Lucy sipped her tea. “Here’s what I learned today. Moka pisu de! ‘What craziness!’ Am I saying it right?”
“It’s Mona pisu de!” Achala corrected. “Or you can say, Oyate pisu de? ‘Are you completely crazy?’ ”
Achala watched Lucy scribble into her notebook. After a few moments, Achala asked in Sinhala, “Which is your favorite grade to teach?”
“Grade nine, of course.”
“Do you know a boy named Leel?” Achala kept her face neutral, pretending that this was just another dialogue exercise.
“Yes. Mona pisu!” Lucy congratulated herself on using her new vocabulary words by elbowing Achala in the side and trying to make her laugh, rolling her eyes upward and sticking out her tongue.
“Do you know a boy named Chamila?”
“Yes. He is very smart, but he is a troublemaker.”
Achala nodded. “Is he a happy or a sad boy?”
“He is the boy that makes all the others laugh but doesn’t always seem happy himself.”
Achala paused to correct Lucy’s mistakes. She wondered if Lucy knew the details of Chamila’s past. She decided to change the subject a bit. “Is his writing very good?”
“Yes. He writes well.”
“Is it better than mine?”
Lucy hesitated. “It’s different.”
“How?”
Lucy broke into English. “I don’t know how to say it. It’s less formal than yours—it’s more natural. He doesn’t care if he makes mistakes.”
Achala felt Lucy watching her carefully as she sipped her tea.
“Why so much interest in Chamila?” Lucy teased. “Do you have a bit of a crush, Little Sister?”
Achala didn’t like Lucy’s tone. Today was a day when everyone seemed determined to taunt her. “What is a crush?” Achala asked impatiently.
“It’s when you like someone, when you get excited if you know you’re going to see him. If he makes you feel nervous or shy.”
Achala knew that her mother would hate this conversation. She wasn’t supposed to talk about boys this way, so she grabbed her teacup and gave Lucy an abrupt, “No. I don’t have a crush on Chamila.”
“Mona pisu de!” Lucy grinned. “Always so serious.”
THE NEXT FEW days, Achala couldn’t stop thinking about Chamila. She wondered what it was like to have grandparents for parents, to miss your mother and father and not to be able to talk about it. She missed her aunt Lakshmi almost all the time, and she had only really known her for a few months. She knew her mother constantly thought about her sister, too, delicately buffing Lakshmi and Sunil’s wedding photograph every morning. Sometimes Achala was tempted to ask her mother to tell stories about her and Lakshmi’s childhood, about what Lakshmi had studied at university, what their dreams had been. But she kept these questions to herself and instead created imagined stories about her aunt.
School was becoming increasingly unbearable. As Chitra and Devika led the other girls in teasing Achala about Leel, insisting that he was her new boyfriend despite Achala’s protests, Achala felt her thoughts drift more and more to Galle, to the national girls’ school perched high on the hill, overlooking the fort and the turquoise sea beyond. Achala imagined herself brave and strong in these surroundings, in the company of other girls like her, serious and dedicated, who would want to study with her, prepare for the A-levels, strive toward university together. She refused to confront the reality that in Galle, the competition would most likely be even more grueling, the manipulations even more severe, the jealousies more hostile. Instead she wondered if some of the town girls would teach her how to swim in the bay of Hikkaduwa or show her how to make skirts that brush one’s knees without losing their pleats in the breezy sea air. With each new Galle daydream, Achala felt desire and despair equally smothering her. She needed to pass the O-levels, then travel to the Galle sea, and from there to university to become a doctor. Then she could come back to the village and say to Mr. Illepumera, You were right. I did become a brain surgeon after all. She wondered if Chamila, too, would come back to announce his successes, or if he would still be in Baddegama, looking after the health of his aging grandparents.
During their next afternoon lesson, Achala asked Lucy why her volunteer organization had placed her in the boys’ school rather than at the girls’ school. “It doesn’t seem fair—the boys’ school getting a volunteer. Now, because of you, they have an English Club and new library books and we get nothing. It gives them an advantage on the national exams.”
