He pauses, his jaw working. “Fighting.” Then, “You’re changing the subject.”
“Beating people up, huh? Like father, like son,” I say, scanning the rest of the page. There’s not much more in our persecution history. Details about us coming to Sangui, but no mention of Mama finding work with Mr. G. The notes just say she was supporting herself on handouts from a church and sometimes earning money by watching other people’s children and washing clothes. The interview must have been before she went to work for him. Or maybe she left that part out too.
“The other guy called me a mulatto.”
I look up. The mask is off. It’s obvious what Michael is thinking: He’s pissed. For some reason I blush and look away, like it was me who called him a name. “Fair enough,” I say.
Michael sighs and shuts the lid of his laptop. “Let’s call it a night, okay? It’s almost three in the morning, and my parents are supposed to be back early. They’ll be here for breakfast before church.”
A chill runs down my neck. I’d almost forgotten that in a few short hours I’m going to have to come face-to-face with Mr. Greyhill. Before I can suggest that I just hide in the closet and hope the maids don’t come cleaning, Michael says, “Here’s your story. I’ve got it all worked out: I’ll tell my parents I ran into you at the airport on my way back.”
“The airport? Why? I’ve never even been to the airport.”
“You were on your way back from boarding school.”
Now I have to laugh. “Boarding school? Michael, I didn’t make it past primary. I only know how to read because I steal books from rich people.”
“You’d rather explain what you’ve been doing hanging around Sangui all this time?”
“I’ll say I’ve been, I dunno, living with cousins or something?”
“This will all be easier if you’re cleaned up and respectable. Nothing like a European boarding school to impress Mom.” Michael looks me over. “You’ll have to cover up those tattoos, though. And we’re going to have to tell Dad first. He’ll want you to stay, and he’ll make Mom agree.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why would he want me to stay?”
Michael gives me an exasperated sigh. “Because he was worried when you left too. He cares about you and Kiki.”
“Right.”
Michael ignores this. “Like I was saying, we’ll get Dad on our side first. Otherwise Mom’ll figure out some way to get rid of you. You know how she is. She acts whiter than Dad.”
I do remember. How could I forget all those looks she used to give my mother, or especially me when Michael and I were caught playing together? Mrs. Greyhill is essentially Sangui royalty. Real estate mostly, but they dabble in politics, media, shipping. She doesn’t take kindly to refugee trash like me.
Not to mention that whole her-husband-having-a-kid-with-my-mother thing.
Oh yeah, this is going to be real fun.
“I’m thinking you should say you go to school in Paris,” Michael muses. “They never go to Paris. You can make up whatever you want. You can say you’re on scholarship, like Kiki. You speak French, right?”
“No, I was five when I left Congo.”
“Well . . . it doesn’t matter; my parents don’t speak French either.”
I slump. “But I don’t know anything about boarding school. Or Paris. And I don’t have any clothes or anything.”
Michael waves my protests away. “Just stick to the basics. Parisians are rude. You’re on the prelaw track. Your classes are interesting, but World History is too Eurocentric.”
I stare at him. “Euro-what?”
“And Jenny’s got loads of clothes. The closet in your room is full of her stuff. Just take something; she has so much, no one will notice.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I’ll just go home, and you can come out and meet me in secret somewhere.”
The idea of pretending to be a boarding-school kid sounds bad enough, but being around Mr. G for days, maybe as long as a week? I won’t be able to live under the same roof that long without murdering him.
But Michael shakes his head. “Mom’s already made it clear I’m grounded because of the suspension thing. I can get away for a few hours at a time maybe, but otherwise I’m stuck here.”
“I don’t know . . .”
Think about the first step in your plan, Tiny. You don’t know whether you got all the dirt off his hard drive. You told Bug Eye you would stay here in case you have to break back into Mr. G’s office. This is your chance to get in under their noses.
“Come on,” Michael says. “It’s only for a few days. Until we figure this whole thing out with your mom, and then I promise you can go back to looking and smelling like a Goonda.”
“Hey!” I glower at him.