by Alana Terry
Woong sprang out of the car a second before Kennedy shifted into park. “Dibs on the blue Gogurts!” he shouted.
Kennedy waited for a minute, trying to catch her mental second wind, before she yelled out after him as loudly as she could, “Hey! Wash your hands before you touch the food!”
CHAPTER 4
“How come we’ve got so many skin colors do you think?” Woong asked as Kennedy prepared him a third helping of ants on a log.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like my dad, he’s got that brownish skin color, but my mom, she’s nearly as pale as you are except not quite so much because she’s always complaining about how hot it is and how her face is always red because she’s sweaty all the time.”
Kennedy tried to hide her smile behind the oversized jar of peanut butter. She glanced at the label and guessed Woong had downed at least seven hundred calories in a single sitting. She knew there were chores and homework assignments to take care of, but she had a feeling Woong was preparing to move right from snack time to dinner.
God bless Sandy and her made-ahead casseroles.
Woong was still going on about different people he knew and all their skin tones. Kennedy figured for someone from a homogenous region like the Korean peninsula, seeing people of all difference races would be noteworthy.
“And that Becky Linklater, the one with all them curls I was telling you about, she’s got peachy skin but brown freckles.” He rolled up his sleeve and stared at his forearm. “I don’t know what color you’d call me. Chuckie Mansfield says my skin’s yellow, but that’s not right.” He picked up a banana from the fruit basket and held it against his arm. “See?”
“No. That’s not yellow.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“Some people say it’s olive.”
He frowned. “No, olives are black. I know ’cause my mom used to buy me olives, but I went through too many at once, even when she told me just two cans a day, but she caught me sneaking them. So she says I can’t have olives again until summer, but I remember they were black. And I don’t mean black like my dad, ’cause he’s more like brown even though folks always say that’s black when it’s on your skin, but I mean black like my hair.” He tugged on a handful to show her.
Kennedy was distracted looking for another box of raisins and only replied with a simple, “Oh.”
“So what I’m wanting to know is why they’d say I’m olive colored, I wonder.”
“There are other kinds of olives too. Fancy kinds that are more like ...” She tilted her head to the side to study Woong. “Actually, those are usually green.”
He pouted so far he could have fit at least half a dozen raisins on his lower lip. “I’m not green. But I seen folks who were green before. Back before I came here, you know how I was a flower swallow and taking care of myself on the streets? Well, some of them other flower swallows got so sick they turned green. I don’t mean green like broccoli, more green like that pea soup my mom makes. Have you ever had pea soup? I think it’s funny because peas are green like broccoli-green, but when you turn them into soup it’s a different kind of green, like green and brown all mixed together, and what I’m wanting to know is why that is, I wonder.”
“I have no idea.” Kennedy set another plate in front of him with ten new celery sticks smothered in peanut butter and raisins.
“I wonder why they call these ants. ’Cause I’ve ate ants before, did you know that? Back during the hunger I did. And they weren’t too bad, neither. But I’m glad I don’t have to eat them now on account of folks here thinking it’s gross. But you’re a scientist, right? So you’re used to things like that, so I’m guessing you don’t think it’s too gross, do you?”
“I suppose not if you’re hungry enough.”
“I liked ants, but grasshoppers were better. ’Course, that might have been on account of them being bigger, so you get fuller faster. You ever tried grasshopper?”
“No. I haven’t.”
He shrugged and took a noisy bite out of one of his celery sticks. “You’d like them if you tried them, I’m guessing, except they make a bad crunch, and sometimes girls don’t like that part of it. But you’re different, right? I mean, not really a girly kind of girl, aren’t you?”
“That depends on what you mean.”
Kennedy’s phone beeped. Thankful for a distraction, she hopped to her feet and picked it up off the counter.
A text message from her dad.
Thirteen new confirmed cases in New York today.
It was three in the morning in Yanji. She couldn’t guess if her dad was staying up late or getting up early. Either way, she knew he kept his eyes glued to his computer screen, his mouse continually ready to refresh his news page.
If a baby elephant in an Australian zoo came down with the Nipah virus, Kennedy would hear about it.
Another beep.
Nine deaths in Florida.
Well, it was a good thing she wasn’t in Florida or New York, then. She washed her hands again since she was already so near the sink and then sat down by Woong. “Do you have much homework tonight?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Just a spelling test to practice. My mom says you’re supposed to help me study. But what I’m wanting to know is how come we need to spell the words as long as we know how to say them, I wonder. ’Cause if you can say the word just fine, everyone knows what you’re talking about.”
“Sometimes we do things because our parents or teachers tell us to.” It was the only answer Kennedy had the energy to offer.
Woong sighed dramatically. “Yeah. I can’t wait to be big like you. ’Cause then nobody would ever tell me what to do. Like I could stay up all night long if I wanted and play video games like Mr. Nick from my dad’s church does. Or watch as many movies as I wanted, even if they’ve got too much sword fighting in them. Or I could go weeks without cleaning my room at all. I’m pretty sure Mr. Nick does that too, by the way, ’cause I’ve been in his house before, and it’s so messy you can’t hardly even find a place to sit. That’s what I can do when I’m all grown up. And if I got a little sick, my mom wouldn’t go around worrying and telling me I hafta take some yucky medicine or eat up all my chicken soup when it hardly counts as soup because it’s nearly all water.”
