“Georgia,” Nena began, her tone softening, “your name is the first thing your parents give you, besides life. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you. So when someone calls you a name you don’t like, like Curious George, for example, stand up for yourself. Don’t accept it just because you don’t want to make a fuss.”
Georgia’s body deflated, and she looked away, unable to withstand Nena’s scrutiny. “It’s that obvious, huh? That I’m hard up for friends.” She laughed dryly. “I’m a joke.”
She refused to make eye contact, and Nena knew it was because she was crying.
Nena thought back to her school days in England and a boy who had tormented her. “When I was younger, the kids at my school used to call me ‘gorilla,’ ‘bush girl,’ and ‘African booty scratcher,’” Nena said softly. “I was new there, and the school was like this, not very diverse and also extremely minted.”
“Minted?”
“Rich. Sorry. Anyway, I was not rich before attending the school. The kids were cruel. One boy, Silas, was like your Sasha.”
Georgia quickly thumbed away the tears before they fell. She swallowed. “What did you do?”
“My big sis stood up for me. Made them stop. And then she told me the same thing I told you. Later, my mum made me an awful dinner. She’s a horrific cook.”
Georgia couldn’t smile. “I don’t have a big sister. And my mom is . . . well, there was a car accident.” Her voice hitched.
“I understand.” It was time to go, because Nena wasn’t prepared for this deep a conversation in a school’s parking lot. She’d made contact and returned the ID. What next? She was a dispatcher, not James Bond. She needed to know what Georgia’s father knew （if anything） about the Tribe. But how exactly?
Nena opened the passenger-side door of her car and rifled through the armrest until she found what she needed, an old receipt and a pen. She scribbled something and handed it to Georgia, who blinked back the tears that refused to go away so she could focus on the ten numbers scratched on the scrap.
“Man,” she mumbled, squinting. “Your handwriting is pretty shitty.”
Nena closed the passenger door. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you? Perhaps you and the blonde should be friends after all. Two rude little girls.”
“You could have just asked for my phone and typed your number in. It’s what people do now.”
Nena stared at the insolent child, growling, “I like . . . to write.”
Georgia laughed. “Oookay. Anyway, thanks again for bringing my ID and for totally freaking Sasha out.”
Nena rounded the front of her car for the driver’s side. She gave a slight wave at Cortland’s approaching 1970 electric-blue Chevelle, not yet ready to face him after the shooting.
Georgia looked as if she wanted to say more. Nena stalled, waiting.
“Maybe you can come for dinner or something sometime?” Georgia asked hopefully.
“Perhaps,” Nena answered, slipping into her car. “Put my number in your phone, yeah?”
As she pulled away, glancing at Cortland standing with Georgia and Georgia excitedly showing him her ID, she hoped Georgia would ask to see her again . . . for reconnaissance, sure. But also, because Nena liked the little lift she felt when she thought about being around the Baxters again.
26
BEFORE
After my guard parades me around the party of potential owners of actual humans, I am reunited with the other girls. The younger girls are giggling and drinking from small plastic cups. How can they be so happy? Do they not realize this “party” is no more than an auction block masked in fanciness and revelry?
“They gave us punch,” Mary announces, her teeth stained pink from the red liquid. “It’s the most delicious thing I have tasted. So sweet. How many sugarcanes do you think they used for this?”
“Bush girl,” Constance scoffs, glowering at Mary. “Don’t be simple, as if we live in trees and do not know about granulated sugar.”
“Be still,” Mamie says. “Let her enjoy.”
Constance sucks her teeth and sips her own cup of sugary sweetness.
My guard hands me a cup, then stalks off to join his comrades huddled a few feet away. I sniff the drink, checking for anything odd. Only a sweet and fruity smell makes it up my nose, and I take a tentative sip, concurring with Mary. It is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted, better than Coca-Cola or orange Fanta, which are now my second and third favorites.