Free Children of Exile by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

something bottled up in the woman’s expression that really scared me. Rage, yes, but also fear. It was like she was a kid too. Like Bobo and me. Little kids were the ones who got scared and angry. Not adults. And who was she scared of and mad at? The man? Bobo and me?
    â€œWe are tired after our long trip,” I said stiffly. Suddenly I just wanted to get away before I said or did anything awful. “Come on, Bobo. I’m sure we’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
    â€œNot tired!” Bobo wailed. “Not sleepy! Not—”
    I picked him up. He kicked at me like he was throwing a tantrum—something he probably hadn’t done since he was two. I kept holding on, hoping it would calm both of us.
    â€œShh,” I said, stroking Bobo’s hair like Fred-mama always used to do. “Shh. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
    I carried Bobo into the tiny room, and it was a relief to be away from the woman’s glare, the man’s anger. I let the cloth drop behind me, hiding us. There was nothing in that little room except a lamp on an upturned orange crate and a thin blanket spread on the floor.
    â€œLook how soft this blanket is,” I said, leaning down topat it. “Look how nicely it’s spread out, just waiting for you and me.”
    â€œDon’t like that blanket!” Bobo cried. “Want my blanket! Want my bed! Want to go back to Fredtown! Want—”
    â€œShh,” I whispered in his ear, as I eased him down onto the blanket. “Calm down. Would eating help? I’ve still got a bag of raisins and a peanut butter sandwich in my knapsack. . . .”
    Was it wrong to offer him that when we’d been sent to bed without our supper? My Fred-parents had never used that as punishment, so I couldn’t be sure.
    It didn’t matter, because Bobo screamed, “No! Not hungry!”
    I understood. My stomach felt too achy and sad for me to even think about food. I couldn’t believe I’d ever be hungry again.
    But what if the man and the woman heard Bobo yelling and realized that we didn’t care about supper, so they’d think of some worse punishment?
    â€œListen,” I whispered again to Bobo. “You can tell me everything that’s making you sad or mad. Sometimes that helps. You can tell me anything you want. But tell only me. Whisper. Don’t let anyone else hear.”
    â€œWant my Fred-daddy,” Bobo said, and while it wasn’t a whisper yet, at least he wasn’t screaming. “Want my Fred-mama. Want my toy sailboat.”
    â€œWe packed that, remember?” I whispered in his ear. “It will probably be here by the time we wake up tomorrow.”
    â€œWant my monkey bars,” Bobo said, and now this was more like a murmur.
    â€œI bet there’s a playground here, too,” I said. “Maybe their monkey bars are even better.”
    â€œWant . . .” Bobo went on listing everything he missed about Fredtown. Every third or fourth word was “Fred-mama” or “Fred-daddy.” Only when I was sure he was more asleep than not did I dare to let myself whisper back, “Oh, me, too, Bobo. I want our Fred-parents too.”
    Except that I knew the kind of thing they would say to me if they were here, even if they’d witnessed everything the man and woman had said and done. I could just hear Fred-daddy’s voice in my head, telling me, I think you just don’t understand the reasons behind those things you were insulted and hurt by. You just don’t understand your real parents. If you understand other people’s viewpoint, you can think of them more kindly. And you can stop focusing on your own anger and pain.
    I did still want my Fred-mama and Fred-daddy. I wanted to go back to Fredtown as much as Bobo did.
    But I also wanted something I thought might be possible, something I promised myself I would find a way to