Achala watched Chamila closely from the first moment he entered their O-level cram class. She already knew she would outscore all the other prefects from the girls’ school, but they had all heard rumors that Chamila’s English scores were the best of Christ Church Boys’ College, their brother school across the river. Achala felt the gaze of the other girls studying her as Chamila joined the class. It took all her concentration to keep a fixed gaze on her notebook, on the neat script of the English letters making up her name. The A came up to a determined point that she liked. In English, her name announced itself on the page with strength, like a ladder climbing skyward. In Sinhala, her name began in the shape of endless loops, constantly circling themselves, leading nowhere.
After Chamila’s first class, the other prefect girls gathered around Achala, asking her impressions of the new arrival. Their voices were friendly enough—they had learned the art of maintaining an innocent pitch—but she heard the layers of taunting beneath their lilting inflections. Achala felt hopelessly inept at these games of disguised jealousies and multilayered loyalties. She was a smart girl with large ambitions, and her good grades and social unease set her up as a target when she was away from home or the safety of the classroom.
It certainly didn’t help that her mother insisted on keeping Achala’s hair cropped short rather than letting it grow so she could wear it in thick plaits like the other girls in grade nine. Achala suspected that her mother was using her as a replacement for Lakshmi, her aunt who had disappeared over a year ago. Lakshmi had returned from Saudi with her hair jaggedly short, styled in angles around her delicate forehead. But it was there that their physical echoes ended. Achala was never allowed to go near Lakshmi’s pointy-heeled shoes or vibrant scarves. She knew from her mother’s disapproving glances that her aunt’s possessions were associated with shame as well as with rarely spoken-of loss. Despite this, her mother seemed unable to throw them away, and at times Achala would approach these abandoned ornaments and try to smell ghostly traces of her aunt.
“Mr. Illepumera complimented Chamila twice on the pronunciation of his w’s,” Chitra began.
“And during the lesson on weather and seasons, Teacher praised him again for his explanation of cold and snow,” Devika offered into Achala’s other ear. The two girls were pressed into Achala on either side, jostling her back and forth with every new comment about Chamila.
Despite this, Achala managed a few nods of praise. “Yes,” Achala agreed, trying to match Chitra and Devika’s singsong tone. “He speaks very well and confidently. He is a very good student, especially considering how hard these years must have been for him.” Chitra and Devika stopped their jostling and stared at her. Achala never intended her words to silence the girls, but she had a habit of saying inappropriate things without knowing what exactly had been so insulting or improper about them. Her mother often scolded her for these graceless moments, warning her not to speak of things too private or shameful. “You need to be extra careful,” her mother often warned. “Girls who are trying to win scholarships shouldn’t risk offending the wrong ear.”
After many years, Achala was still trying to keep a mental account of the inappropriate territory. So far, she knew not to speak of her family’s financial worry since her father had lost his job at the tea estate. She wasn’t supposed to talk about boys, politics, the war, or her aunt Lakshmi’s sudden return to, and almost as sudden vanishing from, the village. She also knew she wasn’t meant to brag, or show vanity or pride. But despite her careful efforts, Achala’s world had consistently shrunk. Girls who had been her friends in lower school blocked her entry into their lunch circles, and Achala often found herself walking home alone. Her best friend was the American boarder who had moved into their home less than a year ago. At first, Achala had resisted Lucy. She missed Sam, who had learned Sinhala so quickly and spent hours keeping her mother company in the kitchen. Sam was the one who got her mother smiling again after Auntie left. But Achala had slowly warmed to Lucy. With Lucy, she allowed herself to giggle. She relaxed and sank into the easiness of being an expert without eliciting jealous or judging eyes. Lucy was at least as lonely as Achala, and Achala suspected that this balance brought comfort to both of them.
