Paper Wishes (5 page)

We have recess, and then we work on numbers. Miss Rosalie separates us into small groups, one group in each corner of the classroom. We sit on the floor and she gives us math problems to solve on our slates. Adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing. She makes her way from group to group.

Each day, more and more students come to classes. Ryo counts the students for Miss Rosalie.

The first day, there were twenty-one students.

After a week, the number is thirty-five.

This room is crowded with bodies on benches.

All of the rooms are crowded with bodies on benches.

It is hard for so many bodies to keep still. But we do.

For a few hours between breakfast and lunch, Miss Rosalie teaches.

When we hear the clang that announces lunch, classes are over.

Miss Rosalie stands near the doorway as students hurry to lunch lines. I stay at the back, always the last to leave.

Each day, at the door, she gives me paper.

Then I peek inside Ron's room, which is next door to Miss Rosalie's, until he waves and tells me that he will see me at dinner.

*   *   *

I have started to draw on Miss Rosalie's papers at home when I sit with Grandfather, and when each drawing is done I put it under my mattress with the blank paper.

I decide to give Miss Rosalie a gift.

I rise earlier than usual. Ron and Father are not home. They must have gone to the showers. Grandfather rises earlier than anyone else. I can tell by his wet hair that he has already been to the showers this morning.

Mother watches as I look through my pictures to find one for Miss Rosalie.

When I find the one I like, I write Miss Rosalie's name on it.

“For your teacher?” Mother asks. “That is a good choice.”

I want to give it to her this morning before breakfast. Before the other children arrive.

With my picture in my hand, I run to Block 7 and climb the stairs to the barracks where Miss Rosalie's classroom is. I don't hear or see anyone.

Maybe Miss Rosalie is not there yet.

I wonder if I should knock on the door.

Before I decide, the door opens.

“Good morning,” Miss Rosalie says.

I give her the folded paper.

Miss Rosalie unfolds it. Father's fishing boat, close to shore.

“I wondered what you might draw,” she says.

It is still early enough to be very quiet. There is little wind to blow dust.

“Is this where you lived?” she asks. “It's beautiful.”

On the walk back to Mother, I think about which picture I will give Miss Rosalie next.

*   *   *

“Manami,” Mother calls one morning. “Come outside. Rain is coming.”

It is still mostly dark. The mostly dark times of the day are when Mother works in her garden.

When I reach her, I squat on the ground, careful of the scraggly shoots that have begun to thicken into stems.

Mother is right. There is a new smell in the air. It is fresh and clingy and wet. Not the salty wet of the island air. Not the rusty wet of the water pump. This wet is green and sharp. This wet clears the dust from my eyes and nose. This wet is the wet of rain.

Mother is not the only one who tends a garden. Scattered around Block 3, I see others squatting among rows and mounds of struggling herbs and vegetables. It is dim, but I can see chins jutting out, lifting faces to the sky.

We all wait for the rain to come.

The sky lightens. And still we squat. Still we wait.

A loud clang breaks the stillness, calling us to the mess hall.

Ron stands in the doorway of our building.

“Breakfast,” he says.

I look at Mother. Her face is still turned toward the sky.

I pick up a bowl to fill with water at the pump before we go to eat.

“Not today,” she says. “Rain is coming.”

Ron and I wait with Mother for a few minutes, but then we go to the mess hall alone. Father has gone ahead, and Grandfather stays in our room.

After breakfast, Ron is silent on our way to school. In his silence there is a big space that I fill up with more wet smells. I remember the itchy wet smell of sand sticking to my skin. I remember the sticky wet smell of fog. I remember the furry wet smell of Yujiin. I breathe this smell into my body. I almost feel our noses pressed together, my arms wrapped around him, his tongue licking my cheek.

“I am happy when I see you smile,” Ron says.

With his words, I cannot feel Yujiin in my arms anymore.

“I will be even happier when I hear your voice,” Ron says.

I look at the ground and nod. I do not want Ron to see that my smile is gone now, just like my voice.

