Read an Excerpt
No Laughter Here
By Rita Williams-Garcia
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2006
Rita Williams-GarciaAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0688162487
Chapter One
Girl Warrior Rising
Did you ever cross your fingers and play that game in your head: If the last Life Saver in the roll is pineapple, then the letter will come this week. If the phone rings only twice before Dad yells, "I got it!," then the letter will come this week. If I can count to ten at my normal counting speed before a floating dandelion hits the ground, then it's for certain: Victoria's letter will definitely come this week.
Ever play that game and the last Life Saver is pineapple, Dad yells for the phone in time, and the dandelion is still crisscrossing above the hydrangeas on the count of twelve, and still no letter from Nigeria?
For two days straight I watched the mailman push his cart by our house only to leave a few Dear Occupant envelopes and a letter from our state assemblywoman.
Today, however, I was ready for him. Instead of watching from my bedroom window, I was stationed downstairs behind the living-room curtains. He was one of those new guys who was filling in while our regular carrier was on vacation. When I got through with him, he'd know that I was expecting an important letter and that his duty was to be on the lookout for anything from Nigeria. Victoria's stamps didn't fall off on their own, I'd explain. Some stamp collector was dazzled by the mighty Chief ObafemiAwolowo or the baobab tree smack in the corner of Victoria's letter and took those stamps for his private collection. I had to remind the mailman that even if the stamps had been taken off and chances are they had it was his duty to deliver Victoria's letter through rain, sleet, and from across the Atlantic Ocean.
So when the mailman pushed the cable bill and a leaflet from our councilman through the mail slot, I swung open the front door before he could get away. Dad says I have Girl Warrior rising, meaning I leap into action like a super-hero when action is needed.
"Mr. Mailman," I called after him. "Can you check your bag to see if there are any letters from Nigeria, postage due?"
I didn't even get a chance to tell him to be on the lookout for Victoria's letter and to deliver it even if Chief Obafemi Awolowo had fallen off the corner. Mom snatched me back into the house. Not with her hands. She didn't believe in yanking or spanking. But with her voice.
"Akilah Hunter!"
Girl Warrior fell to earth with a thud. I closed the door quicker than I had opened it.
"You know better than to talk to strangers."
I came inside and sat down on the sofa to sulk. I couldn't see what the big deal was. After all, during the school year I walk to school and back with a key around my neck, advertising to anyone that I'm a latchkey kid. I ride my bike all over town and no one ever messes with me.
Mom should have let the mailman answer, because now my mind took off into the wild blue yonder as she scolded me.
Victoria's letter had fallen off the mail barge and was floating up the White Nile. It had survived hippos and crocodiles only to drown in Khartoum, where the White Nile meets the Blue Nile. I could see the envelope sinking, sinking . . . but I snapped out of it because Victoria wasn't in Sudan.
"I should have enrolled you in that math and science camp up at York College instead of keeping you home . . . ."
That thought sent me back on the trail of Victoria's letter. Back across the Atlantic Ocean to the African continent.
I saw a rickety truck climbing the mountains of Kenya on bald tires. Mailbags bounced as the truck made its way up the rocky dirt road. A mailbag jostled open. A trail of letters dotted the road like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs.
"I thought spending more time together would be a good opportunity . . ."
But Victoria wasn't in Kenya or in Egypt. She wasn't in the Congo, or in Madagascar or Botswana. Victoria was in Nigeria, visiting her grandmother. She and her family had been in Nigeria since June twenty-third, the day I marked on my calendar as the start of Victoria's great journey. It was now August. Two months and only two letters.
Mom was still talking. "Clearly, you need more activities."
I went over our plan to stay in touch, which was, first she'd write, then I'd write, then she'd write, and I'd write, until she returned to Queens. The plan was going well. She wrote. Then I wrote. Then she wrote. Then I wrote. Then two weeks passed since my last letter from Victoria. Then three weeks. I wrote again, addressing the envelope in my clearest handwriting, to make sure it would be delivered, but it was no use. Her letters stopped coming. No more loopty-loo Ls and jolly P stems. No fat-dotted Is and Js.
I went over everything in my mind, like a rice inspector sifting through barrels of rice. Was it something I wrote in my last letter? I told her a joke I got off the Internet. I asked about the special dinner in her honor I mean, that's all I heard about before the Ojikes left for Africa: "There will be a special dinner to celebrate my coming-of-age." That was what Mrs. Ojike told Victoria and that was what Victoria told me, over and over.
Continues...
Excerpted from No Laughter Here
by Rita Williams-Garcia
Copyright © 2006 by Rita Williams-Garcia.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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