Lucy looked guilty. They had had versions of the same conversation before.
Achala pressed, “Why can’t some of the girls join the English Club? You could ask. They’d agree to anything you asked.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Achala insisted, knowing full well that Lucy, the white American, brought status to their crumbling old walls. “Would you please try?”
“Maybe. We’ll see, okay?” Lucy finished her tea and closed her notebook. “It’s just that a lot of them don’t trust me over there. I can just imagine what they’ll say about me, a loose American girl, trying to form a coed after-school program.”
Achala wasn’t quite sure what Lucy meant by “loose,” but she was certain that the girls deserved an equal chance for extra English help and that Lucy could probably get anything she asked for.
Achala often felt confused by Lucy’s reluctance to try out Achala’s ideas. She certainly felt lucky to have Lucy living in her family’s house. She knew her English was getting better and she liked being the one Lucy looked to for help with her Sinhala and for company when she went into the village center. It made Achala feel important, like a UN translator. But Lucy often disappointed her, too. She seemed lazy and distracted, scribbling letters home and listening to her portable cassette player when Achala thought she should be working on her lessons or practicing her vocabulary. Lucy had also refused again and again to teach classes at the girls’ school, claiming to be too busy and tired with all her other work.
It came as a surprise, then, when Lucy announced two weeks later that the boys’ school principal had agreed to a coed English Club. “As long as your principal agrees and you can get a teacher from your school to chaperone. I told you they didn’t trust me.”
Achala ignored this last comment. “How many girls can participate?”
“Ten to start. Ten girls and ten boys and we’ll have to meet at the girls’ school. The principals are meeting tomorrow to sort out the other details.”
THE NEXT DAY, Achala, Chitra, and Devika were called into Madam Principal’s office. They approached her with their eyes lowered and quickly bent to worship at her feet.
“Good girls. Come, stand up now.” Their principal was a kindly-looking woman, almost seventy years old, who had refused her pension and retirement and still ruled over the school with sharp alertness. She resembled a grandmother except when she was angry. Too old to wield a caning stick herself, she had a special assistant whose only task was discipline—Miss Gayathri, a forty-year-old spinster with thinning hair. All the girls were terrified of both the principal and Miss Gayathri.
“The boys’ school principal has offered ten girls places in a new English Club to be led by Miss Lucy, the American teacher, and one of our teachers, Miss Lelani. You girls must interview your classmates and select seven who will become members of the club. Be sure to choose the best English students and have them bring permission slips from their parents.”
The girls filed out of the office, Chitra and Devika leading the way, their shoulders blocking Achala’s entrance into their muffled conversation and laughter. Achala felt a mixture of disappointment and excitement. She wouldn’t have to try out for a spot in the club, but Miss Lelani’s English was terrible and she was often absent or complaining about aches and stomach upsets. She had barely moved from her chair when she taught Achala’s section 8A English class the year before.
Chitra and Devika were soon huddled over
Chitra’s notebook. “Who shall we invite, then, Devika? Let’s make a list!”
Devika began offering candidates. “I’d vote for Geethika and Sita.” Her list continued to grow with all the prettiest, most popular girls.
“But—” Achala interrupted, “Madam told us to interview the candidates. They’re supposed to be the best English speakers.”
Chitra ignored Achala. “If we invite Mala, she’ll bring us ribbons from her father’s store and give us her chapatis at lunch.”
“Add her to the list, then, Chitra! Quick! Quick! Who else? Who else?” Devika and Chitra hunched over the notebook, edging Achala away from the expanding list. Achala withdrew from their laughter, returning to the classroom, reassuring herself that Lucy would make it work and the club would be a success.
AT THE FIRST meeting, Lucy arrived with ten boys and her coteacher, Mr. Jaya, a frail young man who swayed his hips like a girl. The boys often joked about him in cram class, but they admitted that he was an excellent English teacher and cricket bowler, too. He was also a favorite for never using a caning stick, a rarity at the boys’ school. When Chamila entered the classroom, Achala felt her face warm and quickly hid her eyes in her notebook. And when Lucy passed Achala’s desk, she tousled Achala’s hair, making her feel even more embarrassed and exposed.