Chitra and Devika quickened their pace, leaving Achala to finish her walk home alone. Perhaps her comments about Chamila had come too close to a reference to the war. The details hadn’t been uncovered, even by the nosiest neighbors or the sneakiest classmates, but Chamila’s arrival in Baddegama came with rumors of his parents’ death during the insurgency in Colombo. What the village did know was that Chamila’s grandparents had adopted him as their own, referring to him as their son rather than their grandson when they first brought him to temple and to his first Vesak Poya Day parade in town. And Chamila had seemed to blend seamlessly into this role, too, as the villagers heard him refer to his grandmother and grandfather as Amma and Tata. Perhaps then it had been a mistake to have brought up his secret unhappiness or the losses associated with the war. Achala could already hear her blunder being whispered among her classmates, giving them yet another reason to snub her. At least Chamila would be safe from the gossip, which had little chance of crossing the gates of the boys’ school.
OVER THE NEXT weeks, Achala allowed herself an occasional glance in Chamila’s direction. He was a tall, lanky boy, fourteen just like Achala, and his ankles jutted out of his perpetually too-short pants. He walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, his hips pushing forward, a swagger that suggested a kind of studied toughness Achala found comical, and she often wondered what he was hiding underneath all his theatrical movements. Achala also noticed that his schoolbag was a mess—disordered papers and broken pencils worn down to the nub—though he did take good care of his cricket bat, which never seemed to leave his side. In fact, Chamila had none of the characteristics of a serious student, chewing his fingernails and offering a snide remark to his neighbor whenever Mr. Illepumera praised his work. Achala began to realize that Chamila was just as concerned about fitting in as she was, but while Achala did everything she could to avoid notice, Chamila seemed to court it, strutting like a famous cricket bowler or a Bollywood star.
Soon Achala found herself thinking mean-spirited things about Chamila. “He’s got a lot of pride for an orphan,” she muttered to herself after Mr. Illepumera gave Chamila’s essay on the planets a first-place award, which he had to share with Achala, whose essay described the first female Sri Lankan doctor, Dr. Shreeni Gunawardene. When Mr. Illepumera called them both up to the front to receive their prizes—a pencil box with two new pens—he turned them to face their classmates, and teased, “May I present to you the future astronaut Mr. Chamila Prasena and the future brain surgeon Miss Achala Gunesekera!” Achala knew that Mr. Illepumera didn’t mean any harm, but she felt the hostility radiating from the forced smiles of the other prefects and wondered if Chamila, too, felt a similar resentment coming from the boys’ side.
But if Chamila worried about any of this, he didn’t show it. As he returned to his seat, he whispered something to his best friend, Leel, which made them both snicker and flick bits of paper toward Achala’s seat. Achala felt the growing force of the girls’ jealousy gather around her, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out,“Grow up!” sending another wave of snickering throughout the classroom.
“Miss Brainiac can’t seem to take a joke,” Leel said as he sent another paper ball in Achala’s direction, while Mr. Illepumera began writing the homework assignment on the board.
Achala felt a slow burning start at her temples and descend down her back. She felt the boys’ eyes on the nape of her neck, the exposed arc of her ear. She had wanted to simply take this last cram class, get firsts in her O-levels, and win a scholarship to the Galle national school, away from the taunting jealousy of the village girls. But this was too much. The boys made her feel vulnerable in an entirely new way. While it was hard to blame the girls for their jealousy and resentment—there were only a handful of places available at the better national schools, and these schools were the only path to university—these boys had no right to target Achala, who worked so hard to escape notice, to be as quiet and humble as her mother counseled her to be.
At the end of class, Achala lingered over her schoolbag, rearranging her papers, as the others packed up their pencil boxes and drifted toward the bus halt, gossiping and giggling along the way. Achala didn’t notice the sound of anyone behind her, so the touch of fingertips on her shoulder made her drop her bag and lose her breath. Chamila had suddenly appeared beside her, shadowing her face from the sun. “Sorry about before.” He picked up her bag. “Leel doesn’t mean any harm. He just likes attention from girls, especially the snotty ones.”
