Children of Exile Read Free Page A

sprigs. When I was younger, I used to study it and tell her which flower cluster I liked best; I used to ask if someday, when I was a grown-up lady, I could get a dress like that, too.
    I expected the feel of that soft, familiar fabric against my face to be the only comfort possible. I expected Fred-mamato offer me nothing but a hug and the same empty phrases the Freds had been giving us all along: You’re too young for us to explain everything. Someday, when you’re a grown-up, you’ll understand.
    But Fred-mama took in a gulp of air that didn’t sound comforting, confident, gentle, or firm.
    â€œOh, Rosi,” she whispered into my hair. “You’re the one I feel sorriest for. Well, you and Edwy. Because you two are old enough to understand that something’s wrong.”
    I pushed away from her shoulder so I could stare her straight in the face.
    â€œI am?” I said. “We are? Then tell me—”
    Fred-mama began shaking her head. The motion looked regretful, apologetic. And a little sneaky. Her dark curls bounced against her cheeks, and her eyes darted about, scanning the quiet street. It was like she was checking to make sure Peki and Meki’s parents had finished loading the truck and gone back inside their house (they had); she was checking to make sure the truck had turned the corner and driven away toward the airport.
    It had, too. Except for us and the row of towering trees out in the boulevard, the street was empty.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Fred-mama said. “I’m not allowed to tell you anything else. This is all very . . . complicated. But I know you can tell this isn’t how things were supposed to be. Notwhat we intended. Things . . . changed. All of us Freds—we want the best for you. Your parents undoubtedly want the best for you too.”
    There was something in her voice I’d never heard before, something she’d never before let her guard down to reveal. Was it fear? Anguish? Grief?
    It sounded like she was trying to convince herself, as much as me, that what she was saying was true.
    â€œI don’t even know my parents!” I said frantically. “They haven’t seen me since the day I was born! How can they know what’s best for me? How can they know anything about me?”
    Fred-mama kept shaking her head.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “So, so sorry. But . . . just remember. You are a good person. You’ll remember everything we’ve taught you.”
    What was she really trying to tell me?
    The door of our house opened just then, Fred-daddy stepping out onto the porch. He had Bobo perched on his shoulders, and the two of them had to duck down so Bobo didn’t hit his head on the doorframe.
    â€œIt’s time,” Fred-daddy said, and I could hear the strain in his voice too—the strain he was undoubtedly trying to hide for Bobo’s sake.
    Did he also feel sorry for me? If Bobo hadn’t been there,would Fred-daddy have dropped the pretense, just like Fred-mama had? Could the three of us have wept on one another’s shoulders? And spoken freely?
    It was useless to wonder about what-ifs. Bobo was there. Bobo was always there for me to think about; I was always responsible for my little brother. I would be more responsible for him than ever, now that we were going home.
    â€œReady for our big adventure?” I asked him. I tilted my head back to gaze up at him, perched high above me on Fred-daddy’s shoulders. I made my voice artificially excited, too, as if I was thrilled by the events ahead of me and Bobo should be too.
    I knew my duty.
    Fred-mama patted my shoulder. The pat still held a lingering sense of apology, but it mostly just said, Thank you. Thank you for protecting Bobo. Thank you for being such a good big sister. Thank you for letting us know we can count on you.
    We started walking toward the airport.
    Other kids and Freds spilled