Laugh with the Moon (23 page)

“This is how to draw?” Memory asks.

“Inde,”
I say. I sit up and hand her the piece of coal. Then I lie down on the other side of our canvas. “Now, mark the spot where you see the heel of my foot.”

Memory looks at me like I’m nuts. “Go ahead,” I tell her.

Slowly, she bends down and draws on the cardboard.

“Perfect!” I say, and stand. “You see how we did that? Draw the second wing here, and it will be exactly the same size as the other one.”

Memory works very slowly, but when she finishes, our dragonfly looks stunning. Soon Agnes returns with a plastic bucket. African daisy petals swish in the water.

“Purple,” I say, and hold out my hand. Agnes dips the rag into the bucket, then slaps it into my palm, splattering dye across our mural in all the wrong places.

“Cannot you assist with care?” Memory asks.

“You’ve already ruined everything!” I shout. “Maybe you’d better go. Maybe you’re not needed.”

“Not needed?” Agnes says. “Are you quite sure?”

“Inde!”
Memory says.

Saidi approaches with a bucket full of cow parsley and water for the white dye, as well as a stalk of sugarcane he found out there in the bush. “Girls, my eyes surprise me,” he says. “I think you are hardworking but I see I am wrong.”

Of course, none of us want Saidi to think that we’re lazy, so we all shut right up and grumble back to our jobs. While Memory and I fill in the wings, I force myself to imagine that the specks of purple paint on the sheet are nothing but baby insects circling the big dragonfly in the middle.

The wind whips up and a roll of thunder rumbles across the ground, so we quickly carry our creation, as well as the
other boxes, into the hospital waiting room. Mr. Malola tells us he can fit everything in the supply closet since, unfortunately, it doesn’t contain many supplies.

Back on the hospital porch, Saidi uses his pocketknife to cut up the sugarcane. Then we gnaw on our sweet treats and wait for the storm to stagger away.

A
gnes, Memory, and I are huddled in the schoolyard before chores debating what our next mural for the hospital will be, when Mr. Special Kingsley approaches, pressing his handkerchief against his forehead. He opens his mouth but no words come out.

“Sir?” Memory says.

Our headmaster clears his throat. “Number one, number two, and native English speaking student,” he finally says, “I am most afraid I must ask a rather large and significant favor, one that shall benefit the children of Mzanga Full Primary.”

Mr. Special Kingsley turns and limps away.

The three of us look at one another and shrug before we follow.

“It is a most serious matter, I am afraid,” he says.

Memory shuffles ahead of Agnes and me to walk beside
him. “What is it, sir?” she asks. As we cross the schoolyard, Agnes dabs her forehead with the sleeve of her dress, doing a pretty good imitation of our nervous headmaster.

“I am most reluctant to reveal that in the matter of education, the smooth fabric of carrying services to our youngsters at times becomes full of wrinkles. Those who suffer are none but our children, the individuals who deserve our greatest resources.”

When Mr. Special Kingsley stops to take a breath, we find ourselves outside the standard one classroom. The hair on my arms stands at attention and I get a funny déjà vu feeling.

“It now appears that Mr. Namathaka, the teacher sent by the District Education Office, has disappeared,” Mr. Special Kingsley says.

“Disappeared, sir?” Memory says.

“Yes. I am terribly afraid this is the case as it presents itself.” Mr. Special Kingsley dabs his handkerchief on his forehead one more time before he continues. “Mrs. Kumwenda, the seamstress, reports that Mr. Namathaka took the minibus north yesterday after school. As he waited in front of her shop, he told Mrs. Kumwenda that the job of teaching standard one students is far too difficult. I believe he said ‘too miserable.’ Mr. Namathaka said he much preferred his old profession of hauling lumber up the mountainside from dawn to dusk. I believe he told Mrs. Kumwenda it was like ‘sleeping in the sunshine’ compared to this job.”

“Sorry, sir,” Memory says. “But what has this to do with us?”

Of course, I already know the answer. “I’ll do it, sir,” I
blurt out before my headmaster’s even able to make the official request. “I’ll teach English!” I say.

Mr. Special Kingsley sighs with relief. “I thank you, Clare. The children do relish the words you speak.”

“Cool,” I say. “In fact, supercool!”

Our headmaster turns to Agnes, who quickly stops her imitation. “There is quite a significant mountain of work to do with the exam preparation, reports to the District Education Office, as well as training our teachers,” he says. “I cannot educate the children on all other subjects myself this time around. Therefore, Agnes, I think you would be most suitable to teach the maths. After all, you are smart as the bush elephant.”

Agnes beams. “I thank you, sir.”

“Memory, I request that you teach civics. I know this is your best subject. You might discuss geography lessons and Malawi history. I possess no doubt that the benefit to the children shall be tremendous.”

“I—I do not know, sir,” she says.

“I urge you most pressingly to consider,” Mr. Special Kingsley says. “Please do inform me of your decision at morning assembly. I assure you, Memory, that I shall understand whether your answer brings flood or flower.”

Memory nods. Then Mr. Special Kingsley turns to Agnes and me. “You two shall begin your duties tomorrow.”

