Storm, page 11
He sighs. “Well, I believe it’s the next cycle. So, next month.”
So I have a little over a month to get to Kenya and find a cure. That isn’t much time. I glance over at T’Challa and catch him watching me.
I flip on my side, turning my back to him. “Good night, T’Challa.”
“Is…that your way of telling me you are done talking?”
“Yes.”
He chuckles. “Then good night, Ororo.”
* * *
The pull of the rubber band snaps me awake. I blink up through the branch of the tree, dawn making the sky a swirl of pink and blue, and for a brief moment, I am lost, forgetting the last forty-eight hours.
Then I remember I’m not on the roof in Garbage City. I’m in Sudan, an entirely different country, with a boy. Not just any boy—a prince.
But this is no fairy tale. Far from home, on the run, this is more like a nightmare.
I take a deep breath, the air balmy and thick. It will be hot today. I snuggle my face into Moche’s jacket. It still smells like him, like home.
Come home.
The tug of that woman’s voice…feels as if there’s a war within my body I’m not ready for. But the quicker I make it to Kenya, the quicker I’ll find answers. Something has to explain why all of this is happening now. I readjust my scarf, making sure not a hair is out of place before sitting up and glancing over at T’Challa’s mat. Empty. I jump to my feet.
“T’Challa?” Did he abandon me? I knew all of this would scare him off. What if he runs back and tells someone? For all I know, the Shadow King might already be on his way.
Heart thumping, I scan the savanna, only to exhale with relief. Over near the tall reeds, a body dances about, his voice chanting. T’Challa has somehow found a crooked stick that he has sharpened into a spear. He thrusts it through the air as he moves with acrobatic kicks and flips. His invisible opponent would have been dead several times over.
I make my way to him, wading through the reeds. As I draw closer, I see that he’s lost his shirt, skin covered in sweat. I gulp, trying to focus on his movements instead. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice cracking, keeping a short distance between us in case that stick flies out his hands.
“Training,” he says without looking at me. “I exercise every morning.”
“I see.” I watch him for a few moments more as he trains, his muscles glistening in the early morning light. I clear my throat. “What else do you do?”
His body stutters, thrown off by the question.
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I mean, for fun?”
“I…well, we do a lot of things. But between training, lessons in weapon proficiency, and other national matters, my time is taken.”
“So, you do…nothing, is what I’m gathering?”
He gives me a look. “Not nothing. In school, our studies are quite rigorous between sport and training.”
I cross my arms, looking over my shoulder toward the road. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I mumble.
T’Challa tilts his head. “You mean you have never had schooling?”
My defensiveness stirs. “Hey! I’m well read, thank you very much. Just because I didn’t go to fancy schools doesn’t mean I don’t know anything.”
T’Challa pauses to take me in, then nods. “Let us find you some breakfast. Maybe it will help your mood.”
I jerk back. “Are you calling me cranky?”
He smiles. “You have a splendid way of hearing the things you want to.”
That charming, beautiful smile almost disarms me. Almost.
I look away as T’Challa puts his shirt back on, and then we return to pack up our camp.
“It’ll be extremely hot today,” I say, rolling up my mat. “It hasn’t rained around here in days.”
T’Challa nods without looking at me, as if he was deep in thought.
After securing everything on the bike, I carefully make sure we leave no trace of our presence before we continue on our way.
We don’t ride for too long before we come across the next village. This one has more people than the last, bustling in the early-morning hour. My shoulders tense up as T’Challa slows, weaving through the small crowd as we approach the center of the village. We stop at the gas station to fill up, then head to the local market in search of breakfast.
“So you have really never been to school?” T’Challa asks as we sit at an outdoor café, eating ful medames with hard-boiled eggs and flatbread. “Then where did you learn how to read?”
I roll my eyes and sip some tea. “Why is that so hard to believe? Some of us didn’t have the opportunity that you did.”
“Did you ever want to go to school?”
Thoughts of school try to creep in, of the short years I spent on playgrounds, trying to make friends with the cruel kids who made fun of my hair.
I swallow the yes sitting on my tongue and square my shoulders. “You don’t always need school. You can learn a lot from just books.”
“But you are so well-spoken. I just assumed…”
I slam my hand on the table. “Are you really trying to say that people who didn’t go to school can’t be well-spoken?”
T’Challa fumbles over his words but remains speechless.
I scoff. “Unbelievable. My parents taught me how to read, okay? My dad was an important professor. He was a brilliant man!”
Both of T’Challa’s eyebrows rise, face taut with an aha expression. I flinch, knowing I’ve already said too much. What is wrong with me?
“Well, naturally, you adopted his capabilities,” he says, casually peeling an orange. “If your father was a professor, I find it hard to believe you are of the streets that you claim.”
“The streets raised me.”
“But that is not where you come from,” he counters in a knowing tone. “The streets didn’t teach you to read.”
