Why I Killed My Best Friend Read Online Free Page B

We play a skipping game where you sing this song with nonsense words, only instead of “one franc a violet” we chant our new slogan. When we get tired we sit down on thesteps in front of our classroom and Anna tears her sandwich in half so we can share it. I’m not sure I really want it because it smells like rotten cheese but Anna insists. “Eat! Comrades share everything!” Why on earth did I ever want to be friends with Angeliki, the smushed turd, when there are girls like Anna in the world? All of a sudden Greece feels wonderful, African.
    The big iroko tree sprouts from a small seed.
    Anna isn’t speaking to me. She wants to divide our desk down the middle. I’m not supposed to let even my elbow creep over onto her half.
    â€œBut what did I do? What?”
    â€œYou lied to me. There are no dissidents in Africa. My mother says you’re racists who exploit black people.”
    That’s going too far! I blurt out all the proverbs Gwendolyn taught me and tell Anna about the games I used to play with Unto Punto. Anna just puts her hands over her ears and sings, “I’m not listening, I’m not listening, I can’t hear you!” My eyes fill with tears.
    â€œPlease, Anna . . .”
    â€œIt’s over, we’re through. I won’t be friends with a racist.”
    It’s recess and we’ve stayed behind in the classroom to talk, but now Anna storms off in a huff and goes out to play with Angeliki, her new friend. I cry for a while, then tear a sheet out of my penmanship notebook. At the top of the page I write a line by Dionysios Solomos, our national poet: Freedom requires daring and grace . Underneath that, in fancy letters, taking care to stay inside the ruled lines, I write: Dear Mrs. Anna’s Mother, We aren’t racists!!! I love Gwendolyn even more than my own life. (And Gwendolyn is very black.) I’m an African. Love, Maria . In the margin I draw two black tears, or dark blue, anyhow, with my pen. At the bottom of the page I sketch the man-made jetty in the harbor in Tarkwa Bay. Idraw lots of tiny black people, too, like ants, stretched out in the sun under the palm trees. The sun is smiling, but its teeth are black. Its rays are squiggly, rastafarian. I fold the page in fours and slip it into Anna’s primer. She’ll find it when she gets home, and I’m sure she’ll be mad, but I bet she’ll show it to her mother, too.
    The rest of the day is hell. Angeliki keeps hissing “teapot, teapot, teapot” behind my back. Kyria Aphrodite doesn’t hear, but she catches me sticking my tongue out and sends me to the blackboard until the bell rings. I’m facing the world map again, but this time I don’t even look at Africa. I keep my eyes trained on a country in Europe that’s exactly the same shape as Nigeria—a country called France.
    â€œMy mom says you should come to our house for lunch, if your mother will let you. Do you want to come?”
    Anna is looking at Kyria Aphrodite, but she’s talking to me.
    â€œSo you believe me that I’m not a racist?”
    â€œDo you want to or not?”
    â€œOkay!”
    â€œOnly my mother is a ballet dancer and we don’t eat things with sauces.”
    â€œI don’t like sauces.”
    During recess we stick together and ignore Angeliki. We share Anna’s sandwich—the rotten cheese tastes better today—and swear to be friends forever. I’m so happy my nose starts to bleed. I think I’m going to faint, because I can’t stand the sight of blood. But I have to seem strong. Anna uses some of the blood to write our names in her notebook as if it were a single name, Anna-Maria.
    â€œIt’s an oath, you know, now that it’s written in blood,” she says.
    We go back to our anti-junta skipping game. I’m the happiest girl in all of Greece, and in all of Africa, too! When school isout we walk to her house