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The room way down at the bottom of the stairs.

  I’ll show you later.

  He surprises me with a smile like

  Lual might have made,

  a big-brother-making-trouble smile.

  You’ll like doing the wash.

  It’s my job, but if you want,

  I might let you help.

  Sure, I say,

  although I don’t

  trust that mischief smile.

  I remember well how Lual and Ganwar

  used to tease and test me.

  Always I was the little child

  with foolish ideas and silly ways.

  Always they were too old

  to bother with me,

  unless it was for their own fun.

  The door to my aunt’s room opens

  and she comes out slowly,

  yawning and stretching.

  How was school? she asks.

  You would not believe it, I say.

  They teach you and feed you

  and I have my own desk.

  We’re going to visit the zoo

  where animals live

  and the plan …

  plan-et-arium …

  where stars live.

  And I’m going to learn how to

  dunk-slam in the class called PE.

  Slam-dunk, Ganwar corrects.

  Good, my aunt says, good boy,

  and she fills a kettle with water

  to put on the cooking fire.

  I want to tell her more,

  but I can see

  that her mind is visiting other places.

  I think maybe I’ll like

  living here in America, I say to Ganwar.

  Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.

  But you’ll never really feel like an American,

  Ganwar says. You’ll see.

  Why? I ask.

  Ganwar shrugs.

  Because they won’t let you.

  He tosses the basket on the sofa.

  I’m outta here, he says, switching to English.

  Be home by—

  my aunt begins,

  but Ganwar is already gone.

  TIME

  My aunt sighs and leans against the counter.

  He’s just not happy here, she says.

  I know it’s been hard for him.

  But he doesn’t try.

  She rubs her eyes.

  I have to go work, Kek. I’ve got an early shift.

  Eat what you like and go to bed by eight.

  I learned o’clocks at the camp, I say.

  It is called time telling.

  But why not use the sun and the stars?

  My aunt points to the tiny clock

  strapped to her arm.

  Here in America, this is the sun.

  You’ll get used to it.

  For now, just get some sleep.

  I watch her put on her heavy coat.

  She isn’t even at work yet,

  and already she’s tired.

  I go to the door with her.

  Are you …

  I stop, then try again.

  Are you glad that you’re here?

  My aunt seems surprised that I would ask

  such a question. She thinks for a moment.

  The freedom is a great gift,

  she says. To choose your leaders.

  To walk the streets unafraid.

  But it’s lonely here.

  And … she hesitates. Hard.

  To change when you are older,

  to learn new words and new ways,

  that is big work.

  But for you and Ganwar,

  it will be easier.

  That’s my hope, anyway.

  I watch through the window

  as she tracks a path

  through new snow falling.

  Her footprints catch the flakes,

  then vanish like

  pebbles in quicksand.

  HELPING

  When my aunt leaves,

  the apartment grows hushed

  as the air before a storm.

  I turn on the TV machine

  but the words are too fast coming.

  My aunt had looked so weary.

  I wonder how I can help.

  In the cooking fire room

  are many dirty dishes.

  Maybe I can clean them for my aunt.

  I’ve seen her wash some plates in the sink

  with bubbles.

  But now there are many dishes

  stacked high.

  Ganwar said the machine for washing

  was in the way-down-at-the-bottom-of-the-stairs-room.

  Maybe that’s what his

  basket is for.

  Carefully I place the

  cups and saucers and plates

  in the basket.

  With my special key,

  I lock the apartment door

  just as Dave warned me to do.

  Then I carry the basket of dishes

  down the stairs

  to the room of washing.

  It’s good to be a helping person.

  If my father were here,

  he would be proud, I think.

  An ache in my chest comes,

  throbbing like an old bruise.

  The way-down room

  smells like a rainy day.

  I see six white boxes with doors.

  Some are making noise.

  I find a sleeping one and open the top.

  One by one I put the dishes into the hole.

  Then I close the top

  and wait,

  while all around me

  the machines hum and talk.

  HOW NOT TO WASH DISHES

  Just then Hannah appears

  in the doorway.

  She’s carrying a basket of clothes

  and a big red bottle.

  Hey, she says. What’s up?

  I look at the ceiling.

  No, that means

  what’s new, what’s going on?

  She laughs. You must feel like I do

  in Spanish class.

  The machine isn’t working, I say.

  Did you put four quarters in? Hannah asks.

  She reaches into her pocket

  and pulls out shiny circles.

  Money, she explains.

  It makes the machine go.

  She laughs her good laugh.

  Actually, it makes the world go.

