Bringing the Boy Home Read Online Free Page A

shrugging and grinning sheepishly, but inside my mind is screaming, Manioc! I ate manioc twice a day when I lived in the jungle, but I haven’t had it once since I’ve been here. And in Cal’s diner? My mind churns with questions. Why would Cal put it in my soup ?
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    During the drive home, an eerie feeling settles over me. The hunch on the soccer field. The strange voices. The appearance of the manioc. What does it all mean?
    When we pull into the driveway, I still don’t have any answers.
    â€œSo how do you feel now that you’ve eaten?” Sara asks as she unlocks the front door of our townhouse. “Better?”
    I drop my backpack under the enormous palm tree that has overtaken the small hallway. Not wanting her to postpone our trip, I manage what I hope is a convincing smile. “One hundred percent better.”
    She stares at me with narrowed eyes, unsure. So I lift my arms and flex my muscles like a bodybuilder, making different grimacing faces with each pose.
    Finally, she laughs. “Okay, okay, I get it. Save the impression session for Juan Diego. He already told me the dining hall at the camp needs a new roof. One lookat you, and he’ll have you up there with a hammer and nails.”
    Juan Diego is one of Sara’s oldest friends. He’s a Brazilian ethnobotanist and was driving the boat the day Sara found me floating in the corpse canoe. He’s still working at the research camp.
    I straighten up so that I’m almost as tall as Sara. “I could do it.”
    â€œI know,” she says. “And you probably will.” Sara starts flipping through the mail. “Oh, by the way, Professor Goodwin is coming over later, probably around eight….”
    â€œProfessor Goodwin, huh? You mean tall, dark, handsome”—I put my arm around a wooden spider monkey sculpture sitting on the hall table—“ single Professor Goodwin?”
    â€œHe offered to teach my classes while I’m away.” Sara doesn’t look up, but a smile has crept onto her face. “And he wants to discus my syllabus.”
    â€œGood thing we just cleaned the house and there are fresh flowers on the table,” I say, following her into the kitchen.
    â€œWhat I’m trying to get at,” Sara continues, ignoring my taunts, “is that the rest of the week is very busy and I’d like to wrap the gifts we’re taking to the research campbefore he gets here. Can you help?”
    I shrug my shoulders. “Sure.”
    â€œThanks.” She motions toward the living room. “There’s a bag of stuff in there. Why don’t you bring it into the kitchen, so we’ll have more room.”
    I walk through the archway of Kai’inga hunting spears into our living room. All around me are reminders of Sara’s work as an anthropologist. Masks of warriors leapfrog with photos of Sara and me on our annual camping trip. A hollowed-out honey-colored gourd sits between last year’s soccer trophy and a lopsided clay vase I made Sara for Mother’s Day. Even the windows are decorated with woven reed blinds pulled up by braided vines.
    â€œTirio,” Sara calls.
    I pick up the bag and take it into the kitchen, where we start sorting through the gifts Sara bought. There’s a bunch of stuff for the American staff at the camp, as well as some small toys for the kids in the local tribes.
    â€œWhat are you looking forward to the most?” Sara asks as she tapes up a box of paperback mysteries the camp cook likes. “With our trip, I mean. The river? The animals? More manioc?”
    I peel the price tag off a wooden puzzle and consider her question. “Things normal Takunami boys do,” Iadmit, a little embarrassed to be saying the words out loud.
    â€œ Normal Takunami boys?” Sara asks, surprised. She glances up at me. “What kind of things do you mean?”
    I pause for a minute, recalling the sight of my tribemates