Free Another Woman's Daughter by Fiona Sussman Page A

along a passage, and across a courtyard. It was fun being part of this loud, bustling craziness.
    Then we were outside and a cold wind was carving the long worm of children into smaller groups, until I was the only one left.
    I looked around the playground. There were no trees, no grass, no goals—just a coal-colored fence, two benches, and anold purple jungle gym missing a crossbar at the back. At one end of the yard a group of boys knelt on the concrete, rolling marbles along a track. Beside the water fountain, three girls took turns hopping over a piece of taut elastic. Some other children sat in a circle eating their snacks. Nobody looked my way.
    Spying a short flight of stairs hidden around the back of the school building, I ran over to it and sat down on the top step, tucking myself right up against the small trapdoor at the top. The concrete was cold and the chill crept quickly through my stockings and pinafore to start hollowing out my bones.
    Two girls strolled past.
    â€œHello,” I said, giving my best smile.
    They giggled and walked on, one telling the other in a loud whisper that I’d called Mrs. Dee a madam.
    Even though I wasn’t hungry, I fumbled with the brown packet Michael had given me. I’d make myself eat like everyone else. I unwrapped the sandwich—two slices of white bread smeared with butter, peanut butter, and honey. I didn’t understand why Michael always put butter
and
peanut butter on bread. Two butters just didn’t make sense. I was about to take my first bite when the sandwich flew out of my hand and landed on the bottom step.
    I looked up.
    Three boys from my class, including the custard-haired boy, were standing at the bottom of the stairs, grinning. One had a catapult in his hand.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Africa girl, got butterfingers?”
    I edged down the steps and reached for my sandwich, butthe boy’s shoe beat me to it. He dug his heel into the soft white bread and swiveled it from side to side, mushing it into a gluggy pulp. My eyes started to burn.
    â€œDon’t cry, nigger girl. Just go home.” He turned to the other two boys. “My dad says blacks have smaller brains. He says they cause all the fuckin’ problems in England.”
    One of the other boys made a gurgling sound and a blob of bubbly spit landed at my feet.
    â€œGot any gobstoppers?”
    I shook my head. I didn’t know what gobstoppers were, but I wished I had some. Maybe then they’d want to be my friends.
    â€œToo bad. See you ’round, gollywog.”
    I didn’t cry; my tears were too scared to come out. But my stockings felt warm. I looked down. There was a wet patch spreading on the concrete beneath me.

CHAPTER NINE
    April 1961
    Miriam
    Over the term, I worked hard to make myself invisible. Sometimes I succeeded, managing to escape the taunts and teases for an entire day. But more often than not, I arrived home with a broken school bag, a bloodied shin, or maybe a ripped exercise book. With passing weeks, my uniform grew bigger, my shoulders pointier, and my days more wretched.
    During school hours I was too busy dodging danger to think about anything else, but at night there was room in my head for my fears to grow. Like weeds, they spread over my mind, tangling up my thoughts and blocking out the light. And when I fell asleep, the badness simply followed, inviting scary shadows and monsters into my dreams.
    I noticed Madam Rita and Michael had stopped mentioning
Mme.
Whenever I tried to remind them, they suddenly remembered something they had to do or somewhere they had to be.Soon I started to forget what
Mme
sounded like, what she looked and smelled like. I used to be able to smell her on my rag doll, Tendani, and every night I’d go off to sleep breathing in her special
Mme
scent. But after a while I’d sucked it all off, and Tendani just smelled like everything else—of England.
    This England was different from the