Children of Exile Read Online Free Page B

say!”
    I stumbled onto the plane. Rows of seats stretched out before me. Little kids were falling down and getting stepped on. While Bobo clung to my neck, I reached down and pulled up Nita, one of the ten-year-olds, who was crying on the floor.
    â€œHelp the little kids into their seats and buckle them in,” I told her. “Then sit down and fasten your own seat belt.”
    The crowd pushed forward, so I didn’t have time to see whether Nita did what I told her or not.
    Eight-year-old Rosco was cowering in the row behind Nita’s. He was sucking on his thumb. An eight-year-old!
    â€œHelp the littler kids,” I told him. “Remember? That’s what you’re always supposed to do. Wherever you are, in Fredtown or going home.”
    I tried to sound like a Fred; I tried to make my voice hold the same quiet authority a Fred voice always contained. And maybe it worked, because Rosco popped the thumb out of his mouth and said, “Oh. Okay.”
    In the last glimpse I caught of him he was turned around, easing his little brother, Rono, into one of the seats.
    I kept going down the aisle. There was still a part of me that wanted to scream and cry and pound my fists on the ground—or run back and grab onto Fred-mama and Fred-daddy and refuse to leave. Or maybe even suck my thumb like Rosco. But it helped a little to try to keep my voice calm; to focus on soothing the smaller children, drying their tears, lifting them into their seats, getting them to assist one another. By the time we were about halfway down the aisle, Bobo was walking alongside me instead of clinging to my neck; he was like my little assistant, a five-year-old telling four- and three-year-olds how their seat belt buckles worked. It made my heart swell a little with pride.
    See? I told myself. We’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.
    Those were the words I began passing out, intoning them as I moved down the aisle.
    Then I got to a row of seats that looked empty until I was right beside it.
    Edwy was crouched down in that row. He had the cushioned covering pulled back from the seat, and he was using a nail to scratch something into the metal below. Maybe it was just an ordinary drawing.
    No. Knowing Edwy, it was probably something bad.
    â€œCouldn’t you help?” I demanded. “Just this once, couldn’t you do something useful? Couldn’t you try to be a better role model? Two hundred crying children around you, and you—you—”
    I gestured helplessly. Words didn’t exist to tell Edwy what I thought of him.
    Edwy’s face flushed, and he peered up at me from beneath his dark cap of curly hair. His green eyes narrowed. I remembered that he and I hadn’t spoken directly to each other in more than a year.
    â€œReally?” he said. “They think we should sit down and shut up and not even make a peep while they ruin our lives. And you want me to help?”
    It was my turn to go red in the face. I could feel it.
    â€œOh, and what you’re doing is better?” I asked.
    Bobo tugged on my hand.
    â€œAre you and Edwy fighting?” he asked. His tears, never completely dried to begin with, threatened to come back.
    â€œNo, no,” I said quickly. “Edwy and I are just . . . discussing. Discussing is good, remember?”
    Edwy snorted. I fixed him with a steely glare, alternating with quick glances down toward Bobo’s head. Even Edwy should have been able to tell that I was telegraphing, Please don’t say anything to make Bobo or anyone else cry again. Even Edwy should have been able to understand why we didn’t want every kid on the plane sobbing all the way home.
    â€œFine,” Edwy said.
    He scrambled up into his seat and clicked the seat belt into place around his waist. He crossed his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he squirmed a little and yelled out, “Everyone, this is how you’re supposed to