“No,” my mother interjected, and snapped the apron she had tied over her growing belly. The scraps from the beans she was shelling scattered. The chickens came running to her feet, bowing and scraping like she was a god.
“It is not evil,” she said. “It is just a tree. It finds a way. It survives.”
• • •
I wake with a start. For a second I can’t remember where I am. I struggle out of the tangle of sheets and blankets. It’s late. I’ve slept too long in this too-comfortable bed. The sun is coming in through the window at a firm mid-morning angle.
The smell of coffee and toast fried in butter is rich in the room. I hear voices. The Greyhills are back, I realize, and my insides twist up like worms. I curse at myself for sleeping in. That was not part of my plan. The plan was definitely to get up early and be ready to meet the Greyhills, not straggle down after everyone’s been awake for hours with creases from the bedclothes on my face.
Michael had said his parents would probably have breakfast and head straight to church. Maybe I can avoid them until they’re gone? But no, that might raise suspicion, and besides, if I’m really going to stay here, I have to face them sometime.
I tug my jeans and T-shirt on, and pat at my hair. As I walk toward the door, I pass a mirror and halt. Oh boy.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Tina,” I tell my reflection.
There are circles under my eyes. My short hair is clean, but flat on one side. My shapeless, black street clothes make me look exactly like the burglar I am, not anywhere close to being a boarding-school girl.
Michael said there were clothes in the closet—his sister Jenny’s spillover. With a sigh, and shedding my shirt and jeans again as I walk, I head for the closet and heave the doors open.
Spillover doesn’t quite cover it. More like explosion.
The closet is crammed with designer dresses, shirts, and jeans. Sparkles and flowers. Neon and leopard print. Gem-toned silk and virginal white cotton. A rainbow of traditional kanga-print dresses for social events. Shoes, dozens of them, litter the floor. Six-inch heels and strappy gold thong things. Some of them look like they’ve never even been worn.
Knowing full well I might never escape, I plunge in. Jenny is two years younger than me, and I remember her as a little kid with a sticky face who tagged after Michael and me and demanded to be included in our games, but this closet does not say child. I suppose at fourteen she’s already got the body I’ll never have. Swoops and curves are what these dresses require. I wrestle through the racks until I find a green blouse that will cover my tattoos and jeans that don’t have glitter on them. The clothes are way tighter than anything I’m used to, and I tug at the soft fabric, uncomfortable at how much of my body is now revealed. But they seem to be the most modest things Jenny owns, which is maybe why I find them in the back of the closet.
I’m at least already clean. I ran a bath for myself last night, and I have to admit, it was a luxury I could get used to. On my roof I collect rainwater for chilly bucket baths. It’s not so bad, but hot water out of the tap is a small miracle, and given what I’m about to walk into, I need a little miraculousness.
I used pretty much every bottle of smelly stuff I could find in the bathroom. Some of them twice. I realized as I soaked that this is why rich people smell different: They smell rich. Not like flowers; like botany. Washing and conditioning my hair was epic. The dirt under my nails turned out not to be dirt, but a stain, and I had to scrub until my fingers were raw. Only the thought of Mrs. Greyhill’s nose wrinkling if she smelled the street on me kept me going. After I got out, I saw that I’d left a ring of grime around the white porcelain.
Once I’m dressed I kick my old duds under the bed, where I hope the maid neglects to clean. Then I turn to the mirror and look at the effect. Not terrible, I admit. I pull my shoulders out of a slouch and pick through my hair until it looks okay. Braids would be better, but I’ll have to manage with a short ’fro. I check to make sure none of my ink is showing. I put on a perky smile.
I have manners. I gossip with my girlfriends about boys. Ask me where I want to go to university.
For a second, I despair. I can see the wild animal behind my eyes, frantic for a way out, all teeth and claws.
I pull the photo of my mother as a girl out of my pocket and stare at it. Then I look back in the mirror. I lean closer, searching for her in my reflection.