“I can begin today, sir!” I say.

My headmaster smiles and extends his hand toward the doorway of the standard one classroom. I reach into my backpack and pull out my scarf. I tie it around my waist, step into the classroom, and wave hello. Aneti breaks into an enormous grin. She’s lost two teeth since
I’ve been gone. Lovemore has found a new pencil. Felicity’s face looks thinner. Chikondi’s belly seems fatter.

When I glance at the doorway, I still see Innocent standing in it, spreading his little arms and legs wide to keep me inside. Of course, he wouldn’t have had to do that anymore. There’s no place like this classroom—no place I’d rather be.

T
he next week, the costumes still aren’t finished, my students still don’t know their lines, and we’ve all realized that it’s true—Saidi’s really not coming back to school. He refuses to return because he’s making enough money selling reeds to buy a second meal each day for his family. And of course, we all miss Innocent terribly. So after school, while the standard eight girls are busy chatting on the hilltop, I decide it’s as good a time as any to try out my trick that might spread some cheer.

I point to the bookmobile. “I want to show you something,” I tell Patuma. “Books, please.” But Patuma won’t hand them over.

“I promise I won’t drop them.” I can hardly breathe, because what if I do drop them? There are mud puddles everywhere. The books would be destroyed.

Agnes is wearing the rainbow-striped scarf I gave her after she accepted the teaching position from Mr. Special Kingsley. “Give her a book,” she orders in Chichewa.

Now Patuma looks from Agnes to me. I shrug, and reluctantly, Patuma hands one over. I try not to grimace as I set it into position. A crowd of students gathers around. “Another,” I say, and hold out my hand. Agnes nods, daring me to up the stakes, and Patuma reaches into the bookmobile for one more. Soon I’ve got five books piled on my head.

No time like the present. I count out loud as I slowly, carefully take each step. “One … two … three …” I’m a tightrope walker at the circus. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Memory approach. I try not to lose my concentration. I try not to see her flapping her arms all over the place to get me to cut it out.

I know that the turn will be the hardest part, so I hold my breath, shift my weight forward onto my toes, and pivot.

A truck’s coming. I hear it. Don’t see it. I wonder who it could be. Our Land Rover is usually the only vehicle around. Even the clinical officer at the hospital rides a bicycle.
Focus! Focus!
I tell myself. I take the last three steps.

“Wonderful!” Stella cries.

I pull the books down from my head and set them in the bookmobile.

“You cannot be
mzungu
from America!” Memory says, and smiles.

As I curtsy for the cheering crowd, I notice Agnes. Her mouth is wide open, like she’s about to swallow the minibus that’s creaking toward us.

“How goes the play?” Stella asks. “My whole family shall attend.”

“It is good,” Memory says. “The children think it is funny.”

“It won’t be funny if we don’t figure out a curtain and stage,” I say. “There isn’t much time left at all.” But none of my friends have ever heard of a curtain or a stage, so I grab my sketchbook to draw a real theater so they can see what I mean. Agnes yanks the sketchbook right out of my hand. “What is this?” she asks.

I take it back, lean against the acacia trunk, and flip to the beginning. There’s the big monkey drinking a Coke that Dad and I saw on our drive to Mkumba village.

“They are such a bother!” Agnes says.

“You are such a bother!” I say, and punch her gently in the shoulder.

Agnes smirks.

“Next page,” Memory says.

“Oh, no!” I say.

But my friends insist.

So I turn the pages. There are the two village musicians who face each other playing a single drum. There’s the pot of
nsima
I cooked with Memory—I scrawled the recipe beside the picture. And there are a whole bunch of patterned fabrics that I’ve seen the ladies in the village wear. I show them all the pictures I’ve drawn in charcoal and ink: the elephant behind our school, the standard one students proudly holding up their letters made of termite clay, a toucan I copied from a ten-
kwacha
bill. I even show the picture of Agnes as a
bongololo
. “I was mad at you that day,” I explain, and we all have a good chuckle.

When I’m through, I tuck my sketchpad back into my knapsack while Agnes clears her throat and announces, “Clare is a true scholar of Malawi culture.”

“What did you say?” I ask. I can’t believe she called me by my real name instead of Glorious Blessing. After Agnes repeats herself, I realize what she says is true! I really am a true scholar of Malawi culture. Of the language, money, animals. Of how the children here have fun. I do have a project to show the eighth graders back in Brookline. It’s right here in my hands.

I throw my arms around Agnes. “I love you!” I say.

“Do not love me,” she replies. “I am not always a nice schoolmate.”

“Number two student speak the truth,” Memory says.

“But Agnes is smart,” I tell Memory. “So right now, I love her anyway.” I squeeze Agnes again, and our other friends laugh.

“We will miss you, Glorious Blessing,” Agnes says.

“Don’t make me cry.” I take a deep breath. I can’t bear to think of leaving this place. “The show’s the thing,” I say. “We need to turn the Mzanga schoolyard into a real theater.”

All of us sit there and think together until we come up with a brilliant plan. The most beautiful part of it is that Memory wants back in. “I must help with the play,” she says. “Innocent do want me to tell the story of this chicken.”