The Milk of Birds (38 page)

Dear Nawra,

We're putting signs everywhere: schools, gyms, community centers. Emily has practically wallpapered the health food stores. I'm the main mouth. I often rope in Florinda, who can translate into Spanish, and Chloe, who can translate into Rich and Proper. Some people try to wave us away, but they don't realize they're in a closed room with mosquitoes. It's amazing how many Americans don't really know about Darfur, but once they do, they want to do something, and they appreciate that we have an idea. One hardware store owner just wrote a check on the spot for thirty dollars, which is what I said was the price of a stove.

We're pricing donkeys at five hundred dollars, including fodder, which is Parker's guesstimate. As you know too well, so many donkeys have died and trade routes are blocked, so Darfur prices have skyrocketed.

Dad's getting SuperOffice to donate all our markers and glue and poster board and stuff. Lots of churches want in too. Blessings is taking on the ribbon pin project.

Jack called up all his minister friends to give me an audience. We've got the knitting guild of Northside United Methodist making blankets for Darfur (do you need blankets?), and
Covington Baptist is coming with their slow cooker to sell barbecue for the cause. I went to a mosque, too, Nawra! My first time. The imam was really nice. He taught me how to say “Peace be upon you” in Arabic,
asalaamu alaykum
. So, greetings. The imam introduced me to three students from Sudan, but from the east, so they didn't get involved in the wars in the south and the west.

I guess Sudan is like the United States, so big that people in the lucky states can forget about the other ones.

Dear Nawra,

Crisis: Nathan got a sinus infection from his nose ring, and he's fallen behind in kite production. What if we don't have enough kites on May 18?

Dear Nawra,

Nathan's antibiotics have kicked in, thank God. Mom sponsored an all-weekend kite-making session in our basement that was really fun but expensive from all the pizza she had to order.

“The kites are so white,” Florinda complained.

“Like the milk of birds,” I said. Then my brain burst out of the box again. “We'll write Nawra's sayings on every one,” I said. “Big black letters. Then people can draw on them. We'll have markers. Kids will love it.”

“My dad will buy a whole bunch if he can advertise on them,” said Frieda.

“Buy a car, save a girl,” I said.

“My dad does not sell cars,” she huffed. “He's a consultant.”

“K. C. doesn't want to make this commercial,” Parker said. My translator.

“But we're trying to raise money,” Frieda said.

In the end we decided we'd allow sponsors—but only at tables. The kites belong to your sayings.

Dear Nawra,

Tomorrow's the big day. We need another month to get ready. We have 163 Tyvek kites, 23 dozen cookies, and 200 pins. I've called Dad all week for updates from the Weather Channel, and the forecast for the weekend keeps flipping from partly to mostly cloudy with a 30%—no, make that 40%, 60%, back to 40%—chance of rain tomorrow.

Whatever we don't sell we plan to donate to the Richmond Boys and Girls Club. This morning it was so gray outside that we might be giving them everything.

M
AY
18, 2009

Dear Nawra,

I'm so tired that all I want to do is sit in front of the TV and drool. I will soon, even if I have to watch public broadcasting with Mom. But it's time for me to send you this good-bye letter, which makes me sad, so I better write it before my high wears off. No “more later.”

The sky was spitting when we went to Blessings this morning. Jack led off with a prayer for Fly a Kite for Darfur. Actually he led off with the story of how he went looking for a prayer for sunshine, and he thought, “Native Americans!” since they were famous for their weather dances. But he was getting discouraged because Google kept sending him to Indian gift shops that sold turquoise earrings and headdresses.

Then he found a Pueblo prayer called “Hold On” that seemed to “say a lot about K. C. and Nawra.” See, we're celebrities.

Anyway, the prayer worked. Jack gave me a copy.

Hold on to what is good, even if it's a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe, even if it's a tree that stands by itself.

Hold on to what you must do, even if it's a long way from here.
(Like in Darfur.)

Hold on to your life, even if it's easier to let go.

Hold on to my hand, even if someday I'll be gone away from you.

When we left Blessings, the sky was still cloudy, but the spit had stopped. Mom drove us straight to WJLL so we could set up.

It was the best day of my life, Nawra. First off, Dad showed up, and he handed Mom an envelope. “I guess we got a twofer with that diagnosis,” he said. “I wish my mother had been there for me the way you're there for K. C.”