Kennedy was about to explain how it’s sometimes nice to be taken care of like that when you’re not feeling well, but her phone beeped again.
A third text from her dad.
First confirmed fatality in Boston. Don’t go anywhere that isn’t absolutely necessary.
CHAPTER 5
“Hey, you know what I’m wanting to know? It’s how come we’ve got to sleep at all, I wonder. Cause Chuckie Mansfield says he’s got a pet goldfish, and goldfish never sleep. But what I wonder is how you’d know if your goldfish really was asleep or not, know what I mean? But his dad’s a doctor so he knows that sorta stuff, and that’s what he says. So if goldfish don’t hafta sleep, how come you and me got to? And why do kids always hafta do it earlier than grown-ups? It’s an abomination.” He scrunched up his face in a perfect imitation of his father behind his pulpit.
Kennedy, guessing the impression wasn’t intentional, masked her laugh with a cough.
“You better be careful,” Woong said. “When you cough on somebody, that gives them your germs.”
“You’re right.” She pulled Woong’s Iron Man sheets up to his chin. “Now, your mom says you like to read before bed, so should we start that now?”
“Well first, what I’m wanting to know is how come people have adversaries to start with.”
“Why they have what?”
“Adversaries.”
“Like enemies?”
“No, I mean like what my mom and dad are doing.”
Kennedy remained clueless.
“You know,” Woong exclaimed, clearly exasperated. “Adversaries. When you go away and leave your kids with strangers.”
Kennedy didn’t know if she shou
ld chuckle or feel sorry for him. “Well, first of all, I’m not a stranger. I come over here all the time.”
“Yeah, but ...”
“And second of all,” she interrupted, “even when your parents go away for a night, they love you just as much as when they’re here. That’s why your mom’s going to make a special point to call you tonight even when she and your dad are at the theater. And why she made so much good food for us to eat. Like that lasagna we had for dinner. Wasn’t that yummy?”
“Yeah. Are there any leftovers? Sometimes Mom heats me up leftovers for breakfast once I finish my box of cereal.”
“We’ll check and see in the morning, ok?” Kennedy still hadn’t cleaned up the kitchen. She’d been too busy quizzing Woong on his spelling words. She had no idea how an inquisitive child like him could stretch out a study session to the rate of one word per half an hour. When your teacher’s given you a list of fifteen spelling words ...
“So what are you and your parents reading at night?”
“It’s my mom who reads. Dad’s too busy playing the Wii.”
“Oh, yeah?” She tried to hide a grin at the idea of Carl engrossed in video games.
“Yeah, he likes to do that golf one. Mom says it’s because he works so hard during the rest of the day he’s allowed to do it at night. But she never sets the timer for him.” He pouted.
“Well, sometimes adults get special privileges.”
“Yeah, like Mrs. Winifred.”
“Who?”
“My teacher. She got to leave early from school today because she was sick. My mom never lets me stay home from school, even when I have a sore throat. But all Mrs. Winifred had to do was tell the principal she had a fever, and she got to go home for the rest of the day. That’s how come we got a substituent.”
“You mean substitute?”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
“All right.” Kennedy tried to remember what she and Woong were supposed to do next. He’d brushed his teeth after asking about two dozen questions about cavities, dentists, and braces. (“’Cause Chuckie Mansfield, his teeth are so crooked he says he’s gonna need them metal things on them once he gets a little bigger, except he still has to wait for some of his first set of teeth to fall out first before it’s ready, and that got me to thinking how come we got two different sorts of teeth to start with and why God didn’t just make us with the ones we could use always.”)
She glanced at the clock. Woong was already thirty minutes past his usual lights out time. Carl and Sandy would call as soon as intermission started at the opera, which could be any minute. She sighed. “Ok, are you ready to read?”
“Yup,” he answered, snuggling down beneath his sheets. “I’ve been wondering what’s going to happen to Violet now that she’s sick, ’cause I know kids can take care of themselves even if they don’t have a boxcar to live in. That’s how I done it before I got adopted, you know, but it gets a lot harder if you have the sickness on account of you not being able to do anything for yourself, even get yourself someplace clear to barf. Have you read The Boxcar Children? Do you think Violet’s gonna be ok, or do you think she might die on account of the sickness?”
“She’ll be just fine.” Kennedy figured a vague spoiler was justified when she saw how scared Woong looked.
He let out his breath. “Well, I’ve been wondering, you know, even though of course she’s just a girl in a book and not a real kid at all, and I’ve never read a book where a kid actually dies, but I suppose it’s possible, don’t you think? And then I figure it’s not really a book I’d wanna read, ’cause don’t most people read so they can think about happy things, not things that really do happen like kids dying?”
Kennedy wondered how much Woong had endured as a street child before he found himself in the South Korean orphanage. Even Carl and Sandy were still piecing together the details of his hard life before he joined their family.