  Here, I’ll lend you a buck.

  I can’t accept such a gift, I begin,

  but she just waves her hand.

  You can pay me back later.

  She places the four money pieces

  into special holes in the machine,

  then pushes them.

  Noise begins,

  like a tiny river flowing.

  It’s working! I cry.

  Technology at its finest, she says.

  Course you still have to dry it all,

  then fold it.

  Fold it? I ask. But I don’t

  understand—

  I’ll show you. Let me sort these clothes real quick.

  Hey, you doing anything after this?

  We could go upstairs and catch some TV

  while we wait.

  That would be good, I say.

  I would like something to do.

  Ganwar and my aunt aren’t home.

  My mom either. Well, she’s not exactly my mom.

  She’s my foster mom.

  She works the four to midnight

  shift at the Quick Stop. She pauses.

  That means she works at night,

  kind of like your aunt.

  I watch as Hannah pushes white clothes

  into another machine.

  These machines, they wash

  clothes and dishes? I say,

  shaking my head.

  Mama will be amazed

  when she sees this!

  Hannah looks up.

  Did y
ou say—

  but just then the river sound stops

  and my machine begins to shake

  like a crazed dancer under a full moon.

  It’s eating my dishes! I cry.

  Please make it stop!

  Hannah lifts the top of the machine.

  The horrible noise

  of its giant teeth stops.

  She peers inside.

  Whoa, she says.

  I think this is what they call

  a problem with translation.

  NOT-SMART BOY

  I don’t want to cry.

  A man must show strength

  in the presence of a woman.

  But if I had to choose

  between kissing a crocodile

  and telling my aunt

  the news of her broken dishes,

  I would choose the crocodile

  any day.

  I look into the hole.

  Hannah looks, too.

  It is not a good thing to see.

  I have many more dishes.

  But they are much smaller.

  I look at Hannah.

  She looks at me.

  I cannot say why,

  but when I look at her

  I feel like I’ve gulped down

  a laugh that needs to fly free.

  I laugh, then she laughs,

  then before I know it

  we’re on the hard floor

  laughing.

  Perhaps this is my punishment for

  trying to do the work of a woman, I say,

  wiping a tear away.

  Hannah punches my shoulder.

  Hey, in this country,

  a woman can do anything a man can do.

  She gets to her feet and grins.

  This is your punishment for being a moron.

  A moron is a not-smart boy? I ask.

  She laughs. You got it.

  I laugh, too.

  I stand and pull out a piece of a plate.

  Maybe I can fix these?

  Well, I s’pose we can glue

  some of the pieces together.

  Put them in your basket

  and we’ll see what we can do.

  But don’t get your hopes up.

  I’m used to hearing that, I say.

  MAGIC MILK

  I carry the broken pieces

  in my basket and follow Hannah

  to her apartment.

  She has a key like mine

  around her neck on a string.

  Hannah’s place of living is not like my aunt’s.

  It smells of many things,

  some not so good.

  Everywhere are clothes and shoes,

  papers and dirty dishes.

  Sorry. It’s a dump, I know.

  Hannah sighs.

  My last foster parents

  were total neat freaks.

  Do you have brothers or sisters? I ask.

  Three older. One boy, two girls. All foster.

  My brother’s working at Burger King right now.

  Don’t know what my sisters are up to.

  My real brother lives with another family

  in St. Paul.

  Hannah begins opening drawers

  in the cooking fire room.

  I know we’ve got some glue somewhere, she says.

  Forgive me, I say,

  but I don’t know what is a foster.

  Foster family. You stay with them

  when your real family is messed up.

  My mom’s in rehab and my dad’s, well …

  he hasn’t been around since I was a baby.

  She pauses. Sorry. I forget

  it’s hard to understand me sometimes.

  Rehab is where you go if you do too much

  alcohol or drugs.

  I have seen men in our village

  drink until they fall down

  and laugh too loudly, I offer.

  Hannah nods.

  Yeah, like that.

  Your mother will be well soon?

  I doubt it, she says.

  She looks at me.

  Her eyes are wet, just a little.

  You can’t be sure

  what will happen, I say.

  Life changes. So you must hope.

  I want so much to believe my words.

  Hannah doesn’t answer.

  She opens the tall cold box.

  Want some chocolate milk?

  I know about chocolate.

  At the camp, a helping doctor

  gave me a small piece to try.

  This is what laughing tastes like,

  I told her.

  I would like the milk very much, I say to Hannah.

  I watch while she pours

  wondrous brown milk

  from a tall thin box.

