Page 33 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“You told me you hurt your shoulder falling.” Considering she’s accusing me of lying, she doesn’t sound offended. I stiffen, hand tightening on the satchel. The rough canvas stings my palm.

“It’s my business.” I’m determined to stare straight ahead but I break. I look at her. I’m met with her full, open gaze. I keep expecting her to judge me, but mostly she just seems to be curious.

And maybe that makes sense. I’ve noticed she’s curious about a lot of things. The god. Art. Successfully sneaking out. How to skip a stone. Makes me wonder what it’s like in her head—to see the world and want to know more, not less.

“What really happened? And don’t tell me the went-for-a-walk-found-a-box nonsense.”

“What’s it to you?” Bitterness creeps into my words despite myself. I don’t get why she cares or why it matters.

“Because I want to know about you,” she says.

“But why?”

“Good Lord, we’ll never get anywhere if you answer every question with another question.” Exasperation fills her voice, but there’s gentleness to it. And maybe a touch of pleasure, as though she likes watching me squirm. “You’d think you were being interrogated by the Spanish Inquisition. How did you actually hurt your shoulder? I should know. It might tell us more about the god.”

We walk a few more feet. She’s waiting for me to speak, and I suspect she’ll wait a long time if necessary.

“It isn’t much of a story. That Akira guy dropped a wooden box while we were waiting on the bus to leave Santa Anita Racetrack.” I fuss with the edge of the laundry bag, wishing I could switch it to my bad shoulder and hide my face. At the moment, it creates a barrier on the left side of my head, blocking out part of the camp. Leaves just…her. I’m staring straight ahead again but she’s right there. Couldn’t tell you what was in front of me if my life depended on it, but by God, I could tell you every shade glistening in her hair from the sun. “So I got it for him.”

“Your storytelling abilities are magnificent,” Violet says dryly, and I know from her tone she’s gonna press the issue. The girl is a determined sort. Reminds me of Mama and Emi, in a way. “How did your shoulder get hurt in the process?”

“We weren’t supposed to get off the bus.” My shoulder twinges. Brings back the turmoil of that day. No one knew where we were going, Emi wasn’t feeling well, and the bus rattled like a worn-out washer down the road for hours and hours. My stomach hurts just thinking about it. “Soldiers thought I was causing trouble and threw me against the bus. Shoulder popped right out.”

Violet makes a soft, horrified sound. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “That must have hurt terribly.”

“Naw,” I say curtly. “Our neighbor Mr. Nomura was there and he popped it back in place with the help of Nurse Rose. It wasn’t bad.”

Another lie. But I had a good distraction. Thinking about Violet standing outside the window like an angel or a mirage eases the tightness in my chest. She doesn’t know it, but she was the only light during a dark day.

Up ahead, someone scurries toward us.

“Violet?” It’s Violet’s mother, Mrs. Aratani. Immediately, I straighten up and swallow hard, feeling guilty even though I haven’t done anything wrong. For once.

“Mama! You didn’t need to come look for me. I was on my way back,” Violet exclaims. Mrs. Aratani frowns. She’s a tiny woman with soft, round shoulders and black hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun. Looks like she’d make a good angry librarian. Her eyes zoom from Violet to me and the laundry satchel, fast as greased lightning. I can see her adding everything up in her head. I can also tell she doesn’t like what it equals.

“What’s this?” she asks. She doesn’t sound like an angry librarian—she sounds more like a cop about to make a bust. I immediately lower their laundry bag to my feet, resisting the urge to step back and put my hands in the air for good measure. “Why does he have our laundry, Violet? Where were you?”

“It’s nothing,” Violet protests quickly, but her cheeks turn pink. “Ren saw me walking with the laundry. He came over and offered to carry it for me. He was being nice, that’s all.”

“But the laundry isn’t done.” Nothing gets by Mrs. Aratani. Her gaze pins me in place, but she only speaks to Violet. “Were you spending time with this boy?”

“No, of course not,” Violet replies. She toys with the ribbon on her dress. “The laundry room in our block is broken so I looked for another, and he came running up to me to help.”

My throat locks up at her response. But then why would I expect her to tell the truth? I wait, standing there like a dope while they discuss me.

“Hand it to me.” Mrs. Aratani addresses me for the first time. She holds out her hands for the laundry, like I’m not even good enough to carry it for them. I bend down, pick it up. Give it over, eyes on the ground, jaw tight. “Come along, Violet.”

They leave. Violet doesn’t say goodbye, nothing. You’d think she didn’t know me. She just hurries after her mother. I’m left planted to my spot.

At the last moment, Mrs. Aratani glances over her shoulder at me. Her frown is a dagger aimed straight at me, and the message is as clear as day.

Stay away from my daughter.

By the time I get back to my block, the sun is at the mountain ridge and I’m angry. I clutch my fox. Reopens the scab, so a bit of blood blossoms. I don’t care.

Up ahead, I recognize our barrack mates, the children who live beyond the sheets with their mother, Mrs. Wozumi, and their baby sibling. I saw them head out this morning to school with combed hair and clean, pressed clothes, but now their hair is messy, and their clothes are dirty. The oldest brother, Jace, holds a wood sword while the younger brother, Ethan, and their sister, Abigail, try to get it.

“Ren!” they chorus when they see me. They surround me like a pack of overeager puppies and talk at once, telling me something about a pirate ship and lost treasure. I swallow down my hurt and try to focus on them.