“Tina? I have to go. Simone says I’m using up all her airtime.”
“Yeah, okay,” I manage. “Listen, if that guy comes back to the school, don’t talk to him, okay?”
“I won’t.” Suddenly her voice falters. “But you’re okay, right? He’s not, like, hurting you or anything?”
I shake myself. “No, nothing like that. C’mon, don’t worry so much, okay? I’ll see you soon.”
“Friday?”
“Friday. I’ll be there for sure.”
“Okay, good. Bye!”
I have a sudden urge to tell her I love her, but I wait too long, and the words get stuck in my throat. And then the line clicks off and she’s gone.
THIRTY
Rule 14: Bad luck comes in multiples of so many more than three.
? ? ?
By mid-afternoon both Boyboy and Michael are tired of my jittery energy, and Boyboy pleads with me to go do something productive somewhere else while he works. But I don’t know what that would be. This trip was a stupid idea, and now my sister might be in trouble.
We’ve got to leave super early in the morning if I’m going to make it back in time to meet Kiki. I keep picking my phone up to dial Bug Eye and then stopping, reconsidering. Do I call and try to convince him I’m still at the Greyhills’? Ketchup told my sister that I had skipped town. But how would he know? If I call, could Bug Eye somehow hack my GPS and find out where I really am? Boyboy traced me to the bus station, after all. It’s possible Bug Eye could find someone to trace me all the way here. And then how much trouble would I be in? How much trouble would Kiki be in?
“Let’s go back to town,” Michael says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “We can go to your cousin’s shop that the lorry driver’s friend was talking about. And maybe my dad’s around by now.”
I put my phone in my pocket and follow Michael out of the guesthouse, still not sure whether or not to call. I’ll think about it while we’re on our way. There’s nothing to do at the guesthouse anyway except drive Boyboy crazy. Sister Dorothy is too busy to talk and Mwika’s email is proving harder to crack than Boyboy would have thought. A call to the First Solutions guy hadn’t given us any more to go on.
Getting to town at least gives me a sense of purpose, but I still haven’t decided what to do by the time we arrive. Kiki’s safer at school than most places, I tell myself, but I know it’s not true. If the Goondas know where she is, they can get to her. I wish there were someone I could call to go and keep an eye on her, but the only person I trust is back at the guesthouse, trying to hack David Mwika’s email. And what could he do anyway, to protect my sister from Goondas?
As we walk toward the market, I check my phone to make sure Boyboy hasn’t tried getting in touch while we were on piki-piki, but the only call is from Ketchup. Again.
“Look,” Michael says, “you have to believe me. I didn’t know Mwika was dead. I wouldn’t have come all the way out here with you. I wouldn’t have let you go, period.”
He must think I’m being weird because I’m still mad at him. I scowl down the street, not responding. Should I tell him what’s going on with Kiki? No. She’s my sister and I’ll handle it. He would remind me that technically we’re both related to her the same way, but whatever. It’s not the same. I’ll call Bug Eye when we get back to the guesthouse, I decide. I can go find a quiet corner to talk where no one will hear me. I’ll convince him everything’s going according to plan.
I have to.
When we get there, my cousin’s shop is closed.
Of course it is.
And no one we pass in the busy market seems to be gossiping about the arrival of a rich, white stranger in their tiny town.
Of course they’re not.
I give the locked door of the overambitiously named Grace of Jesus MegaSuperMart a good kick. It scares away a bony cat that’s been sleeping in the tin shack’s shade, but nothing else moves.
Michael doesn’t even try to make me feel better, which is good, because I’m ready to kick him too. We just turn in silence and walk back the way we came, through women presiding over produce, young men hacking sugarcane into pieces for children to suck on, chickens in wire cages, pots and pans, sweet-smelling straw baskets, bold sides of meat hung for shoppers’ inspection.
Michael absently picks up a mango from a fruit seller’s stall, tosses it gently in his palm. “I’m as frustrated as you are that we didn’t find Mwika.”
I snort.
“How am I supposed to prove my dad didn’t kill your mother without his video?” he asks.
The mango seller eyes Michael over her piles of fruit. “Buy that or quit squeezing, kijana.”
“Sorry,” Michael says, and quickly replaces the mango.