somebody to play ball when they had two left feet. I think if I had a couple of hours straight I could have him dribbling.”

  “Just ask him, then.”

  He paused, a worried look on his face. “What if he says no?”

  “Fifty percent chance he’ll say yes. So just ask.”

  On Sunday morning I was online when Antony sent me an instant message.

  Antony I went over 2 chris’s house yesterday, can U believe it?

  FMM Cool. Did U have fun?

  Antony It was awesum. We played soccer the whole tym. Im def getting better thx to chris. His dad came out 2 watch us 2. He laughed @ me everytym i missed the ball. Said i kicked lyk a girl. No offense.

  FMM I do kick like a girl. & im pretty good 2.

  Antony He played with us 4 a bit 2. Goal-keeper. He said we’d get better when we were challenged. Scared me so i missed every kick. Do U blame me? He kept calling us sissys whenever we missed.

  FMM He sounds scary.

  Antony U bet.

  On Monday morning Ms. Pria asked me to collect the lunch orders and take them to the cafeteria.

  “Ms. Pria! I left mine in my locker,” Chris called out. “Can I get it?”

  Ms. Pria said okay, and Chris went outside.

  I walked out the door with the basket of orders. As I rounded the corner of the corridor Chris came up to me.

  “Did Antony mention anything to you about him coming over to my place on Saturday?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did he say he had fun? Did he mention anything?”

  “About what?”

  “About . . .” He looked up at the ceiling then back down again. “I don’t know. Anything . . . maybe about my dad?”

  “Nah. Nothing,” I lied.

  He looked relieved.

  “Good,” he said and walked back to class.

  “What about your lunch order?” I called out to him.

  “I don’t have one,” he called back.

  Chapter 23

  The school athletics carnival was being held on the sports field in the next town. It was the highlight of the year because it meant an entire day outside of school. We got to play games, have a cookout, and eat ice cream. After the competition we were allowed free time for an hour before going back to school.

  When the bus dropped me off at school in the morning I headed to the lockers. I found Majur sitting there alone, staring at a piece of paper in his hand. He looked on edge. His long left leg was stretched out, toe up, while his right leg nervously jiggled up and down. My dad was a leg jiggler. It drove Mom crazy.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, as I lifted my bag onto a hook.

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly. He thought for a moment and then scowled. “Why you always asking?” He started mimicking me (terribly, by the way). “‘Are you okay?’” he whined. “‘Are you sad? What’s wrong?’” He let out an annoyed sigh. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

  I stood there and stared at him. “Sorry, but I was just trying to help . . .”

  He rolled his eyes. “You trying to help. The teachers trying to help. The government people trying to help.” His leg jiggled even faster. “Everybody trying to help . . .”

  I didn’t move. I just kept standing there, looking at him. I was about to apologize, again, but I was angry. I thought about going off on him, but I felt too guilty. In the end I didn’t have to say anything because he broke the silence. “I not going today because I forgot to have my aunt sign the paper.” He he
ld it up to show me and then dropped it back in his lap, shrugging his shoulders.

  “They will make me sit in the library all today. And you will all be at the sports.”

  So that was the problem. Who wouldn’t be angry if they had to stay behind while the rest of the class went on an excursion? It had happened to me once. I’d forgotten my permission slip and ended up hanging out in the office while everybody else enjoyed a trip to a farm, shearing a sheep and milking cows.

  I took a step toward him.

  “Are you allowed to go?” I asked cautiously.

  He made a face. “Yes. I’m sure my aunt let me. But it’s not signed.” He shook the paper in his hand. “I hear the teacher yesterday saying that no paper, not going. Not even if your family call to say yes.”

  I clapped my hands together and went into my let’s-find-a-solution mode.

  “Why don’t you get the office to call your aunt? Maybe she can send her signature?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t reach her. And no ways for her to send the paper.”

  “That stinks,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “Teachers and their rules. It’s so annoying.”

  “There are rules for everything,” he said with an exasperated sigh.

  “Raise your hand if you want to go to the bathroom.”

  “Ask if you want to sharpen pencil.”

  “Sit down when you eat.”

  “Never wear a hat inside.”

  We grinned at each other.

  “Back home was not like this,” he said.

  “Do you miss home?”

  He shrugged. “My aunt she says, some people want a home, some people want peace, some people have both in the same place. We had to choose.”

  “I’m sorry . . . ,” I said. I felt tongue-tied by his pain. Not understanding anything about what he’d come from.

  He suddenly swung around toward me. His eyes lit up. “Why do people in this country say ‘No worry?’”

  “Huh?”

  He was all animated now. “I say to the man driving the bus, ‘I have this ticket, please,’ and he say, ‘No worry.’ I wanted ask him why he worried about a bus ticket.” He laughed. “But I didn’t.”