“I’m not snotty,” Achala snapped. “And he should learn some manners. He acts like a water buffalo.”
“All right, Miss Snotty.” Chamila winked, tapping Achala once more on her shoulder before sprinting away. As he ran to catch up with his friends, he yelled behind him, “You’re not so easy to apologize to, you know.”
At home, Achala couldn’t escape the guilty feeling that had settled on her shoulders. She could have just laughed off Leel’s bad behavior and been friendlier to Chamila. Even if his comments were insulting, he had tried to apologize, hadn’t he? Achala spent so much time preparing herself for others’ unfriendliness that she wondered if she had entirely lost her ability to be kind and generous. When Lucy entered her room, Achala realized she had lost track of time completely, and worried she must look foolish sitting there blankly on her bed, staring at her own thighs.
But Lucy didn’t seem to notice. “Tea?” she asked as she plopped two cups onto Achala’s desk. For a twenty-three-year-old, Lucy seemed far too clumsy and unsure of herself. Most twenty-three-year-olds Achala knew had the quiet assurance of motherhood. But Lucy still giggled like a girl, couldn’t sew her own buttons onto her sari blouses, and made the most horrible tea. When Lucy had first moved in, she and Achala had worked out a plan: every other day, Achala would help Lucy with her Sinhala lessons, and on the alternate days, Lucy would help Achala with her essay writing.
Lucy sipped her tea. “Here’s what I learned today. Moka pisu de! ‘What craziness!’ Am I saying it right?”
“It’s Mona pisu de!” Achala corrected. “Or you can say, Oyate pisu de? ‘Are you completely crazy?’ ”
Achala watched Lucy scribble into her notebook. After a few moments, Achala asked in Sinhala, “Which is your favorite grade to teach?”
“Grade nine, of course.”
“Do you know a boy named Leel?” Achala kept her face neutral, pretending that this was just another dialogue exercise.
“Yes. Mona pisu!” Lucy congratulated herself on using her new vocabulary words by elbowing Achala in the side and trying to make her laugh, rolling her eyes upward and sticking out her tongue.
“Do you know a boy named Chamila?”
“Yes. He is very smart, but he is a troublemaker.”
Achala nodded. “Is he a happy or a sad boy?”
“He is the boy that makes all the others laugh but doesn’t always seem happy himself.”
Achala paused to correct Lucy’s mistakes. She wondered if Lucy knew the details of Chamila’s past. She decided to change the subject a bit. “Is his writing very good?”
“Yes. He writes well.”
“Is it better than mine?”
Lucy hesitated. “It’s different.”
“How?”
Lucy broke into English. “I don’t know how to say it. It’s less formal than yours—it’s more natural. He doesn’t care if he makes mistakes.”
Achala felt Lucy watching her carefully as she sipped her tea.
“Why so much interest in Chamila?” Lucy teased. “Do you have a bit of a crush, Little Sister?”
Achala didn’t like Lucy’s tone. Today was a day when everyone seemed determined to taunt her. “What is a crush?” Achala asked impatiently.
“It’s when you like someone, when you get excited if you know you’re going to see him. If he makes you feel nervous or shy.”
Achala knew that her mother would hate this conversation. She wasn’t supposed to talk about boys this way, so she grabbed her teacup and gave Lucy an abrupt, “No. I don’t have a crush on Chamila.”
“Mona pisu de!” Lucy grinned. “Always so serious.”
THE NEXT FEW days, Achala couldn’t stop thinking about Chamila. She wondered what it was like to have grandparents for parents, to miss your mother and father and not to be able to talk about it. She missed her aunt Lakshmi almost all the time, and she had only really known her for a few months. She knew her mother constantly thought about her sister, too, delicately buffing Lakshmi and Sunil’s wedding photograph every morning. Sometimes Achala was tempted to ask her mother to tell stories about her and Lakshmi’s childhood, about what Lakshmi had studied at university, what their dreams had been. But she kept these questions to herself and instead created imagined stories about her aunt.