Miss Lelani still hadn’t arrived as the girls took their seats on the left side of the class. They were soon perched with quiet smiles on their faces, the prettiest girls from grades nine and ten. Chitra and Devika had obviously carried out their selections with great care. The boys, sitting on the right side of the classroom, stole occasional glances at the girls’ indifferent faces, nudging and whispering. Chitra proudly approached Lucy. In a formal voice, her chin tilted upward, she offered Lucy a box of tea biscuits and two red anthuriums. “We welcome you to our school, Miss Lucy, and are grateful for your teaching time with us.”
Lucy blushed, her pale skin suddenly splotchy and bruised looking. “Thank you. We are happy to be here.”
Chitra offered a few sheets of notebook paper. “Madam instructed me to give you our permission slips. Not all the girls have turned them in yet.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem, I don’t think,” Lucy said, smiling. “We won’t be doing anything dangerous.” Achala found herself willing Lucy to act more properly—like a real teacher, stern and authoritative. She suddenly realized she knew Lucy only at home and had, perhaps mistakenly, assumed that at school Lucy transformed herself into someone different, a competent, organized teacher.
Achala watched as Chitra returned to her seat, neatly folding her school uniform beneath her as she sat. She was so prim and poised; nobody would ever guess how sneaky she could be, Achala thought.
Achala could tell that Lucy was nervous, but she couldn’t imagine why. Mr. Illepumera usually started his class by taking attendance and writing a dialogue on the board, but it didn’t look as if Lucy had brought any chalk or textbooks. The boys and girls fidgeted in their seats, waiting for their lesson to begin.
Lucy played with the folds of her sari as she spoke to the class. “Mr. Jaya and I are excited to be spending time with all of you. We want this club to be fun and interesting. You shouldn’t think of it as another school class, but as a way to play with English.”
Achala knew that most of the girls in the classroom didn’t understand a word Lucy was saying. Even Achala was a bit confused. She had expected some formal lessons, some extrachallenging work for the best English students from the two schools. Instead, Lucy paired each girl with a boy, told them they were to pretend to be reporters from the Island. They should interview each other and then they would make a report to the class about what they had learned. “That way,” Lucy added, “we can all start to get to know each other.”
Achala wondered if Lucy had purposefully placed her next to Chamila, who was chewing his nails, looking bored. Chamila hadn’t spoken to Achala since the day she hadn’t let him apologize. She took out her notebook.
“How old are you?” Achala began quietly.
“Fourteen.”
“When is your birthday?”
“June twentieth, 1983.”
“What is your favorite sport?”
“Cricket.”
“What is your favorite color?”
“Green.”
Chamila’s answers were clipped; he refused to meet Achala’s eyes. She continued to document Chamila’s one-word answers. “Where were you born?”
“Moratuwa.” Chamila paused. “It’s outside Colombo.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen it from the bus.”
“You’ve been to Colombo?” Chamila looked at Achala.
“Yes. When I was younger, we used to visit my aunt Lakshmi and my uncle Sunil.”
“But you don’t anymore?”
Achala was beginning to feel nervous. She had probably said too much already. “It’s my turn to ask questions.”
“You had your chance. Your questions were boring. Now it’s my turn.” Chamila grabbed Achala’s pencil and ripped out a piece of her notebook paper. “Why don’t you go to Colombo anymore?”
“My family doesn’t live there anymore.” Achala looked around her. All the other students were murmuring in Sinhala mostly, sitting inappropriately close, it seemed to Achala. Lucy and Mr. Jaya were chatting by the window, ignoring the students at work.
“Why not?”
“None of your business. Ask me something else.” Achala folded her arms and looked at her feet.
“What’s your favorite color?” Chamila nudged Achala in the arm.
“Yellow.” She disguised her smile.
“What’s your favorite sport?”
“Netball.”
“Are you good at it?” Chamila teased.
“Not really.”
