Learning to Breathe by Janice Lynn Mather

Author:Janice Lynn Mather
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

10

I THOUGHT MAYBE HE would have got his sister’s boyfriend to come, when he said I-I-I ga be there s-soon, but instead Churchy appears perched on his bike, back ramrod straight, a beanpole backlit by the low sun. He slows as he approaches me. He doesn’t smile, exactly, but he gives me a polite nod that would be accompanied by the tip of a hat, if he was wearing one.

“You ga give me a ride on that?”

He takes my bag, depositing it in the crate he’s got nailed to the back. “Y-you behind me.”

“You serious?”

He’s already on the seat, his face expectant. I wait for him to make a crack about whether I could manage to get up there, or what good cushioning I’ll make if we fall, but he waits quietly, loosely gripping the handlebars.

I hoist myself up. My feet dangle awkwardly; luckily his bike is tall too, so there’s no danger of them dragging on the ground.

“Wh-wh-where you need to go?”

I manage one deep breath before a jitney pulls past us, blaring gospel music. A puff of exhaust leaves me choking. I fan the air around my face. “Anywhere.” I need to find Grammy, but I don’t know where to start. “Anywhere but home.”

We bob and weave through traffic, cutting slightly west, then more south, across the island. Finally, Churchy stops the bike by the ramshackle building that houses his family’s restaurant. “Y-y-you hungry?”

I almost laugh with relief. “I could eat one of everything on the menu right now.” That reminds me. I climb off the bike, energized by my close proximity to food. I reach into my bag and hand him the parcels from his grandmother. He goes through them, a slow smile spreading across his face. He disappears upstairs with the curry, then comes back down with two bowls heaped high, freshly reheated. He clutches the dishes like treasure and holds one out to me. We sit on the steps at the side of the building and eat. The chicken is tender around the shards of bone; Mrs. Robinson must have butchered it herself. The food seasoned just enough, bits of orange goat pepper warning of extra heat. Hunks of creamy potato and sweet carrot offset the spice. We don’t speak until our plates are empty.

“H-h-how my g-granny d-doin?”

“Fine. She said you have to share the bread with your sister, and the peanut cakes for your nephew.”

He looks up at me with a flash of defiance as he tears open a bag of peanut cakes and crams a whole one into his mouth. He holds the bag out to me. I take one, biting through the roasted nuts and sugar brittle, caramelly and sweet. He settles on the stairs, savoring the treat. “What you b-been back for today?”

“For work.”

“You see your g-grammy?”

So he doesn’t know. “She ain there no more.”

“What, M-Ms. Ferguson? Wh-where she is?”

“Nobody know. Mamma couldn’t tell me, your granny couldn’t find her. For all I know, she dead.”

“Sh-sh-she ain dead. You would know if she was.

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