When Life Gives You Mangos

by Kereen Getten

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Kereen Getten

  Cover art copyright © 2020 by Bex Glendening

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780593173978 (hc) — ISBN 9780593310212 (glb) — ebook ISBN 9780593173985

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Tristan, and the kids who dream, follow your heart.

  THERE IS A NEW GIRL ARRIVING in Sycamore. Her hair is in two Afro buns with big white bows, and she is wearing cat’s-eye sunglasses, like a celebrity. That’s according to Gaynah. I haven’t seen her yet, but Gaynah says she saw her get off the city bus by the traffic circle with a woman that looked like her mother, and they are heading up the hill.

  The entire village is buzzing. This is the most excitement we have ever had, and no one wants to miss seeing it for themselves. Within minutes all the kids are gathered at the edge of the road, waiting for the new girl. Everyone is speculating on why she is here and what might be wrong with her.

  New people don’t come to Sycamore. Not since the witch-doctor episode. The last time someone new came here, it was two tourists with video cameras. They were driving to the Bob Marley museum and got lost. But we suspect they were some of the die-hard fans who were desperate to meet Eldorath, my uncle, the man who saw ghosts.

  It’s the story that brought shame and fear on the community. Pastor Brown was the most vocal. He said any man who claims to see ghosts is not a godly man, that my uncle was inviting evil to our community. So Eldorath was given a new name: the witch doctor.

  Tourists thought differently. My uncle was a tourist attraction. They wanted to see him, ask him if he could see their mother, their father, their best friend who had passed. Uncle Eldorath wasn’t easy to find, though; his house was way up on the hill, and he rarely left it. Pastor Brown told us to never give anyone directions.

  When they couldn’t find him, they gave us candy as a thank-you for helping them get on the right road. Gaynah saw this as an insult and threw her candy in the bush.

  “Do they think I’ve never seen candy?” she said in complete disgust. “My brother sends me American candy every month.”

  The new girl would be the second stranger to ever venture up Sycamore Hill in the last year. And no one can stop talking about it. If this is true and a girl really is coming here, then it could change our entire summer.

  Nothing exciting ever happens here. Some of the adults pick fruits from the fields to sell, while some work out of town in the big hotels. A few, like Papa, go fishing early in the morning. If they catch anything, they sell it at the market in town. I used to go with him to catch an early surf. Now that I don’t surf anymore, there’s not much to do except laze around by the river and play a few games. Most days, though, this is what we do. Sit around waiting for something to happen.

  That’s why a new girl has us all so excited. Where is she from? Why is she here? Is she real or is she an alien? Gaynah said she saw an alien once down by Ms. Gee’s guava tree. The alien had eight legs and three eyes and told her not to tell anyone because humans might hurt her. Of course, Gaynah being Gaynah, she told everyone she saw.

  “Are you sure she’s real, this girl?” I ask, pushing away the curly bangs I thought were a good idea this morning. Gaynah’s big brown eyes widen with shock that I could ever question her. She flicks her long, straightened hair, which will have reverted to curly by the end of the day.

  It’s not that I don’t believe there could be a new girl. It’s just that Gaynah has a way of being in the middle of every drama on the hill. Usually the drama has already happened by the time she tells us, so we never actually get to witness it. The new girl could be real—chances are, she isn’t—but it’s summer and we have nothing else to do.

  It would be nice to have someone new. Maybe this new girl will know some new games we can play, or have stories about where she came from. Maybe she will speak a different language or have a talent she can teach us. I get a little excited thinking of the possibilities.

  It’s midday, and the sun is at its hottest. It burns my dark brown skin as though someone is holding my arm over a fire. There is no shelter here like there is up at the house. On the roadside, the scorching heat has no pity on us.

  I wipe sweat off my forehead and flick it onto the ground. Gaynah grimaces, as if the very sight of me disgusts her.

  “She’s not just any girl,” she retorts in her usual snooty voice. She adjusts her little crossover bag that she proudly wears everywhere because her brother sent it from America. “I think she might be foreign.”

  I roll my eyes. Oh, she’s foreign now. Next she’ll be telling us the girl is another alien that she saw.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Calvin leaving his house, a surfboard under his arm. His short black curls shine in the sun, and glimmers of gold bounce off his skin.

  Calvin uses his hand to protect his eyes from the sun and calls to Anton, his tall, lanky friend whose father is a police officer. Anton strolls over and meets him, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. As they approach, Calvin nods at me and says, “We’re going for a surf. You coming?”

