City of Saints & Thieves(26)

“Right.”

Michael ignores this. “Like I was saying, we’ll get Dad on our side first. Otherwise Mom’ll figure out some way to get rid of you. You know how she is. She acts whiter than Dad.”

I do remember. How could I forget all those looks she used to give my mother, or especially me when Michael and I were caught playing together? Mrs. Greyhill is essentially Sangui royalty. Real estate mostly, but they dabble in politics, media, shipping. She doesn’t take kindly to refugee trash like me.

Not to mention that whole her-husband-having-a-kid-with-my-mother thing.

Oh yeah, this is going to be real fun.

“I’m thinking you should say you go to school in Paris,” Michael muses. “They never go to Paris. You can make up whatever you want. You can say you’re on scholarship, like Kiki. You speak French, right?”

“No, I was five when I left Congo.”

“Well . . . it doesn’t matter; my parents don’t speak French either.”

I slump. “But I don’t know anything about boarding school. Or Paris. And I don’t have any clothes or anything.”

Michael waves my protests away. “Just stick to the basics. Parisians are rude. You’re on the prelaw track. Your classes are interesting, but World History is too Eurocentric.”

I stare at him. “Euro-what?”

“And Jenny’s got loads of clothes. The closet in your room is full of her stuff. Just take something; she has so much, no one will notice.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I’ll just go home, and you can come out and meet me in secret somewhere.”

The idea of pretending to be a boarding-school kid sounds bad enough, but being around Mr. G for days, maybe as long as a week? I won’t be able to live under the same roof that long without murdering him.

But Michael shakes his head. “Mom’s already made it clear I’m grounded because of the suspension thing. I can get away for a few hours at a time maybe, but otherwise I’m stuck here.”

“I don’t know . . .”

Think about the first step in your plan, Tiny. You don’t know whether you got all the dirt off his hard drive. You told Bug Eye you would stay here in case you have to break back into Mr. G’s office. This is your chance to get in under their noses.

“Come on,” Michael says. “It’s only for a few days. Until we figure this whole thing out with your mom, and then I promise you can go back to looking and smelling like a Goonda.”

“Hey!” I glower at him.

He gives me a half smile. “You do kind of smell.”

I bite back a retort. A proper boarding-school girl wouldn’t punch someone, even if he deserved it. I just have to stay until I get the data. Then I’ll reevaluate. And if I’m being honest, maybe there’s even a teeny tiny part of me that finds the idea of pulling a con on the Greyhills a little thrilling. “I’ll think about it,” I say, standing up and walking to the door. “If I’m still here in the morning, you’ll know my answer.”

“Deal’s a deal, Tina,” Michael says. His tone is light, but I can hear the edge in his voice. “You can’t leave. You want to get to Mwika and that video, you have to stay here and see this thing through with me.”

I look past him at his room and think about how I’m going to take all of this away: his nice house, his toys, his fancy boarding school, his ability to make deals and promises . . . even his father. I can’t tell if it’s nerves churning my belly or something else. Guilt? No. I push the thought away.

“All right,” I say. “Prelaw and Euro-thingy it is.”





THIRTEEN


After Mama and I settled in at the Greyhills’, one of the other maids explained about the strangler fig. There was one that shaded our staff cottages, and Michael and I were playing in it, climbing the twisting basket of the tree’s limbs, while Mama and the other maid shelled beans.

“When it is young and slender,” the maid said, “the strangler fig creeps up on a proud, strong tree that has its nose in the air and sings to it, caresses it, feeds it sweet figs, and wraps its arms around it. Over time the fig’s embrace grows tighter and tighter, as it slinks up the other tree and spreads out into the light. Eventually the proud tree inside realizes it’s being choked, but by then it’s too late. That’s why you sometimes see the hollow stranglers. The tree inside has rotted away. The strangler fig is clever, but evil,” the maid concluded.

“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.