Kiki and Jacques (3 page)

Maybe they don't want our help, he thought to himself as he headed to gym class. Was Nicole right? Was it better to just stay clear?

That night Jacques set two alarms, but he woke up the next morning before either went off and made it to homeroom early. With his eyes darting between his notebook and the door, he practiced saying hi under his breath. But Kiki never arrived. Mrs. Sinclair called her name out twice: “Saynab Husen,” and then, “Kiki?” No answer.

Maybe that was it. Maybe the new girl was done with Lakemont Middle School. And just maybe none of the Somalis were ever coming back. But at the end of first period, Jacques saw Mohamed in the hallway, and at lunch, a group of Somali kids were sitting at the same tables as yesterday. Actually, it looked like there were even more of them this time—five or six girls, all dressed in long skirts and hijabs, and several more boys. No sign of Kiki, though.

When school let out, Jacques went to the neighbors' apartment to pick up their twin boys, Ricky and Robby. The family lived on the first floor beneath Grandmère
Jeannette's apartment, and the twins were always coming upstairs to play with Pelé. The boys were in first grade, and starting this fall, Jacques was going to get paid to watch them sometimes while their mother worked the afternoon shift at the bakery. Jacques figured he could save up enough money to buy the Arsenal jersey that he wanted so badly.

Robby chased Ricky to the park while Jacques kicked a soccer ball across the pavement. Tryouts were coming up fast. Jacques took aim at the old wooden bench at the entrance to the park.
Slam
, the ball swiftly knocked an empty soda can off the seat.

“Good shot! Do it again!” a voice squeaked. When Jacques turned, he saw a small black child standing behind him. The little boy was cheering with his hands clasped above his head. In the distance, there was Kiki, pushing a baby stroller. The baby was dressed in a blue knitted sweater and was waving a plastic truck.

“Hey,” Jacques stammered, “do you live around here?”

“Oh hi.” Kiki looked surprised, then kind of pleased. “We are staying in a place over there.” She pointed at a dilapidated apartment building with a rickety wooden porch.

The boy hopped to the swing set where Ricky and Robby were pushing each other in the air. “You're it!” He tagged Robby and in a minute, the three children were racing around the playground, giggling.

“Is that your baby?” Jacques asked. “I mean, are these your brothers?”

“Oh yeah, the baby is called Amir. And the one who likes to talk so much—Ismail, he is nearly five.”

“You weren't at school today.” Jacques coughed into his elbow.

“My mother, she is looking for work, so I had to watch the little ones. I am there again tomorrow, though.”

Amir threw the toy truck on the ground. Kiki leaned forward to pick it up, but Jacques reached it first. He handed it back to the squealing baby.

“And those two must be your brothers?” Kiki nodded at the twins.

“Oh . . . no,” Jacques replied. “I'm babysitting; I get paid to do it. I don't have any brothers or sisters.”

“That is sad.” Kiki tilted her head to one side. “Why no brother, no sister?”

Jacques hesitated and then surprised himself by telling the truth: “My mom died in an accident.”

Kiki nodded her head slowly. “I am sorry. For me, it is like that too—my father died in my country, before we came here.”

Jacques suddenly realized that he'd never talked to any of his friends about his mother. It had been two and a half years since she'd been killed in a car crash during an April blizzard. A week later, Grandmère Jeannette had come for Easter and brought him a tiny rabbit—Pelé—in a brown wicker basket.

Kiki pulled Baby Amir from the stroller and began to sing in a low voice as she opened his bottle.

“What does it mean?” Jacques asked.

“The song?” Kiki laughed. “It is just a foolish thing we sing for babies.”

“I like it.” Jacques remembered how Mom would sing to him at night in her clear, sweet voice. Sometimes she and Dad would do a duet of “Frère Jacques,” with Dad booming low and slightly out of tune. At Christmas they'd go caroling with families from church, and when Jacques was really little, Dad would carry him high on his shoulders, bouncing through the snowy streets while they sang.

It suddenly struck Jacques that after Mom died, they didn't go caroling anymore. He never heard his father sing off-key again.

Kiki wiped Amir's chin and put the bottle away. “I am guessing that you like Messi. Am I correct? Are you a fan?”