“You can do this,” I whisper. “You just have to lie and smile. Smile and lie.”
And with that rousing pep talk, I put the photo back in my pocket, open the door, and step out.
• • •
Hovering around the corner from the dining room, I listen to muted conversation and the refined clatter of silver on china. The voices make my heart thump.
Mrs. Greyhill is saying, “It would have been better, obviously, if Michael had asked permission before he brought her here, but . . .”
I hear footsteps behind me and swivel.
“You slept late,” Michael says.
“What time is it?” I ask, frowning and tugging at the cuffs of my blouse.
“Almost ten. Come on,” he says, forcing a smile. “They’re looking forward to seeing you.” He takes my elbow and without further ado steers me into the dining room. He clears his throat to announce me. And suddenly I’m standing before the Greyhills like a peasant being presented to the king and queen. For a second, no one moves.
Mr. G’s coffee cup hovers just before his lips. He wears a suit and tie. He stares at me like I have two heads. Mrs. G, straightened hair in a perfect twist, pearls in her ears, looks exactly like I remember her, beautiful and severe. Maybe a bit more pinched and pulled. Her face is a portrait of polite malice. The mahogany table spreads out under their elbows like a black pool. It is so shiny that the crystal and china reflect in it like little white boats.
I suddenly feel like my feet have grown two sizes larger. My neck prickles with sweat and I’m worried that my beating heart looks like a trapped frog under my shirt.
And then Mr. G is standing up and walking toward me. I am rooted to the spot. It seems to take forever for him to come around the table. Mrs. Greyhill watches him. He is very pale, tall and square. His shoulders, his jaw, his ears, all cut, strict angles. His eyes are deep set, sharply green, like Michael’s—almost alien. They bore into me.
He extends his hand for a formal handshake. I take it in my clammy palm, trying to remember to keep breathing. I am so close to him, so close to making him pay. He’s right here in front of me. My hand is touching his hand. I can smell his expensive cologne. I could pick up a knife off the table right now and plunge it into his chest. Michael tenses beside me like a stretched rubber band.
“Hello, Christina,” Mr. Greyhill finally says. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
“Thank you so much for having me,” I hear myself saying.
Michael nudges me with a chair and I jump. He clears his throat, and I figure out what he’s trying to do and let him scoot it under me. Is this how it’s done? I feel so awkward. My eyes flicker over the dishes in front of me. Everything is edged in gold and paper-thin. Oh God, why are there so many utensils?
Mrs. G watches me and takes a tiny sip of black tea. “Clotilde,” she says over the rim. “Will you serve our guest, please?”
A maid appears immediately at my elbow, and pretends like she’s not sneaking glances at me as she puts food on my plate. News must have already reached her that the murdered maid’s daughter is back. Clotilde arranges eggs, toast, and fruit on my plate. As she pours my tea, I see Michael very deliberately take his napkin and place it in his lap. I copy him.
“I’m . . .” Mr. Greyhill begins, then looks at his wife. “We are so happy to see you. It’s been a very long time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Greyhill,” I say, and force out, “It’s good to see you all too. Thank you for let
ting me stay.”
Michael glances up nervously at his mother like he’s waiting for her to burst into flames. I grip my knee below the table with my fingernails and remind myself to smile. I do and feel ridiculous, and then I don’t know what to do, so I grab for my teacup and end up dribbling the first burning swallow down my shirt. I flush with embarrassment.
“Michael says you’ll be staying with us for a few days?” Mrs. Greyhill asks, watching me fumble with my napkin from under smoothly arched brows.
“If that’s all right with you,” I say.
“Well, Michael is supposed to ask us before he invites guests—”
“Of course it is,” Mr. Greyhill says quickly. His face gives no indication of whether my stay is pleasing to him or not.
“Yes, you’re very welcome. Karibu,” Mrs. Greyhill murmurs with a thin smile. “But who were you going to stay with otherwise?”
“My aunt,” I blurt, at the same time Michael says, “Her cousin.”
