6
Dolly Hits the Nail on the Head

Finally at home, I run up to Dolly’s room and turn on her laptop. She’s not exactly in love with the fact that Mom says I can use hers “within limits,” and I’m not in love with the concept of “limits,” or the fact that I live in a household that can’t afford two laptops, so we’re even. And I know I’ve got at least twenty minutes before Dolly gets back from her cello lesson, so hopefully I can learn everything I need to and get out of here before my thirst for knowledge causes a war between my sister and me.

I pull out my pen and notebook and navigate to a wiki site on Haiti. I’m taking Rocky up on his advice, although not quite in the way he intended. There’s no way I can turn myself into some kind of suave lover-man overnight, but I can become the world’s—or at least St. Chris’s—leading expert on Haiti before Spring Fling. And if that fails, at least I won’t be as dumb as Nomura thinks I am.

According to the wiki, here are the basics:

Haiti’s an island, or more accurately, half of an island called Hispaniola, with the Dominican Republic occupying the other half. And Hispaniola is only one of a whole mess of islands in the Caribbean, including Cuba, Puerto Rico, and all the other ones where instead of paying all this money to St. Cat’s and St. Chris’s, my mom, Dolly, and I could be partying like rock stars. I cringe as I read that these islands are called the West Indies. This means that while Haiti has nothing to do with India, Bijou is West Indian after all.

Okay, so Rocky Van Sant knows more about Bijou, or at least her culture, than I do. Maybe I am an ignoramus.

I do a quick scan of the stuff Haiti’s best known for. Physically, it’s tiny—it’s about a quarter the size of New York State—but there are nearly ten million people there, and 50 percent of them are children. It’s a very poor country, supposedly the poorest in all of the Americas, and a place where a lot of people die of diseases Americans don’t die of, like cholera and malaria. And while Christianity is practiced by over 95 percent of the population, many people still associate Haiti with the vodou religion (complete with zombies—Ira will love this!) practiced only by a few. One thing Haitians are superproud of: they kicked out the slave owners over two hundred years ago and have been independent ever since.

Suddenly the door opens. It’s Dolly, dragging her huge, clunky cello case—it’s almost as tall as she is—over the threshold of her door.

“Computer time’s over, little brother,” Dolly says, startling me so much that while I’m turning around, I swing my hand across her desk and knock over a cup filled with pencils and pens.

“Very graceful. Now, how about cleaning that up and then clearing out of my room?” she asks.

I shut the laptop, a little too fast. I don’t want her to see what I’m reading, even though there’s nothing weird or suspicious about Haiti.

“What are you up to, anyway?” she says. She tries to pry the laptop open. “Looking at naughty pictures, are we?”

“No way,” I say. “I’m writing a report.” I let her open it and look at the monitor.

“Alex, it’s four thirty on a Friday afternoon, and Spring Fling is tomorrow night. You’re trying to convince me, your older, much wiser sister, that you’re actually writing a report that couldn’t possibly be due until Monday morning at the earliest?”

“Well, I’m doing research.” And it’s true. I am.

She turns the laptop toward her; the window I was working in is still open.

“Haiti, huh?” she says. “You’re writing a report on Haiti?”

“Yeah, for social studies. Mr. Miller.”

She squints and makes a hrmph noise. “Are you sure you’re not reading about Haiti so you can impress that new girl at St. Cat’s, what’s-her-name?”

Who told her? And if she knows, how many other people do, too? I feel my entire face turning a dark, burning red. I cradle my cheeks in my hands to keep her from seeing, but it’s pointless. “Bijou,” I say, totally busted. “Her name is Bijou.”

“Oh my God, that was a wild guess, but I totally hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?”

I don’t bother responding, but she can tell. Like Rocky said, girls can always tell.

Dolly is thrilled. “You have a crush!” she squeals. “It’s totally adorable.” Disgustingly, she hugs me.

“Don’t tell Mom, okay?”

“Okay, okay.” She lets me go, puts her cello against the wall, and sits on the edge of her bed. “Alex, that’s so sweet. With everything she’s been through, maybe a nice boy like you is exactly what she needs.”

“What do you mean, ‘everything she’s been through’?” I ask. “Do you know anything? I mean, specifically?”

“Well, no, but she must have been through a lot. I mean, she lived there. She survived it. I’m sure anybody who did has a major story to tell.”

“Do you think her whole family really died?”

“I have no idea. Where’d you hear that?”

“Just around.” The truth is, Ira had told me, although he couldn’t verify it, and neither could Maricel. Could it possibly be true, though? Losing your whole family is way too much to handle without getting put into a mental hospital or something. And Bijou definitely didn’t look like somebody who needed to be locked away. I’d only seen her the one time, drinking a ginger ale at Peas n’ Pickles. But to me, beautiful or not, she didn’t look like some battle-scarred victim. She looked like a regular seventh-grade girl. She looked strong, not scarred or even scared.

“Well, there are bound to be rumors, but I wouldn’t believe anything that doesn’t come directly from her. Not that you should go up and ask her those kinds of questions. You should definitely hold off on that. Just let her share whatever she wants to share, whenever she wants to share it.”

“God, I’m not that stupid. I wouldn’t do that.”

Dolly gives me a goofy look, puts her hand on my shoulder, and gives it a shake. “Alex, it’s so sweet that you like her.”

“Please don’t tell Mom. I can’t deal with that right now. She’s so … cheesy about stuff like this.”

“Okay. Won’t say a word.” She brushes her hair back behind her ear. “Promise.”