We almost went to Mozambique once. It was all planned, the dates on the calendar circled in red by Mother, who fussed over which clothes to pack and which hat would protect her skin from the sun but leave the bounce in her hair. Seven days to go, she’d say, and then, Just six days, and that’s where the countdown stopped. He canceled. His other son—older, whiter, and smarter than us—broke his leg playing rugby, and he had to stay at home. “I want to take you to the ocean,” he said via the long-distance line. “But I can’t. I’m so sorry . . .”

We sat in the backyard with our feet in buckets of water and pretended it was the ocean. Mother wore a pink hat.

“What will we eat?” Peaches asks. “The same as in Swaziland?”

“Better,” Sandi says. “Prawn curry, grilled fish, and peri-peri chicken. Ice cream on a stick, and roasted cashews. As much as you want.”

Delia makes an mmm sound, Peaches rolls her eyes with delight, and Natalie licks her lips at the dizzying variety of food available in Mozambique. No amount of my canned meat or condensed milk can compete with the vision of plenty that Sandi has painted for them.

7

Copycat

Later, we cluster outside of Scripture, our last class of the day. It’s windy, and the girls bunch their skirt hems into their fists to stop them from blowing up. The boys hang back and pray that one of the girls will lose her grip.

Blown leaves scatter across the lawns, and Lazy-Eye Matthew reaches for the hem of Lottie’s skirt. Matthew can’t keep his grubby hands to himself or keep his dirty mouth shut around girls.

Lottie does what I’d do, if only I had the guts. She smacks Matthew’s hand down and grabs him by the ear. “Pig,” she says, and twists. Matthew’s good eye rolls in the socket, and she twists harder. We laugh. He should have known better.

Miss December, our mixed-race geography teacher, is taking the path across the lawn to the senior classrooms. Miss December is in her early twenties, with a long, slender neck dotted with freckles, and huge brown eyes. All the boys are in love with her. She pretends not to notice, but I think the attention pleases her. Gordon Number One, the best of the Gordons, walks behind her with a stack of her textbooks in his arms. And behind him comes Darnell, who has calmed down since being pulled from his father’s tractor in tears. Darnell copies Gordon’s confident stride and thrown-back shoulders, and I blink in surprise. Darnell is an excellent mimic. He has Gordon’s body movements down just right.

The other girls are too mesmerized by Gordon to pay any attention to Darnell’s uncanny impersonation, because, good gracious, you should see how Gordon’s muscles strain against his cotton shirt. If he flexes any more, those buttons will pop.