Kennedy opened up The Boxcar Children to where a piece of large, floral-patterned stationary marked off a new chapter. She read the first few sentences. “Does this sound right?” she asked. “Is this where your mom left off last?”
“Uh-huh. I think so.”
She let her mind turn onto autopilot as she began to read.
“Why’s it so cold in here?” Woong asked half a paragraph in.
Kennedy hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the temperature. She pulled a blanket up over Woong. “Here you go.” She started to read again.
“You know what I’m thinking?” he interrupted a few minutes later.
“What?”
“How come they thought their grandfather was so mean? ’Cause they didn’t ever really know him, and I’ve never had a grandfather, least not one that I really remember, but in all the other stories the grandfathers are always nice. Like in the sword-fighting movie my mom doesn’t like, there’s a really nice grandpa in that one. He comes and reads to the little boy when he’s sick even though at first the boy thinks it’s just a kissing book or stuff and nonsense like that. Or there’s that dancing story at Christmastime where the girl gets that funny toy doll thingy, right? And I think it’s her grandfather who gives it to her but I’m not really sure, ’cause, you know, there’s no talking in that one, so unless you already know what it’s about, it’s kinda hard to guess what’s going on, know what I mean?”
Kennedy decided she’d make it through the first page and call it a night. How did Sandy handle these incessant questions all day long? Woong was a sweet kid, really bright. But Kennedy felt like she needed a twelve-hour nap just to recover from his chatter. She finally reached the third paragraph after just as many interruptions when the Lindgrens’ home phone rang. She handed Woong the book. “Save our spot. I’ll go see who that is.” She had expected Carl and Sandy to call her on her cell to say good-night to Woong, but maybe they were calling the house instead.
“Lindgrens’ residence,” she answered.
“Hi, is this Woong’s mother?”
Kennedy didn’t recognize the worried voice on the other line.
“No, this is ...” She hesitated. Two years on her own and thousands of miles away from home, and she still couldn’t get over her dad’s paranoia about admitting when she was in a house by herself. “This is Kennedy, a friend of the family.”
“I see. Is Mrs. Lindgren there?”
“I’m afraid she’s unavailable right now. Can I take a message?”
“Maybe. This is Margot Linklater. My daughter Becky goes to school with Woong?”
“Oh, right.” Kennedy hoped Woong hadn’t gotten into trouble in the classroom.
“I’m calling to get more details of what happened in school today?” She ended nearly all her sentences as a question.
Uh-oh. Was Kennedy about to have to step in as referee between a third-grader and an angry mother? “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Their teacher. Mrs. Winifred. My Becky tells me she nearly fainted in class.”
Kennedy paused. “Woong said something to me about her leaving early, but I don’t think he mentioned fainting.”
Mrs. Linklater’s voice lowered. “I’m just wondering if the school is giving us all the details.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my Becky was very concerned. She said Mrs. Winifred was so sick she couldn’t stand up. And it came on so suddenly. And according to another family, Mrs. Winifred had a fever ...” She left the thought unfinished.
“Are you worried about Nipah virus?” Kennedy asked, hoping she didn’t sound too incredulous.
“Aren’t we all?”
Apparently so.
“I’m sure we would have heard if it was something that serious.” Kennedy strained her ears, trying to hear if Woong was making any noise from the other end of the hall.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Mrs. Linklater went on. “Worst-case scenario, if their teacher was that sick and got herself to the hospital today, it’s still at least a full day or two before the
y’d get back any reports from the CDC, and then who knows how many kids may have been exposed, or heaven forbid actually infected?”
Kennedy wanted to say there was nothing at all to worry about, but what did she know? She lived most of her life with her head buried in her studies. If it hadn’t been for her dad’s constant text updates, she’d have no idea how far the Nipah virus had spread already or how many people were as worried as Mrs. Linklater.
“I don’t want to overstep my place,” she said, “but you might want to let Mrs. Lindgren know that several of us are going to be pulling our kids out for the next few days until we get some clearer answers of what’s going on. You know, they’ve closed several schools in New York already.”
No, she didn’t know that. She was surprised her dad hadn’t texted to tell her.
“Ok, I’ll pass that on.” She took a breath, thankful that it wasn’t too choppy. A major panic attack while she was home alone with Woong was the last thing anybody needed.
“Tell Mrs. Lindgren she’s welcome to call me if she has any questions, all right? She’s got my number.”
“Ok, thank you so much. I’ll pass that on.”
“I’m sorry to bother you so late. I’m sure Woong is dead to the world by now. I hope the phone ringing didn’t wake him.”
“No, don’t worry about that.” Kennedy had no idea how many other students at Medford Academy were dead to the world by 9:15, but Woong Lindgren certainly wasn’t one of them. She thanked Mrs. Linklater for the call and hung up.
“Was that my parents?” Woong asked when Kennedy returned to his room. He was sitting up in bed, flipping ahead in The Boxcar Children.
“No, but they’ll call as soon as intermission starts.”
“What’s intermission?”
“The part in the middle of the show they’re at where they all take a break.”
“You mean like halftime?”
“Yeah, like halftime. Want to keep reading until they call?”
He pouted in thought. “Ok. But you’re sure Violet’s gonna be ok?”