We glance at each other, and I stutter, “She’s my cousin, but I call her auntie.”
“I persuaded her to stay here instead,” Michael says.
How does she do that? I wonder, watching Mrs. Greyhill. Smile with her mouth and send daggers with her eyes? She’s hard to look away from.
“Is it a school holiday for you, dear?” she asks.
“Um, yes, madam.”
“Funny. I wonder why Michael and Jenny don’t have the same one.”
I give her what I hope is an innocent little shrug. “I think it’s a French holiday.”
“Ah. I see. The French do like their holidays, don’t they? Not much work ethic.”
God, I wish she would stop staring at me. “Yes, madam. I mean, no.” I look down at my food in great concentration like I’ve never seen an egg before. I rub my sweaty palms on my thighs again and try to channel my little sister. She would be just fine here. She would know how to act. The nuns are strict, and I bet they teach her proper table manners. Maybe she’d even just have it in her DNA, some natural knowledge of how to sit at breakfast with her father, which utensil to use, how to talk to the Greyhills on their level.
I should eat something. I start to pick up a fork, only to realize they’re all slightly different. Is that on purpose? I sneak another glance at Michael and take the one he’s taken.
Mrs. Greyhill delicately pushes her food around on her plate. “That’s a lovely shirt. You know, I think Jenny has one just like it.”
The fork jumps out of my grip and clatters on the plate before I can catch it. Sweat starts to gather in the lovely shirt’s armpits. “I . . .”
But Michael steps in. “The airline lost Tina’s luggage, Mom. I told her to borrow something of Jenny’s.”
Mrs. Greyhill’s eyes travel to the tea stain I’ve created on my chest. “Oh.”
“Take whatever you need,” Mr. Greyhill says, with a pointed look at his wife. “Please, Christina, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure when they’ll deliver my bag—”
“If they find your stuff at all,” Michael interjects. “I found her in baggage claim looking like a lost puppy.”
A spark of anger replaces some of my nervousness. I grab on to it and give Michael a smile. “I wasn’t lost, just my bags.”
Mrs. Greyhill finally looks away from me to a thin gold watch on her wrist. “Christina, will you join us for services?”
Again, Michael speaks up for me. “I don’t think Christina’s up for church. We’ll stay here.”
Mrs. Greyhill blinks her long false eyelashes. “I would like for you to attend with us, Michael. Christina may borrow something of Jenny’s to wear.”
“No, it’s fine, Sandrine,” Mr. Greyhill says. “Let them stay here.”
I can tell Mrs. Greyhill wants to protest, but not in front of me.
“Michael,” Mr. Greyhill says. He is looking at the newspaper now.
Michael stiffens in his seat. “Yes, sir?”
“You will use today to finish your school assignments.”
“I—there are a lot of—”
Mr. Greyhill shakes out his paper, looks at his son over the front page.
Michael swallows. “Yes, sir.”
In the silence that follows, Mrs. Greyhill manages to press her smile back on. “So, Christina,” she says. “Abroad on scholarship, Michael tells us. So fortunate for you.”
“I hardly believe it myself,” I agree, glancing at Michael.
“And your sister, Catherine? She’s well?” Mr. G asks, putting the paper down to carefully stir his coffee.
Her name catches me off guard. I hadn’t even thought about what to say about Kiki. I want to kick myself. Finally, I nod. “She’s in school here in Sangui. She has a scholarship too.”
“Both of you with anonymous benefactors,” Mrs. Greyhill says. “You’re so fortunate. Most orphans have such hard lives.”
I resist climbing over the beautiful mahogany table to throttle her. “Yes, madam.”
“We wondered what had happened to you,” Mr. Greyhill says.
“I should have written,” I say, attempting to collect myself. “But after my mother . . . I just wanted to forget.” I rally everything I’ve got to give them my best brave-little-girl smile.
For a second, Mr. Greyhill’s composure is broken and his face goes oddly slack. “Of course.”