  I lower my eyes to the ground and shake my head.

  “Anton’s broth
er is going to be there, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know my dad would never let me go without a chaperone.”

  I draw a face in the dirt with my finger so I don’t have to look at him. “I said no.” The truth is, the sea sounds perfect right now. My sweat feels like slime on my forehead, and my body is screaming for a breeze.

  He walks off, shrugging. “I’m going to keep asking until you change your mind.”

  I feel Gaynah stiffen beside me. “But you’ll miss the new girl.” She pouts, because Gaynah thinks pouting gets her anything she wants. Calvin doesn’t answer her. Maybe he doesn’t hear, or maybe he does but doesn’t care to meet the new girl.

  “I’ll tell him about the new girl at the game tomorrow,” I say, feeling a little sorry for her. The game is “pick leaf,” and all the kids on the hill play it every summer.

  Gaynah snorts. “If you remember.”

  “Really?” I say through clenched teeth.

  Mama tells me I must think before I have an outburst. “If you pause for five seconds, you will have a completely different reaction,” she says. So I count as Gaynah fidgets with her bag and smooths the blue dress she is wearing.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  “Well, it’s true. Everyone knows you don’t remember anything.”

  That’s not true. I remember some things. I remember when Gaynah is a good friend and when she is not. I remember what happened a few weeks ago, even last month. Even some things last year.

  I remember that my name is Clara Dee-Henson, and I remember I am twelve years old. I know I live on a small island that tourists call exotic. I know I used to love surfing every morning while Papa went fishing, but I don’t do that anymore. Something happened that made me forget everything that happened last summer.

  Sometimes the memories come back to me in drips, like a tap that won’t turn off no matter how hard I try. Sometimes Mama fills in the blanks. She’ll say, “You spent the summer down at the river,” or, “You went to the beach with Gaynah, do you remember?” She’ll tell me small details, like what I was wearing, what time we left for the beach, how we had a nice snapper for dinner that Papa had caught on his fishing trip. Sometimes those memories stick so fast, I think they’re mine, but they’re not. They are hers.

  Sometimes, like now, Gaynah uses my memory lapse to remind me that I’m not like everyone else. That I’m different. She frowns at me. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  “No.”

  Four.

  Five.

  She sighs, standing up, “You’re such a baby, Clara. You cry about everything.” She circles her finger beside her head.

  I’m on my feet before I know it. “I am not crazy!” I scream. Everyone looks over at us, and the busy chatter stops. I try to think of something smart to say, something that will put her in her place, but nothing comes to mind, so I push her out of the way. I don’t wait to see if she fell over and dirtied her pretty blue dress. Instead, I run up the hill before anyone can see the tears brimming in my eyes.

  “Don’t you want to see the girl with the bows in her hair?” she calls after me in a sickly-sweet voice that is meant to upset me even more.

  “I don’t care if her hair is on fire!” I scream, marching up the hill. “And your dress looks like it was made by an old lady.”

  Mama was wrong. Counting doesn’t work.

  I HAVE A SECRET HIDEOUT BEHIND the house. A hole in the base of the hill that separates our house from the Wilson twins behind us. No one knows about this hole except me and Gaynah. We dug it out two summers ago so we’d have somewhere to hide when we stole the mangos off the ground. Papa always said we are not to touch the mangos unless they’re bruised, but bruised mangos are not nice to look at, so we always steal a few and eat them in the dugout. Sometimes I come here by myself, like now. I sit cross-legged in the hole and bite into a ripe mango.

  Gaynah will keep the new girl for herself anyway. There’s no point in me being there. She will be the first to throw herself in front of her and appoint herself the hill leader. She will tell the new girl everything about everyone, including me. By tomorrow the new girl will know that Calvin is the popular boy who likes to surf. His father is Pastor Brown, who holds Saturday- and Sunday-morning church that goes on all day.

  She will tell the new girl she has a crush on Calvin but Calvin never notices. She will say with her nose in the air that her mother is the head teacher of our school and has already secured a spot at the best university on the island for her. Even though she secretly thinks her mother is too controlling. She will tell the new girl about the Wilson twins, who are hardly ever home because they are relay champions and run for our parish. She will tell her about miserable Ms. Gee, who yells at everyone, and about our game of pick leaf tomorrow. But most of all, she will tell her about me. I will not get a chance to be Clara, another girl on the hill. By the time I see her, I will already be Clara, the girl who remembers nothing.