“See you after class,” he says when we get to school.

Ron does not force my chin up to see my eyes, like Mother does.

Ron does not bend down to see my eyes, like Miss Rosalie does.

Ron does not pick me up to see my eyes, like Father does.

Ron does not wait and stare at me until my eyes look up, like Grandfather does.

Ron pats my shoulder when I nod. It is enough for him.

*   *   *

Before classes begin, all of the students and teachers line up in front of a flagpole in the school yard. It is new. But we knew it was coming. We have been practicing for it.

Mr. Warden raises the flag.

“Salute,” he booms.

I place my hand on my chest. Just like on the island. Just like Miss Rosalie had us practice.

“Pledge,” he booms.

Voices drone around me.

“Girl!” Mr. Warden booms. “Pledge!”

Mr. Warden's long finger points at me.

My heart races.

Kimmi pinches my arm. “Pledge, Manami!” she says.

Mr. Warden takes heavy steps toward me.

I have a hard time catching my breath.

“Manami,” Ron says.

Have they forgotten about the dust coating my throat?

“She cannot, sir,” Miss Rosalie says. “She cannot speak.”

Mr. Warden stares at me for a moment before stomping back to the flagpole.

When the pledge begins again, I feel Miss Rosalie's arms around my shoulders. She pulls me to her. I close my eyes.

Mr. Warden plays a song over the loudspeaker.

I listen to words about liberty and freedom, and my heartbeat slows down.

On the island, I thought I understood these words and this song. But now I am not sure.

When the song is finished and Mr. Warden has left, everyone goes into their classrooms.

“Inside, children,” Miss Rosalie says. She pulls me along with her.

She stands in front of the class while we find our seats.

“As I read, think about changes in nature as spring turns into summer,” she says. “You may use a slate to draw, if you'd like.”

When the slate basket passes down my row, I take a slate and a piece of chalk.

It is not normal for our classroom to be so silent.

A slate bangs to the floor and many children jump.

If Mother were here, she would say, “All will be well.”

Miss Rosalie does not say, “All will be well.”

She reads poems about spring and summer and honeybees and budding flowers. My hand flits over my slate, dipping and bobbing, scratching and resting. Chalk feathers from one line to another, circling and looping until I am finished.

“Beautiful,” Miss Rosalie says when she picks up my slate. She bends down to look into my eyes. “This is how I picture the seasons changing, too.”

*   *   *

The school day ends, and the rain has not come. But I can still smell the promise of it.

On the island, rain is not an all-day promise in the air. Rain comes, rain goes. Sometimes rain pounds hard and heavy. Sometimes rain mists soft and gentle. But it doesn't hover and wait, holding itself just out of reach.

Before I leave school, I go to Ron's classroom. I have more paper from Miss Rosalie in my hand.

He is speaking to three wild boys who are his students. They are older than me and they scare me. I cannot hear Ron's words, but I can see his frown. When he sees me in the doorway, he motions me forward.

“Come in, Manami,” he says. His frown changes to a smile.

The wild boys leave.

“May I see your picture?” Ron asks.

I hand him a blank piece of paper.

“Hmm,” he says. He turns the paper one way and then another. “Perhaps,” he says. He turns the paper to the other side. “Oh, yes,” he says. “I see it now.”

I hear a quiet laugh from behind me, and I turn to look.

Miss Rosalie stands in the doorway.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she says, turning to go.

“Please come in,” Ron says.

Ron hands the paper to me. Then he stands behind me and puts his hands on both of my shoulders.

“Thank you, Miss Rosalie,” he says. “Thank you for speaking up for Manami this morning.”

Miss Rosalie's face turns red.

“You're welcome,” she says.

Ron turns me around. “I must prepare lessons for tomorrow.”

*   *   *

On my walk from school to home, I see the wild boys huddled against the wall of a building in Block 9. Kimmi waves to me from a group of girls lined up in front of the mess hall in our block.

Before I eat lunch, I check on Grandfather.

He sits in a chair near the door.