I stiffen and turn to the market. “We need to get going,” I say, slinging my bag over my back. “Need to grab more snacks for the road ahead. It’ll be hot today, but cooler later this evening.”
T’Challa follows me in silence as I purchase some water, apples, oranges, and bananas, doing my best to ignore his presence. So the prince made a point, but he knows nothing about my past. Nothing about all I had to do to survive. And yet I can’t help but feel a tingle of pride.
He thinks I’m brilliant, like Daddy.
On the table next to the fruit cart sits a variety of mini Egyptian statues—little pyramids, falcons, Anubis figurines, and sphinxes. The typical souvenirs you find outside most major spots. The vendor probably thinks he can make a few dollars selling them here. I start to walk away, but something on the table catches T’Challa’s attention, and he strolls over to the old man.
“As-salaam alaikum, friends,” the man says. “Welcome!”
T’Challa picks up a small black panther, palming it in his hand.
“Ah! These were handcrafted by my brother,” the vendor says. “He worked many, many hours on it. Made from the finest black obsidian, mined in caves of Luxor, outside the Valley of the Kings.”
T’Challa turns it over, mesmerized. “How much?”
“Twenty,” the old man says.
T’Challa nods. “I’ll take it.”
“Hang on,” I say, stopping him from reaching for his wallet, and look the man square in the eye.
“Five,” I say, keeping my tone even.
The old man narrows his eyes.
“Ororo,” T’Challa whispers. “The man said twenty. That is more than fair.”
“Ten,” the man counters.
“Five,” I say again. “And you’re lucky to get away with that.”
The man grabs the panther out of T’Challa’s hand, shaking it in my face. “Young lady, this here is precious stone!”
I scoff. “Really?”
I snatch it out of his hand and bang it against the edge of the table.
“Hey! What are you—”
The panther cracks, crumbling, revealing its white grainy interior, the black paint chipping.
“See?” I say. “Sandstone.”
The man straightens, giving me a once-over, then shrugs, wraps up another panther in pink newspaper, and hands it to T’Challa.
“Five.”
“Make it two for our trouble,” I warn.
As we walk off, T’Challa stares at his package. “How did you know?”
“Tuh, I can spot a fake from a mile away? Handmade, my ass. Most of his junk was made on a factory line in China. Besides, no price ever spoken is the final price.”
T’Challa considers this, and I pause.
“Please don’t tell me you haven’t at least tried to negotiate for anything during your journey?”
T’Challa remains quiet, and I let out a laugh.
“I cannot believe you go exploring the world and let people rob you blind.”
“Well, they must have needed the money.”
“Don’t we all,” I say, thinking about the backpacker’s wallet in my pocket. How excited he must have been to be going to Egypt. For the first time, I think how horrible his trip will be once he realizes he has no money or identification. My stomach twists with guilt.
“We should keep moving,” I say. Staying in one place, shopping for souvenirs—it’s almost asking for trouble, and my nerves are prickling.
T’Challa reaches for my arm. “Come now. We have time, Ororo.”
“No, we don’t,” I state, yanking my arm back.
“Why are you in such a rush, anyway?”
What is it with all these questions? What reason do we have to stay here? I cluck my tongue impatiently. “I need to get to Kenya so I can return to Cairo.”
“Why?” he presses.
Frustration wells in my throat, but I recognize it for what it truly is. It’s helplessness, as I think of my brothers back home, taking the heat from Farouk’s men for me.
I glance behind us, scanning the crowd for anyone suspicious, then turn back to T’Challa, this green boy who can fight, this stranger who said he feels at home with me.
Why is he so curious all the time? And why do I always feel the need to tell him the truth?
I let out a groan. “My brothers…they’re in trouble.”
His eyebrows knit. “But I thought you said you had no people.”
“They’re not my real brothers, but they’re family all the same. We’re a part of the same…crew.”
“So they are like you? Pickpocketers.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Not all of us were born in a castle, Your Highness.”
He bristles, waving a hand. “Is it going to be this tense between us the entire journey? If so, I must ask: When are you going to stop pretending to be something you are not?”
“What does that mean?”
He steps forward, into my personal space, and I blink up. Our height difference is much clearer up close. “It means you had family, you had education, you know how to read. You are not just some girl from the ‘streets.’ You are clearly more than that. So why are you pretending that this is all you know?”
My mood sours, frustration quickly turning to anger. I’m ready to lay into the obnoxious know-it-all, but nothing comes out.
Could he be…right?
But just as I’m about to kick him to the curb, I glance over his shoulder and spot two men entering the market. They are wearing dark sunglasses and look similar to Farouk’s henchmen back in Cairo. They could be twins, except one is slightly taller than the other. Both built like giant stone statues that live inside the great pyramids.
The rubber band stretches, as if pulling back, preparing to snap me forward. I jerk, stomach twisting into a knot, and grab T’Challa’s arm.
“What it is it?” he asks.
“Oh Goddess, they’re here.”
