Page 16 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

Violet’s eyes trail over the fence and the bent barbed wire. I wonder if seeing it makes her understand she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I brace for the inevitable and tell myself I won’t care when it comes.

“When were you planning on going under it?” she asks.

“Go under? Who says I wanted to go under?” Her gaze takes on the sharpness of the barbed wire. A coy smile pulls at the side of her mouth. I’ve underestimated her, I realize.

“You don’t seem like someone who would be worried about a little danger,” she says.

“I am. I don’t like anything dangerous,” I say. “I love rules. In fact, I wish there were more rules. You can never have enough.”

“Oh, come on,” she says. “There’s no need to pretend.”

Somehow that makes me break. Because I’m not trying to pretend. I’m not trying to make her think I’m someone better than I am.

“Tonight,” I say coldly.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “What time?”

“Around midnight.”

I think that’ll put an end to it, but then I notice the smile is still on her face. She says, “I’ll see you then.”

“No.” Putting myself at risk is one thing. Putting this girl whose greatest crime is skipping school—and only because it was the first day of being put in a military prison camp—is something I won’t do. “You don’t get it. You can’t go.”

“Can’t?” Brightness flashes in her eyes again, but this time it’s made of something more like firelight than sunlight. “I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do.”

“You’re right,” I say. And it’s true. I’m not her protector or guardian or anything like that. I’m not anything to her other than a guy she used to help her get away from an official. “But I’m also not going to get you in trouble. It was nice meeting you. I gotta go.”

At that, I leave. Biggest lesson I’ve learned in life is that you got to know your weaknesses, and God knows I’ve had a lot of time to get acquainted with mine. If I stay, I’ll cave or start believing this girl might actually like me. Probably both, which won’t be good. As I walk away, everything inside me wants to glance over my shoulder at her. I know she’s watching me go.

But I don’t stop, and I don’t look back.

Later that day, I’m in the administration building. I clutch the fox in my good hand with all my might. I’ve taken it off so Mama can’t see it. I wonder if the damn thing worked for once.

When I got back to the barrack after my encounter with Violet, Emi wasn’t doing well. She was shiny and slick with sweat, all pink heat. The sight made me nauseous with fear. It wiped away thoughts of Violet and made me silently grip my fox and beg it for help. We were told a doctor would come but none did—because guess what? There are ten camp doctors and ten thousand residents. We only have Mr. Nomura, who was placed in our barrack because God is punishing me, and Nurse Rose, the nurse from the bus, who keeps stopping by between her rounds poking everyone with typhoid shots.

Then Mama and I were summoned to the newly renamed WRA administration offices, where I now stand, wondering if the fox worked and answered my prayer. We wait in the hallway. My neck aches where the sling digs into it like a noose, and my shoulder throbs. Underneath it all is a heap of fear and rage that’s so intense, it might as well be physical pain, too.

Mama sucks on a cigarette. Smoke streams from her nose, drifting through the hall, too lazy to find its way to the ceiling. She’s still wearing her pink jacket, which hangs from the crooks of her elbows, and she has on several black and yellow beaded necklaces and earrings. Just like me, she hasn’t slept a wink as we care for Emi, but she’s acting like she was out all night at the Samba Club or something. The cigarette perches between her fingers as elegantly as a fancy glass of champagne.

An officer opens a door, sticks his head out, motions us in. I slip the fox into my pocket. I’m startled when we enter to find a white woman wearing a pearl necklace and carrying a beaded bag. I’m sure the bag is expensive, but the way it limply hangs from the handle makes me think of a dead rodent. Who lost their grand dame here and why the hell does she have business with us? Her eyebrows are raised high on her forehead, and she looks terrified. You’d think someone was holding a gun on her. Mama glances at the bag and pearls and gives an imperious nod, followed by a satisfied smile, as though the woman should be pleased with her approval. The woman stares, taking in Mama’s pink jacket, fake jewelry, and my sling, which Mr. Nomura fashioned for me out of a strip of sheet. Our presence drives her eyebrows farther up. Any farther and those two thin lines will disappear into her hairline. She seems like she’s going to cry.

“Mrs. Ross, this is Mrs. Hamada and her son, Ren,” the officer says. “Mrs. Hamada, Ren, Mrs. Ross has driven far to see you about some…personal business. She wished to see your daughter, but I informed Mrs. Ross what you told me—she’s unwell.”

“Yes, I have come very far,” Mrs. Ross says. She wavers. Holds out her hand to shake. Mama draws herself up, pleased at this display of politeness, particularly from a wealthy white woman. Still, she sticks her cigarette in her mouth and shakes the woman’s hand, cheeks sucking in, so she doesn’t miss a bit of her smoke.

After shaking Mama’s hand, the woman turns to me. Clumsily, I extend my left hand. Unlike Violet, who used her left to accommodate my sling, the woman is befuddled and still offers her right hand, making the whole thing even more awkward. Her palm is bizarrely soft and puffy. You’d think she’d never touched anything in her life. Her pillowy skin rubs against my palm, tender from where I’ve clutched the fox, softness chafing against irritation. I can’t let go of her hand fast enough. “Now then. I understand, Mrs. Hamada, that your daughter is Miss Emiko Hamada? And that she is…” Her tone weakens. I wonder if she’ll be able to finish the sentence. Finally, she breathes, “…with child.”

Mama’s eyes narrow. They always do at the slightest whiff of judgment. Mama has known more judgment than most, deserved and undeserved, but I gotta give it to her. She’s always ready to take it on the chin.

“What of it?” Her coarse, raspy voice is so different from Mrs. Ross’s brittle chirp.

“Well.” The woman’s cheeks, which are as puffy as her palms, turn pink. Her hand goes to her pearl necklace. She grips it in the same way I’ve been gripping my pendant. “I believe the child”—she quivers again—“belongs to my son.”

I’m so shocked, you’d think I stuck my finger in an electrical socket. I didn’t know who the father was. Never asked. Figured if Emi wanted to tell us, she would. Not once did I imagine he was white or wealthy. And, from the looks of this broad’s graying hair, probably much older than Emi. I stare, trying to assemble this new information into the already jacked-up painting of our lives. Then, almost immediately, hope sprouts inside me.

I take a step forward.

“Like the guy here said, Emi is unwell,” I say. “The baby is in danger. Can you help us get her to a hospital?”