Chanda's Wars Read Online Free Page A

her!”
    â€œChanda, slow down,” Esther says. “You’re going to swing right over the top bar and crack your head open.”
    â€œI don’t care.”
    â€œThe kids love you, Chanda…Mrs. Tafa, she doesn’t matter…Listen to me!”
    â€œNo, you listen.” I skid my feet in the dirt and come to a stop. “Mrs. Tafa’s not just stealing Soly and Iris. She’s ruining my name.” I tell her about Mrs. Mpho and the cell phone story.
    Esther frowns. Then suddenly, she laughs.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    â€œThink about it, Chanda. This morning, Mrs. Tafa pretended she was talking to you, but she wasn’t talking to anyone. I’ll bet it’s like that all the time. She whoops into her cell like she knows the world, but really she’s just blabbing to herself. It’s like when Mrs. Gulubane mutters into her giant snail shell, pretending to talk to the dead.”
    My head swims. “You think so?”
    â€œOf course,” Esther hoots. “She’s rich compared to most people around here, but that’s not saying much. How would she know anybody important? Why would the mayor take her calls? As for our neighbors—how many have a phone? Who’d talk to her if they did? The only people she can call are her husband and the man at the radio call-in. Mrs. Tafa’s a mean, old bully. Your mama was her only friend, and that’s because your mama was a saint.”
    Esther’s right. Even Mr. Tafa avoids her. He leaves for work early and gets home late; on his days off, he does odd jobs, like building Esther’s rooms at the side of my house, or patching the tenant shacks at the far side of his property.
    â€œEveryone’s scared of her tongue,” Esther says, eyes dancing, “but nobody pays her much mind. As for Mrs. Mpho—it’s true about her underpants.”
    I laugh. Next thing I know, Esther and I are twirling ourswings till the chains are twisted tight. We lift our feet off the ground and spin, squealing like when we were little. We wobble dizzily to the road and make our way home in the near dusk.
    Iris and Soly are already under the cover in their nightclothes. They’re so quiet, I have to check to know they’re there. When I stick my head into their room, Iris says: “Would you tuck us in?…Please?”
    I pull the bedsheet under their necks and smooth it just so.
    â€œDo you still love us?” Soly whispers.
    â€œOf course. How could you ask that?”
    He acts shy. “You were so mad. We were scared.”
    â€œNot me,” Iris says. But I know she’s lying.
    I kiss their foreheads. “I love you now and forever,” I say. “More than anything.” Then I sit cross-legged at the side of their mat and tell them their favorite bedtime story—the one about the impala and the baboon—acting the parts with Soly’s sock puppet and my hankie.
    I kiss them good night again. My stomach dissolves. Mama. I remember how she tucked me in, how she kissed my forehead, told me stories, said how she’d love me forever. Mama. I miss Mama so much I can’t stand it.As I leave Soly and Iris, I touch their door frame for balance, get to the far corner of the main room, and roll into a ball on the floor, stuffing my hankie in my mouth so they won’t hear me cry.
    When I’m like this, I usually go to Esther. She holds me and rocks me and lets me babble, and it helps. But she didn’t know Mama. Not really. She’s the sort of friend that stays away from parents. All she remembers is that Mama smiled at her, offered her biscuits, and never kicked her off the property. So it’s not the same. Not like she knew Mama, and knows what Mama means.
    I’m going to start sobbing, I know it. I won’t be able to stop. I need to get away. The sandlot. I’ll go back to the sandlot.
    I walk gingerly across the yard. To the left, music and