I sit on the ground next to him and take his hand in mine. Grandfather's hands are large and thin. They are hard and soft all at once. I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. I press his hand against my cheek, then squeeze it one more time before I go to the mess hall. Mother will worry if I am late. I am not hungry, but I fill my plate with food. I will take it to Grandfather.

When Mother comes out of the kitchen and sees that I am alone, she says, “Go sit with the other children. When you are done, you can take something to Grandfather.”

I do as she says and sit with the other children, but as soon as she goes inside the kitchen, I pick up my plate and hurry back to Grandfather.

After he finishes eating, I draw pictures on Miss Rosalie's paper for him. Once, I drew Yujiin. But Grandfather would not look. Now I draw the ocean. Waves, sand, shells. Grandfather looks. But he does not smile.

I draw footprints in wet sand. Grandfather's large, firm footprints, followed by my smaller bare feet.

But my picture is not right. Not yet. I smear some sand here, smear other sand there. Yujiin is there, too.

I hold the picture up to Grandfather's face. His eyes are closed.

I take out a new sheet of paper and draw Mother's garden. I am so busy with my pictures that I don't realize it is time for dinner until Ron comes inside. I look up when he calls my name.

While I stack my papers and pencil, I hear the clanging call from the mess hall.

The mess hall line is not long. After we fill our plates, Mother motions for us to sit at a table where there is just enough space for us at the end of a bench. Ron and I are careful to arrive early for dinner so that we can eat with Mother. She has a short break to eat with us.

Mother goes to the kitchen and brings three cups and a steaming teapot.

She is saving the last of our tea, so we drink hot water every evening with our dinner. Some people still have tea to drink, but most do not. Many do not drink hot water either. But Mother brings her teapot out every night.

Before we have time to take even one bite or one sip, a flash lights up the sky, followed by a crash.

“Finally, the rain!” Mother says.

She grabs my hand and drags me to the door. Ron follows. Others crowd behind us.

And then the rain comes.

Mother pulls us outside. She holds my hands, spinning us around and around. Others join in our rain dance. The yard in front of the mess hall is a muddy swirl of people.

The rain does not drip or drop. The rain pours. Like the water pump. Like the showers.

It pours until the laughing faces and twirling feet stop their happy dance.

It pours until Mother begins to frown.

“Hurry, children!” she says. “We must save my plants.”

We run to Mother's garden. The water pours so fast that there is already a pond forming in the yard.

Mother touches her battered plants one by one.

The pouring rain has pounded them into the ground. Fragile stems are broken. Tiny leaves float free.

Mother kneels and pulls me to her, wrapping her arms around my waist. She cries into my stomach.

And still the rain pours.

Ron joins Mother on the ground.

And then, as quick as it started, the rain stops.

“We will save them,” Ron promises Mother.

“They cannot be saved,” Mother says.

“We will try,” Ron promises again.

He helps Mother stand and leads her back to the mess hall.

“What is this place?” I hear her say.

I stay behind, touching the cilantro plant at my feet. Its stem is thinner than my little finger and longer than my forearm. But it lies flat against the ground. I lift it, but it falls. I prop it with two stones, but it is not enough. I dig into the mud with my fingers, searching for more stones. I have barely scraped the top layer of mud away when I see that the dirt underneath is not wet. It is hard and dry. All that pouring and still I will have to bring water from the pump for the thirsty plants.

I pry two more stones from the hard dirt.

I fill a bowl of water at the pump and pour it at the base of the plant.

Now I wonder: What is this place?

I look around Mother's garden. There are more plants to save.

I make a promise: This garden will not die.

Ron finds me in the garden, my hands thick with mud.

“There you are,” he says. “Come on. You need to eat dinner. Then I'll help you with this.”

*   *   *

Later that week, we are all surprised when Father joins us for dinner.

Mother and Ron and I are sitting down when Father enters the mess hall. Ron apologizes for our having already started to eat. I scoot down the bench to make room. Mother pours steaming water into her cup and sets it in front of Father.