Mom practically threw herself at him, and they ended up in this long-lost hug. Later Mom showed me what was inside: a check for four thousand dollars, the whole two thousand dollars for Dr. Redding plus another two thousand dollars toward tutoring.

Or tutoring and an iPhone, I suggested.

Sharon wasn't mad, either. She parked her red Mazda outside WJLL, roof down, and we all took turns sitting in it and honking at people driving by so they'd slow down and turn in. Many did, including a fire truck that had spotted the smoke pouring from the slow cooker. All my village came: Blessings people, my old Sunday school teachers from St. Luke's, all the runners and hurdlers on the track team, tons of teachers. Mr. Nguyen has a fiancée, this gorgeous Vietnamese pharmacist.

Even Mr. Hathaway from old Hardston Middle School showed up with his wife! He borrowed a marker to correct the spelling on one of our signs. His wife whispered in my ear not
to take it personally since he even calls up billboard companies.

Dr. Redding and a moll roared up in one of those ridiculous sports cars that can accelerate from zero to warp speed in five seconds although there's not a road in America with a speed limit above eighty miles per hour. The convertible top was down, so he declined the car wash, but he jumped over his door like James Bond and cleaned out the baked goods. He and Nathan had a moment of mutual earring admiration.

After that, Mom did a supermarket run for soda and cookies, which we bagged and sold for triple markup.

You know what Steven brought? A donkey! That's why it's handy to have a trailer hitch on your car. Mom got all teary; she'll be a basket case if he ever gives her a ring. You would have loved this donkey, Nawra. His name is Hershey because he's chocolate brown. He belongs to a farmer who brings his barnyard to birthday parties. Without the farmer, we couldn't do rides, but kids could pet him. We put Milton Stanley in charge of shoveling the poop into a burlap sack to return to the farmer.

Luckily, Emily had her Darfur binder, and Chloe with her beautiful handwriting made a big poster with donkey facts.

Someone said our information was as good as our brownies.

Plus, the stove people returned, and Save the Girls sent someone to set up one of those tables you know so well with the folding legs.

Everybody snatched up the kites. Some people bought one as a souvenir because of your beautiful sayings. Florinda translated some into Spanish. Nathan and Parker were the kite wranglers, but I helped out with the little kids.

Wally, of course, wouldn't even look Nathan in the eye at first. He chose a kite that said
A LITTLE SHRUB MAY GROW INTO A TREE
, and drew trains all over it, and then we got it airborne for a good ten minutes.

When Mrs. Clay asked how it was, Wally whispered, “Awesome.”

Just as we ran out of about everything, the sky started spitting again, so everyone hurried to pack up. I nuzzled Hershey for you.

We think we cleared about three thousand dollars! But we passed all the money boxes and receipts to Mr. Nguyen until the Darfur Club's next meeting since we were so tired our eyes were crossing. Todd was whining to go home and download his pictures on the computer, but I made Mom wait so I could fly the kite Dad had bought me.

“What if there's lightning?” she said.

“Mom!” Todd and I groaned. Was she joking? Either way, I didn't mind. If I'm a kite, she's the runner, always picking me up after I nose-dive and hoping I'll catch a breeze.

I grabbed my
PEACE IS THE MILK OF BIRDS
kite. I'd outlined a big dove on it. The wind was kicking up, so the white bird tore into the air.

All of a sudden, Emily was trotting beside me, panting. “Hey, Wonder Woman, could you run at mortal speed?”

We cruised below the kite, zigging and zagging and marveling at the day. We wondered what you and Adeeba were up to at that very second. Walking home from class? Standing in line for water? Playing peekaboo with Hamdu?

We started brainstorming about what the Darfur Club
will do next year. Maybe we can sell the kind of soap Zeinab and your mom will make. Maybe we can get Angelina Jolie or Muhammad Yunus to come talk at WJLL. That would get the
Times-Dispatch
all excited, especially if Angelina's pregnant again.

I told Emily about Jack's prayer from the Pueblos.
Hold on to your life, even if it's easier to let go.
I know you will, Nawra. You'll be a great community animal-health worker. The donkeys in Darfur will tell you their troubles, and all the animals in the rest of Africa will be jealous.

I won't forget you. I'll send you some of my cloud prayers. Give Adeeba a hug from me.

Hold on to my hand, even if someday I'll be gone away from you.

No tears, okay?

This is what you do. Under the kite, I grabbed Emily's hand. “Run!” I ordered her. “Faster!” We took off like there was no stopping us.

Love always, K. C.