T’Challa stills, his jaw clenching. “Who? Where?”
The two men prowl through the souk, searching, pulling aside people, and asking vendors questions. I can’t read their lips, but one motions to his head, as if describing hair.
My hair…Oh no!
The bike is parked by the banana trees at the top of the market beyond them, too far away. We won’t make it, even if we run past them.
The taller man scans the area, turns, then flips over a table. There’s a loud crash, wooden figurines scattering everywhere.
“Eh, what are you doing!” the vendor cries out, jumping back.
The market dissolves into chaos. The village people start yelling, in an uproar at the disrespect as they gather closer to the scene of the crime. Then, in the taller henchman’s hand, I spot something that makes my blood go cold.
It’s my black-and-red scarf, the one Moche gave me the night of the plane crash. I’d know it anywhere.
“Damn it,” I grumble. They must have found it on the roof with the rest of my things.
I whip around to see the exit of the market blocked by a tuk-tuk cart. Trapped. I grip T’Challa’s arm.
“Get down,” I breathe, ducking behind a mango stand. T’Challa crouches beside me, peering over the top ledge.
“Do you know them?” he whispers, but my tongue is frozen.
A crowd forms around the two men. One steps up to speak.
“We are looking for someone,” the tall one bellows. “An American girl, from Cairo. She has long white ha—”
“Brother, what is the meaning of this?” the vendor snaps. “There are dozens of little girls that come through here every day. You expect us to stop for each—”
The man snatches the vendor by the throat, lifting him off the ground in one quick move. The vendor gags, dangling feet kicking frantically. The woman behind him screams. Two vendors run over to help him, only to be knocked down, their noses bleeding.
The vendor’s face turns beet red as he chokes, fighting for air.
My hands fly up to my mouth, and I shudder.
“Stay here,” T’Challa whispers in my ear.
“What? Where are you…”
But he is already gone, stealthily crawling behind the crates. I’m too scared to move or breathe.
“I was speaking,” the short man bellows. “She is brown, with blue eyes, and has long white hair.”
I grip both sides of my scarf.
“How do you expect us to see through a hijab?” another vendor cries.
“We don’t know who you’re talking about! Please let him go! You’re killing him.”
The taller one cocks his head back, sniffing the air. My eyes widen as his nostrils seem to expand unnaturally, but I seem to be the only one who notices. Everyone is too busy trying to save the vendor, whose eyes are rolling back into his head.
My whole body seizes in terror. They’re going to kill me.
Something brushes against my leg, and it takes everything in me not to scream.
T’Challa.
He puts a finger to his lips, motioning for me to follow. We keep low, army-crawling to a back room filled with empty shipping containers. T’Challa softly clicks the door closed, grabs my hand, and yanks me over to a small window.
“This way,” he breathes. I climb out the window and into a narrow slit between the buildings.
The moment I feel the walls touch both my shoulders, my body nearly combusts.
T’Challa peers inside, then grabs my hands, pulling me out of sight.
“We’ve been followed,” I gasp, in full panic mode. It’s too tight back here. I can’t breathe.
“That is not possible,” he says, staring out the gate, scanning the road.
I shake my head, throat closing. “I knew it! I told you we shouldn’t have stopped.”
“No one knows where we are.” He turns to me. “If someone were using technology to track us, I would have picked it up on my kimoyo beads.” He shakes his head. “Whoever is chasing you, they are miles away from here. I don’t think these men are after us.”
“No. You don’t understand—he’s out to get me!”
He scowls. “Who is out to get you?”
I groan, fist balling up. “What did we talk about? No nosy questions!”
“It is not nosy. It is information we can use to make sure we are safe! How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t know who I am protecting you from?”
I nearly shove him away. “What are you talking about? I do not need saving.”
“I did not say saving. I said protecting. There is a difference. You do not seem like the type who needs a hero. Just someone to be there.” His voice softens. “That is why I followed you in the market that day. I do not care about your foolish pride or how it may make me look, as long as you are safe. Why is it so difficult for you to accept that someone wants to be there?”
My chest tightens and I shut my eyes, jerking my head. “Because it has a cost!” I say wildly, my voice reaching a higher pitch.
He shakes his head. “Not when someone truly cares.”
I bite back a response, holding my breath to fight the threatening tears. But caring always has a cost, doesn’t it? I think of Mommy and Daddy, their arms shielding me from the crash. My brothers standing around me, ready to face Farouk and his men. Moche, and the look in his eyes as he sent me away with cash and a prayer.
A tingling sensation trickles down my arms into my fingers. The pressure in my chest pushes against my lungs.
Oh no.
I close my eyes, wheezing as a tingle starts in my shoulders, working its way down my back.
“I, uh,” I breathe, “I think I need another joke, T’Challa.”
He spins around, tensing. “Really? Now?”
Hands trembling, my breath comes out in short, raspy bursts.
“Yes. I need…something good.”
“Uh, okay. What did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