  In the camp, people told me

  America was a great country, I say.

  But I never dreamed you

  would have cows that give such milk!

  Hannah groans. The world’s oldest joke, she says,

  but I don’t understand her meaning.

  Where do you find this milk? I ask.

  Grocery store. I’ll take you sometime.

  I take the bus there a lot.

  The yellow school bus?

  Nope. She shakes her head. City bus.

  I sigh. I’ll never know all the things

  there are to know.

  Hannah tilts her head to one side.

  Don’t worry. It’ll get easier.

  I’ll help you.

  How come you are so helping to me? I ask.

  Hannah thinks for a minute. I dunno.

  Guess I’ve moved around a lot myself.

  Not like you. But I kind of know what it’s like

  to not know things.

  She clinks her glass against mine.

  Here’s to Krazy Glue.

  I don’t understand those words, either.

  But I don’t care.

  My mouth is too busy

  rejoicing.

  WET FEET

  Even the wonder of Krazy Glue

  can’t turn my aunt’s dishes

  into their old selves.

  The next morning I tell my aunt

  of my great mistake.

  She makes her lips into a line

  and closes her eyes,

  but she doesn’t say a word.

  I would like it better

  if she could find her mad voice.

  Back in Africa, she and my uncle

  would argue so fiercely

  that their hut trembled.

  The cattle are stampeding again,

  the villagers would joke.

  But now I think maybe she is too tired to yell.

  When Dave comes to visit in the afternoon,

  I tell him about the broken dishes.

  He just laughs. That’s nothing, he says.

  I once had a client who tried to

  wash his clothes in the toilet.

  This doesn’t sound like

  such a wrong idea to me,

  but I decide to hide my thinking.

  Instead I say,

  I must get a job, Dave, like my aunt.

  So that I can buy her new dishes.

  Hold on, he says.

  We’ll see about that soon enough.

  You just got here, Kek.

  You need some time to get your feet wet.

  I check my shoes.

  It’s true enough that they are dry.

  That’s called an idiom, Dave explains.

  You’re going to run into a lot of those.

  It means get some experience.

  Dave turns to Ganwar,

  who’s sprawled on the couch

  like a dozing dog.

  Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you

  about a job, buddy.

  There are some openings

  at a couple fast-food places

  on the bus line.

  Ganwar gro
ans.

  He doesn’t bother

  to open his eyes.

  I didn’t come to this country

  to sweep the floors, he mutters.

  You gotta start somewhere, Dave says.

  And your mom needs some

  help with the bills.

  You’re the man

  of the family now.

  A man doesn’t wear a paper hat

  and give out ketchup packets, Ganwar replies.

  Ketchup is a fine food, isn’t it? I offer,

  but Ganwar ignores me.

  Don’t be intimidated, Ganwar, Dave says.

  They’ll teach you the skills you need.

  I have many skills, Ganwar says.

  Even with one hand.

  His words spark like lightning.

  Ganwar is a great herdsman, I say.

  He was one of the

  best in our village.

  We’ll talk about this later, Ganwar, Dave says.

  I follow Dave to the door.

  I want to ask him something.

  But I am afraid he will say no.

  I take a big breath.

  Do you remember the cow

  we saw that day? I ask.

  I would like to go back and visit her again.

  Gee, I can’t today, Kek, Dave says. But maybe next week.

  He did not say no, I realize.

  So I try again,

  just like I would have

  with my own father.

  Sometimes if you ask enough,

  fathers turn maybe

  into yes.

  But only sometimes.

  Maybe I could take the bus?

  My new friend Hannah takes the bus

  to many places, I say.

  She could come with me.

  Dave thinks for a moment.

  He takes a little piece of paper and a pen

  out of his coat pocket

  and writes some words.

  This is where the farm is.

  But don’t try going without

  a friend to help you, OK?

  OK, I say,

  and I put the paper in the pocket of my jeans.

  Give her a pat for me, buddy,

  Dave says as he opens the door.

  I think he is just being kind,

  since I’m certain he is not a great lover of cows.

  I wave good-bye and smile to myself

  with the secret comfort

  of a big idea.

  BUS

  On the day with the name of Saturday,

  Hannah and I wait by the road

  for the bus to come.

  It’s even bigger than the school bus,

  with the sour breath and slow growl

  of a starving animal.

  The door squeals open and

  I follow Hannah up the stairs.

  She pours quarters into my glove.

  Here, she says. Do like I do.

  Her money clatters into a box by the driver.

  But—

  I shake my head.

  The school bus is free.

  This one you pay for, she says.