Christmas

The jeep jostled over the uneven terrain. Though the tough tires absorbed most of the shocks, I still jumped around in the back seat, my stomach lurching with every bump. It was late afternoon, and the sun blazed in the blue sky. A slight breeze stirred the tall grass and scrub brush and stunted trees that provided sparse shade, but it did little to combat the sweltering heat. Little moved on this vast plain, and I had spotted no animal life so far. The driver of the jeep, my parents’ good friend Cecil Dzwowa, explained that many animals escaped the heat of the day by hiding in the shade: the land really only came alive at night. I sighed, wiping sweat from my forehead. A refrain played over and over again in my mind—why, why, why. It was all I could think about. When I had suggested to my geologist parents that we spend winter vacation at home in Connecticut catching up with old friends and playing in the snow, I had not expected an outright refusal. I had not expected to be told that we were spending Christmas thousands of miles from home. And I had certainly not expected to be dragged along on yet another trip to survey rock formations. But that’s what happened. I had rebelled, like any self-respecting teenager would, but Dad got this annoyed look in his eyes and told me that I could either tag along or stay home alone for the full three weeks. And that, in my opinion, was not an option. I wanted a Christmas, and staying home alone was not the way to get one. And so that’s how I ended up on this stupid trip. The end. *          *          * We arrived at the village of Mbamano at sunset. Shadows were lengthening, and the shafts of light that penetrated through the trees above us looked golden. Mom and Dad took several photos, and I leaned against the dusty jeep and took a swig of sun-warmed water from my canteen. The village itself was small, mostly hidden in shadow. It consisted of about fifteen small huts that were scattered around a wide circle in the dust, like planets orbiting the sun. Cecil led us to one on the fringe of the circle. It was one of the largest huts, with clean, whitewashed walls and a thatched roof. Small windows punctuated the smooth surface at regular intervals, letting light in. Three beds, no more than cots, really, lay side by side on the floor. Each one was made up with a soft sheet, a pillow, and a netting of mesh to keep the mosquitoes away at night. Just past the beds, built into an extended recess in the wall, a small toilet and a washbowl with a water pitcher beside it stood at the ready. It wasn’t much, but the homey little hut was a lot less Spartan than what I expected the dwelling to be like. “Thank you so much!” Mom exclaimed, beaming at Cecil, who flashed one of his rare smiles at her in return. Dad pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Yes, thank you.” Suddenly his face clouded. “But there are only three beds. Where will you sleep?” Cecil had a quick answer for that. “Oh, I figured that the third bed was for me. Angela can sleep out with the lions tonight.” Mom and Dad laughed, and Cecil laughed too. I stretched my lips into a fake grin, trying to act as though it didn’t bother me. It did, though. I hated it when adults spoke as though I wasn’t there or teased me about something. Sometimes I wished that all grown-ups were like my parents’ friend Celia Dwyer. She was a writer blessed with a memory that fell back into the distant past. She remembered what it was like to be thirteen—too old to be considered a kid, but too young to be spoken to like an adult. That was why she always talked to me as an equal, not someone to be looked down upon. When the laughter died down, Cecil spoke again. “I am only kidding, of course. I have arranged to spend the night with a friend who lives here in Mbamano. He has an extra bed, and it is time we caught up anyway. Good night, good friends.” “Good night to you too, Cecil,” Mom said. He left with a jaunty wave, and the three of us settled down. By the light of a solar-powered lantern, we brushed our teeth and spit our toothpaste into the dirt, rinsing with the water in the washbowl. When I finished, I settled down in bed, staring up at the white ceiling above me. Anger still smoldered in my chest. Now I was here, ready to be bored beyond my wildest dreams. But at least I could expect to return home soon. Mom and Dad always misjudged the time it would take them to get their work done. We’d likely have a full week back at home to spend any way we wanted. “Good night, Angela,” Mom said, rustling sheets as she got into bed. I didn’t say anything. I crossed my arms and pouted. Dad extinguished the light. “Good night, An,” he said. I turned over, facing away from him. Outside, a soft wind blew. The moon rose, and myriad stars twinkled. Peace reigned over all, but I still burned with anger. “You sure you’ll be OK?” Mom asked worriedly. “Of course, Mom!” I replied, rolling my eyes. “It’s just that…” She trailed off, looking at the steadily rising sun. “Just go!” I flopped down on my cot, making an irritated sound in the back of my throat. I’d rather stay in the hut than let myself be dragged along on another survey. “OK, but you better have dropped the attitude by the time I get back,” Mom said. She sighed. “There’s food in the blue bag if you need