Children of Exile Read Free Page B

out of the houses we passed. It became like a parade, or a flowing river containing every resident of Fredtown.
    I had never seen so many people—or, especially, so many kids—walk so quietly. For one long stretch, I could hear nothing but kids’ knapsacks thudding against their backs; itmade me think of the sad tolling of bells. Even the youngest babies seemed to understand that something strange and awful was happening. They rode in their Fred-parents’ arms, clutching onto sleeves and fingers; all the babies seemed to be looking around with huge eyes, as if somehow they knew they had only a little more time left to gaze upon the loving faces they’d learned so recently. Most of the children in the toddler-to-kindergartner range were like Bobo, perched on Fred-parents’ shoulders. It was like some picture Edwy and I might have seen in social studies class, like watching a procession of solemn young rajas swaying atop the backs of elephants. Except these young rajas held on so tightly.
    None of them are going to want to let go when they get to the airport, I thought.
    Neither would the elementary school kids walking alongside their Fred-parents, holding their Fred-parents’ hands.
    Neither would I.
    I walked without touching anyone, but I could still feel Fred-mama and Fred-daddy on either side of me. We were separated by only a few centimeters and a scant scattering of air molecules—that was nothing . I had never been apart from them before for longer than a school day or an overnight at a friend’s house. And even then, I had always known that they were close by, that they would be there instantly if I got hurtor needed them for any other reason. How would this work when they stayed here and Bobo and I went home? How far away would I have to be before I knew I’d lost them?
    â€œRosi and Bobo! Two of my favorite children!”
    We were passing the school; the principal, Mrs. Osemwe, was standing out front, passing out hugs. If I’d been paying attention, I probably would have heard her calling the kids in front of us favorites, too. That was one of the things Edwy mocked—the way Mrs. Osemwe and all the teachers used that word for everyone.
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Favorite’ is supposed to mean you like someone best,” he’d argued, back when we were still speaking to each other. “For there to be a favorite, there has to be someone you like less . Someone you maybe even hate.”
    â€œNobody would hate another person,” I’d told Edwy, too scandalized by his use of that ugly word to dwell on technical definitions.
    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 herfavorite. 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