  Mama is calling me, as she does every day when she leaves for town. “Clara, I’m going to the market. Are you coming?” Usually I hide in the dugout until she leaves. But today, the dugout doesn’t seem to be far enough away from Gaynah. My thoughts flit from one answer to the other. I get ready to leave the dugout; then I change my mind. My heart feels as though it is going a hundred miles an hour, as if I am bracing myself to jump off a cliff.

  I take a deep breath and climb out, running around the house just as Mama is about to disappear down the hill.

  “Wait,” I call.

  She stops and turns, a box of fruit balanced on her head. Her long braids pulled into a high bun make a nook for the fruit. She looks back at me expectantly.

  My chest rises and falls as I contemplate changing my mind. “You coming?” she asks, surprised.

  I nod. “I need to get my board.”

  “Clara, I don’t want you to…”

  “I know, Mama.” I sigh. I know what she’s going to say. What she always says. I don’t want you to go in the water unless your father’s there. I don’t know if she keeps saying it because she thinks I won’t remember, like I don’t remember what happened last summer. Or if she says it because that’s what mamas do; they repeat things over and over to annoy you.

  As we walk down the small hill from our house to the main road, I can see Gaynah is still waiting for her phantom girl. I balance the small foam board on my head, matching Mama’s footsteps in the dirt as she carries mangos from our garden to sell at the market. She wears a simple black vest that hugs her full figure and a loose wrap skirt that flaps against her legs.

  We pass Gaynah on the road. She checks her perfectly manicured nails, pretending she doesn’t see me.

  We continue along the narrow road that curves into Sycamore Hill and down a steep incline toward the village. There is nothing up here but the river, fields of trees, and our imaginations. Everyone knows each other on the hill, from Pastor Brown to Ms. Gee. Our parents grew up together, and so did their parents. You live and you die here. No one leaves and no one new comes in. Sometimes that’s a good thing because you know everyone, and everyone knows you. Other times you get tired of seeing the same faces and want something new.

  What I love most about living here is my best friend. Gaynah lives downhill from our house. She is two months older than me. Really, we are cousins because her mom and my mom are sisters. But even if we weren’t cousins, we would still be best friends. We are opposites, which is probably why we don’t get along sometimes. She likes dressing up, while I find matching a top with your bottoms one of the cruelest ways to make humans suffer. No one should have to endure that. Mama always grimaces when she sees what I am wearing, but Gaynah doesn’t care about hurting my feelings—she tells me to go back inside and try again. “You can’t wear leggings under a dress, Clara.”

  “Why not?”
<
br />   “Because you look like a beach umbrella.”

  I don’t care for clothes like Gaynah, but she cares about my clothes. She wants to do well at school not because she enjoys it, but because her mother wants her to. While I like school. I help Gaynah with schoolwork and she helps me to be cool.

  But somewhere along the way, she got tired of helping me. She moved on, only hanging out with me when no one else was around. Even then, she always had something to say about what I was wearing, or saying, or not remembering. We argue; then we make up. That’s how it’s always been.

  This time, though, we haven’t made up. I don’t know why, but she no longer wants to hang out with me, and when she does, she never has anything nice to say.

  Mama glances behind her occasionally, I guess to make sure I haven’t changed my mind and disappeared back up the hill. She flashes me an encouraging smile when she sees I am still here.

  A hot ten-minute walk later, and the road opens into Sycamore Square. The noise, the people, the smell hit you all at once. Our town, known for its fishing, is called Sycamore. We have a supermarket, a police station, a courthouse, a small church, and a hospital.

  We also have a movie theater, but Mr. Hammond only shows films he likes. Usually kung fu films starring an actor named Bruce Lee. Mr. Hammond can talk for a long time about Bruce Lee. Mama says if he sees you, he will trick you into thinking he has something important to say, but really, he just wants to talk about Bruce Lee.

  It’s hot down here. Hotter than on Sycamore Hill, where if we’re lucky we get a slight breeze from the forest. Walking into Sycamore Square is like walking into an oven. A noisy oven with people calling to each other, stray dogs barking, and the constant beep of horns. The courthouse is framed against the blue sky, the white paint barely hiding the cracks from the storm two summers ago, when a telephone pole fell and hit the building.