Children of Exile (3 page)

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 children 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.

See?
I told myself.
We'll be okay. Everything's going to be okay.

Those were the words I began passing out, intoning them as I moved down the aisle.

Then I got to a row of seats that looked empty until I was right beside it.

Edwy was crouched down in that row. He had the cushioned covering pulled back from the seat, and he was using a nail to scratch something into the metal below. Maybe it was just an ordinary drawing.

No. Knowing Edwy, it was probably something bad.

“Couldn't you help?” I demanded. “Just this once, couldn't you do something useful? Couldn't you
try
to be a better role model? Two hundred crying children around you, and you—you—”

I gestured helplessly. Words didn't exist to tell Edwy what I thought of him.

Edwy's face flushed, and he peered up at me from beneath his dark cap of curly hair. His green eyes narrowed. I remembered that he and I hadn't spoken directly to each other in more than a year.

“Really?” he said. “They think we should sit down and shut up and not even make a peep while they ruin our lives. And you want me to help?”

It was my turn to go red in the face. I could feel it.

“Oh, and what you're doing is better?” I asked.

Bobo tugged on my hand.

“Are you and Edwy fighting?” he asked. His tears, never completely dried to begin with, threatened to come back.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “Edwy and I are just . . .
discussing.
Discussing is good, remember?”

Edwy snorted. I fixed him with a steely glare, alternating with quick glances down toward Bobo's head. Even Edwy should have been able to tell that I was telegraphing,
Please don't say anything to make Bobo or anyone else cry again.
Even Edwy should have been able to understand why we didn't want every kid on the plane sobbing all the way home.

“Fine,” Edwy said.

He scrambled up into his seat and clicked the seat belt into place around his waist. He crossed his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he squirmed a little and yelled out, “Everyone, this is how you're supposed to behave.”

A second later he was completely still again, an unseeing, unmoving crossed-arm statue.

“Yeah, thanks a lot,
Edwy
,” I muttered. “So nice of you to help.”

I was counting on Edwy to hear the sarcasm in my voice—and counting on Bobo to be too young to notice.

I couldn't deal with Edwy just then.

I stepped on down the aisle to the next row of crying, terrified children who needed my help.

It was only later, when we were buckled in and about to take off, and I was whispering to Bobo, “We're fine, we're fine, we're going home and you'll love it there, everything's going to be okay,” that I let myself think of Edwy again. The image popped into my mind of him sitting like a statue, a smirk frozen on his face. Except—he hadn't actually stayed perfectly still. There had been the slightest movement in the corner of his eye. Had it been a tic? A twitch? A mostly hidden wink?

Or was it a tear?

Had Edwy been crying too?