“Where are your uncle and aunt now?” Chamila’s voice lowered. He looked down at the ripped notebook paper.
Achala paused. She felt suddenly hot and uncomfortable. “My uncle is dead,” Achala whispered as though speaking to her own lap. “And my aunt has disappeared.”
Chamila nodded, crushing the notebook paper into a ball and flicking it onto Achala’s desk.
“My aunt lived with us last year, but now she is gone. My mother won’t speak about it and I don’t even know what questions I want to ask her.” Achala waited for Chamila to help her get out of this conversation. Let him ask me about my favorite classes, she thought. Let him ask me about my favorite Hindi film.
“That’s the problem,” he finally said. “No one ever wants to ask questions.” Neither of them knew what they were going to say when, in a few minutes, they would have to stand up in the front of the room and give their reports.
TWO WEEKS LATER, only seven girls showed up to English Club, and the week after that, only three remained—Achala, Chitra, and Devika. Miss Lelani had yet to visit the club, and Lucy hadn’t even bothered to ask for permission slips at the start of the fourth week. Lucy tried to disguise her nervousness, but Achala could sense her forced enthusiasm when she announced, “Today we’re going to play a game called charades. It will take some of the pressure of conversational English off us for the afternoon and strengthen our acting skills.” Achala wanted to tell Lucy that she was too late, that the girls who struggled with English had already left. “Achala, why don’t you make a team with Nihal, Senaka, Chamila, Dasun, and Raveen? And Devika and Chitra can make a team with the other boys.”
Lucy didn’t realize that by separating Achala from the other girls, she was setting Achala up for even more gossip and rumors. Since the first club meeting, Chitra and Devika had begun teasing Achala about Leel. “How sad Leel must be, so quickly replaced,” they said, giggling. “You and Chamila were having such a private conversation. We wondered if you were setting up a secret meeting place.” Achala knew that these comments weren’t made to her alone; others had started to join Chitra and Devika’s teasing. During lunch, she had heard Mala telling Geethika that she had seen Acha
la and Chamila walking away from the bus stand together, not in the direction of their houses. This whispered rumor, along with some of the others Achala sensed, were, of course, lies, but Achala worried that if she acknowledged the lies at all, she would make herself look even guiltier.
Lucy emptied a bag onto the floor. Out fell a bunch of props—some of Lucy’s American clothes, Achala’s father’s dress pants and tie, a few sarongs, an eye patch, some ribbon, magazines, sunglasses—all in a muddled heap. “Each team will write down either a book title, a famous movie, a celebrity’s name, or a moment in history. We’ll then trade slips of paper, and the opposite team will try to act out the clues on the paper.”
The teams broke into their circles. Chamila led Achala’s group with authority. “We’ll have to include Jayasuriya, our local cricket hero, and what should we do for history?”
“Independence Day,” Achala offered. Soon she and Chamila were huddled over the same notebook. “And how about Buddha’s climb up Sri Pada?”
“Is there a specific date for that?”
“It’s the August Poya Day. What is that? August twelfth this year?”
Chamila smiled at Achala. “You’re such a nerd, you know?”
“I’m a nerd?” Achala grinned back. “How many runs did Jayasuriya mark in Sri Lanka’s match against Pakistan?”
“Sixty-seven off sixty-two balls,” Chamila answered reluctantly. “So what?” Chamila’s smirk betrayed his mock seriousness. “You’re still the nerd.”
AS THE GAME began, Achala’s team dove into the pile of clothes, the boys throwing Lucy’s dresses over their uniforms when they acted out a scene from a Bollywood film. Achala grabbed at the pile, too, snatching Chamila’s cricket bat when the other team’s clue had also been Jayasuriya. All the students were giggling, swaying to silent Hindi movies, or marching in simulated Independence Day celebrations—all except Chitra and Devika, who stood to the side with small, shy smiles on their faces, their uniforms unadorned by Lucy’s props. Achala sensed that they had been watching her long before she caught their gaze, and that this game would soon become the next rumor, twisted into something shameful and wrong the following day at school.
The Beach at Galle Road Page 7