Mrs. G is motionless, but I can see the tendons in her neck straining. “Clotilde,” she says, loud enough to make me start.
Clotilde pops around the door, a little too quickly. She’s been eavesdropping, I realize. I’m going to have to be careful about that.
She hurries forward with the tea, but Mrs. Greyhill raises a manicured hand to stop her. “Tell the driver we’re ready. I’ll be in the foyer.” Without another word or look at her husband or son, she stands and walks out of the room, her heels a clipped staccato.
The sound of her angry shoes sends a small, delicious thrill through me. Mr. Greyhill wipes his mouth, his shoulders sagging just a fraction. He stands too.
In a sudden moment of inspiration, I rise out of my chair as they leave, like I’ve seen people do in movies. Michael watches me like he’s worried I might do something he’ll regret.
But I just smile. After all, I’m a mannered young lady. “Have a nice time at services, Mr. Greyhill.”
“Thank you, Christina,” Mr. G says, before following his wife out of the dining room.
“Say a prayer for my mother,” I say softly to the space that he leaves when he’s gone.
FOURTEEN
Rule 11: If you want to go forward, sometimes you need to flip all the way over backward first.
• • •
Mama used to say I needed role models. I think she was talking about the saints. But if you are a thief, these are your heroes: Catwoman. Robin Hood, obviously. But not just them. There are others you should know: Phoolan Devi, vengeance-delivering “bandit queen” of India. Zheng Shi, captain of three hundred ships on the South China Sea and badass lady pirate. Not your typical heroes. Murderers, most of them. They’re not winning any awards for sportsmanship. But if you think they didn’t follow rules, or that they didn’t know right from wrong, you’re very mistaken.
What do they have in common? Well, they’re good thieves, of course, or they wouldn’t be famous. But the other thing that ties them all together is what made them thieves and outlaws in the first place: They all have their own little monsters caged up inside of them. Furies that urge them toward blood. Scaly, clawed things that were born in that moment when the world went so wrong that anything was possible, even the creation of monsters.
Because that’s what happened. At some point, someone did them all wrong. Very wrong. Monster-making wrong. They were handed over as brides at twelve years old. Sold as prostitutes to settle f
athers’ debts. Pimped out, treated as property. Battered, almost completely broken.
Almost.
Look it up. You’ll see.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, Boyboy says. My heroes’ actions aren’t extreme. They are just doing what is necessary to make the universe balanced again.
Backward, to go forward.
• • •
Normally, girls don’t do the whole Goonda boot-camp thing. They get sent out to the corner in a short skirt or, if they’re lucky, they get to run errands. But Mr. Omoko told Bug Eye to make an exception for me, so I trained with the boys to become one of his soldiers.
I decided to set some simple goals, before moving on to how exactly I would get my revenge. For now, I would run faster, climb better, fight harder, be smarter, more of a shadow, a nothing, than any of the other Goonda boys.
I moved out of the warehouse and found a better squat: my roof. The Goondas haven’t found it yet, and I intend to keep it that way. I wanted to make sure that never again would I wake up with fingers in my pockets. But I was back every morning, the first one ready for Bug Eye’s training: fighting, tactics, weapons. We were more like an army than a gang.
At first I just got pulverized like the other boys. But eventually I learned to fight dirty, and to be quick, and listen for soft footsteps creeping up behind me. I learned how to hurt people, and how to be hurt but not show it. The training wasn’t pretty, but after a while I found that I liked pain better than emptiness. The little monster inside of me fed on the violence and grew strong. I imagined it as a green tiger with enormous teeth. It was quiet and prowled the cage of my ribs and licked its lips.
Part of the training was in general thuggery. We were sent out to watch how the older boys did it. They’d go to shopkeepers and ask for “chai.” If a wad of money wasn’t produced, fingers were broken, inventory smashed, and daughters eyed meaningfully. I went out a few times, but Bug Eye found my attempts uninspiring. More often than not, people just laughed at me, a tiny girl demanding tea.
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