“What?” Jacques blinked.

“Messi, you know—the soccer star.”

“He's okay . . . I guess.” Jacques wondered whether Kiki could possibly know that he had three posters of Messi on his walls at home. “Why are you asking?”

“Mohamed says you are the best on the team,” Kiki replied. “You will be the captain, for sure, he says.”

“Your brother told you that?”

“No.” Kiki smiled. “I heard him say it to my uncle.”

Jacques dug his sneaker into a rut in the pavement. “Do you play?”

Kiki hesitated before answering. “In my family, girls are not supposed to play soccer like that, not really. Some girls do, but my father, he was very strict.”

“You can try this out if you want to.” Jacques tapped the ball in front of her.

“I don't know. . . . If Mohamed catch me, he would be angry!” Kiki squinted as she gazed past the swing set toward the edge of the playground. “My brother is not even one year older, but he watches me now as if he is the father.”

“It's really okay, there's nobody around,” Jacques replied.

Kiki cocked her head, pursing her lips. She still had Amir in her lap, burping as he shook the bottle.

“I can hold him.” Jacques remembered how Mom used to sing and play clapping games with the babies that came into the bridal shop. He put his hands out toward Amir; it couldn't be that hard.

“I should not . . .” Kiki began, but suddenly Amir decided for them. He lunged forward, and Jacques instinctively squatted and caught him. Jacques whistled and made clucking sounds. To his amazement, Amir began to coo.

“It's no big deal, go ahead.”

Kiki stood on tiptoes, shielding her dark eyes as she carefully scanned the park. Then she concentrated on the ball for a minute, taking aim. She was only wearing leather sandals, but with a firm smack, the ball soared straight and sure to the other end of the playground.

“Hey, your sister's not bad!” Jacques whispered to Amir. The baby pulled on Jacques's nose and bounced.

Every time Kiki kicked the ball, she stopped to look over her shoulder, craning her neck to search the four
corners of the park. Finally, a calm look came over her face. She ran straight ahead, whacking the ball hard, pivoting and driving it forward. When Kiki jogged back, she was panting, but the gap between her teeth showed through a broad smile.

“You're good! You should go out for the girls' team.”

“No.” Kiki beamed. “This is not true. I am no good at soccer, and my English is terrible too.”

“You speak really well! How'd you learn?” Jacques asked.

Kiki sat and rubbed her foot. “When we left my country, we came first to a place near Atlanta. We stayed there almost a year, and I had a good teacher.”

“What was her name?”

“Her name was Kiki.”

“Seriously?” Jacques looked up.

“In Somalia, it was not always safe to go to school, and I had to help at home. When we got to America, I was behind in every subject. My teacher's family came from Africa. She understood my situation and was very kind to me. Now I like to remember her, so I use the nickname.” Kiki smiled. “It makes things easier, you know?”

“I get it,” Jacques replied. “I was named after my grandfather—but sometimes, kids just call me Jack.”

“Hey, you are not too bad with babies.” Amir was resting his head on Jacques's shoulder. Kiki scooped her brother into her arms, but Amir reached back and grabbed Jacques's hair.

“Ouch, this little man is strong!” Jacques grinned.

Ricky and Ismail ran over, with Robby three steps behind: “We're starving!”

“I got something in here.” Kiki pulled out two triangle-shaped pastries and divided them among the open mouths. “You want to try?” She held out a piece for Jacques. “Hooyo made it this morning.”

The pastry was filled with spicy meat mixed with onions.

Kiki laughed when she saw the expression on Jacques's face. “It is called
sambusa
. They are like your hot dogs—we eat them all the time.”

A loud rustling noise came from the other end of the playground.

“Hey, Gagnon!”

Jacques's stomach flipped. Duane and another teenage boy were standing by the fence. A blonde girl was tucked under Duane's shoulder. When she turned slightly, Jacques took another look and blinked. Monique! What was she doing with Duane? Was it possible she was actually marrying that creep?

Kiki quickly stuffed the rest of the food in her bag and yelled for Ismail. Her lips were set together and her brow was pinched.

