Chapters (36)
Delia and Natalie and Peaches ooh and aah at being invited to stay in rich Mr. Cardoza’s house, where the sand outside the door glitters with gold, and dolphins play in the waves.
“I’ll have to get a new bathing suit,” Peaches squeaks. “Maybe a bikini.”
“If your daddy lets you,” Delia says, and they all laugh at the joke, which is mildly funny but not that funny. I smile to let them know that I, too, am amused. And though Sandi left me out of the invitation list, I push on.
“Right on the beach?” I ask in the breathy voice that Mother uses when she talks to Father on the telephone. “You can smell the ocean?”
“We’re like this far from the water . . .” Sandi reaches her arm across the table to indicate the distance between her father’s big house and the much-dreamed-of Indian Ocean. “You can hear the waves day and night.”
More oohs and aahs from the others, and I spoon the potatoes into my mouth. If my mouth is full, then I can’t point out how ridiculous Sandi’s calculations are. No house is that close to the water unless it is a houseboat. Next, she’ll say that the dolphins eat from her hand. I chew, and force the food down my throat and into my stomach. I have to be honey. I have to smile and stay sweet, even though I hate Sandi and her rich Portuguese father.
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.