“Hold on a minute. . . .” Jacques began, but Kiki was already jogging behind the stroller without looking back. Ismail ran after her.

Jacques wiped the last bit of sambusa from his hands as the older boys came close.

Monique waited by the fence alone.

“Who's the Somali babe?” Duane put his hands in his pockets.

“Nobody.” Jacques's pulse began to race. What if Duane still had the knife? “Just a girl from school.”

“We have a little job for you,” the other boy sneered. He was slightly shorter, with a soft, full belly. Two small silver hoops hung from one earlobe.

“I'm watching these kids.” Jacques shook his head. “I can't talk.”

“Don't mess with us.” Duane leaned over Jacques's shoulder. “Garth and I need your help.”

“I've got to go!” Jacques motioned to the twins. He grabbed Robby by the elbow, pulling him toward the gate while Ricky scurried after them.

“You forgot the ball,” Ricky shouted.

“Leave it.” Jacques bounded ahead. “We'll get it later.”

When Jacques finally stopped to let the twins catch their breath, the older boys and Monique had vanished.

Jacques dropped Ricky and Robby with their mother and raced up the stairs to Grandmère Jeannette's apartment. When he stepped inside, he was shocked to find his grandmother slumped over the dining room table.

“Grandmère! What's wrong?” Her head lifted, and Jacques exhaled sharply. But he could see that her eyes were red and swollen. “Are you sick?”

“It's nothing; I didn't hear you come in.” Grandmère Jeannette wiped her face and pushed up from the table. “I'll go fix you somethin' to eat.”

“No,” Jacques said. “Tell me what happened.”

Trembling, Grandmère Jeannette fell back into the chair. A stack of official looking papers were piled high in front of her.

“What are those?”

Grandmère Jeannette shook her head. “The bank wants to take the shop,” she finally answered.

“Our shop? The bridal shop?” Jacques could barely move his lips.

Slow and silent, Grandmère Jeannette nodded yes.

“I don't understand. You've had that place forever!”

When Jacques was little, they'd moved around a lot. But the bridal shop was always there—in some ways, it felt the most like home. Mom had taken Jacques to work with her nearly every Saturday. They'd stop along the way at the library, and Jacques would curl up in the corner of the office with a pile of books while Mom and Grandmère Jeannette sold gowns. By the time he was six or seven, Jacques could help out by sweeping or picking up pins from the sewing room floor.

After Mom died, Jacques continued going to the shop to help his grandmother. Sometimes, it even seemed like Mom was still there. Upstairs in the office or behind the curtains of the dressing room, Jacques could almost hear her voice softly humming, “Frère Jacques.”

They couldn't lose the bridal shop.

“The bank don't care that it's been near twenty years. Or that your grandfather's heart gave out trying to build up the business. I've got no money for the mortgage.” Grandmère Jeannette looked exhausted. Deep lines drooped down the sides of her mouth.

“Dad's working now—he can help.”

“Your father lost his job two weeks ago,” Grandmère Jeannette said quietly.

Jacques felt like he'd been kicked. “He got fired?”

“They promised they'd call him back in a couple months, but I don't think we can count on it.” Grandmère Jeannette looked away, and her voice began to waver. “If I lose the shop, I don't know how we'd make ends meet. I couldn't bear to make you leave this apartment.” She wiped her nose with a crumpled tissue.

“I have some babysitting money. You can have it.” Jacques pulled out the ten dollars the twins' mother had just given him.

“You hold onto that. You'll be needin' it for college someday.” Grandmère Jeannette squeezed Jacques's hand. “If we can just get through 'til Christmas, I could turn things around with the extra holiday business—I know I could.”

“Dad can find something else, maybe truck driving again.”

“You don't need to be the one worrying,
mon cher
. You surprised me, or I wouldn't have told you.”

The phone began to ring, and Jacques leaned over to answer.

“Hello?” There was silence on the other end, but he could hear someone breathing. Then the phone went dead.

“Prank call.” Jacques's stomach was turning.

“Hold on a minute.” Grandmère Jeannette tapped her forehead. “I nearly forgot. Somebody called here a little while ago lookin' for you. An older boy, I guess.”