School was becoming increasingly unbearable. As Chitra and Devika led the other girls in teasing Achala about Leel, insisting that he was her new boyfriend despite Achala’s protests, Achala felt her thoughts drift more and more to Galle, to the national girls’ school perched high on the hill, overlooking the fort and the turquoise sea beyond. Achala imagined herself brave and strong in these surroundings, in the company of other girls like her, serious and dedicated, who would want to study with her, prepare for the A-levels, strive toward university together. She refused to confront the reality that in Galle, the competition would most likely be even more grueling, the manipulations even more severe, the jealousies more hostile. Instead she wondered if some of the town girls would teach her how to swim in the bay of Hikkaduwa or show her how to make skirts that brush one’s knees without losing their pleats in the breezy sea air. With each new Galle daydream, Achala felt desire and despair equally smothering her. She needed to pass the O-levels, then travel to the Galle sea, and from there to university to become a doctor. Then she could come back to the village and say to Mr. Illepumera, You were right. I did become a brain surgeon after all. She wondered if Chamila, too, would come back to announce his successes, or if he would still be in Baddegama, looking after the health of his aging grandparents.
During their next afternoon lesson, Achala asked Lucy why her volunteer organization had placed her in the boys’ school rather than at the girls’ school. “It doesn’t seem fair—the boys’ school getting a volunteer. Now, because of you, they have an English Club and new library books and we get nothing. It gives them an advantage on the national exams.”
Lucy looked guilty. They had had versions of the same conversation before.
Achala pressed, “Why can’t some of the girls join the English Club? You could ask. They’d agree to anything you asked.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Achala insisted, knowing full well that Lucy, the white American, brought status to their crumbling old walls. “Would you please try?”
“Maybe. We’ll see, okay?” Lucy finished her tea and closed her notebook. “It’s just that a lot of them don’t trust me over there. I can just imagine what they’ll say about me, a loose American girl, trying to form a coed after-school program.”
Achala wasn’t quite sure what Lucy meant by “loose,” but she was certain that the girls deserved an equal chance for extra English help and that Lucy could probably get anything she asked for.
Achala often felt confused by Lucy’s reluctance to try out Achala’s ideas. She certainly felt lucky to have Lucy living in her family’s house. She knew her English was getting better and she liked being the one Lucy looked to for help with her Sinhala and for company when she went into the village center. It made Achala feel important, like a UN translator. But Lucy often disappointed her, too. She seemed lazy and distracted, scribbling letters home and listening to her portable cassette player when Achala thought she should be working on her lessons or practicing her vocabulary. Lucy had also refused again and again to teach classes at the girls’ school, claiming to be too busy and tired with all her other work.
It came as a surprise, then, when Lucy announced two weeks later that the boys’ school principal had agreed to a coed English Club. “As long as your principal agrees and you can get a teacher from your school to chaperone. I told you they didn’t trust me.”
Achala ignored this last comment. “How many girls can participate?”
“Ten to start. Ten girls and ten boys and we’ll have to meet at the girls’ school. The principals are meeting tomorrow to sort out the other details.”
THE NEXT DAY, Achala, Chitra, and Devika were called into Madam Principal’s office. They approached her with their eyes lowered and quickly bent to worship at her feet.
“Good girls. Come, stand up now.” Their principal was a kindly-looking woman, almost seventy years old, who had refused her pension and retirement and still ruled over the school with sharp alertness. She resembled a grandmother except when she was angry. Too old to wield a caning stick herself, she had a special assistant whose only task was discipline—Miss Gayathri, a forty-year-old spinster with thinning hair. All the girls were terrified of both the principal and Miss Gayathri.
“The boys’ school principal has offered ten girls places in a new English Club to be led by Miss Lucy, the American teacher, and one of our teachers, Miss Lelani. You girls must interview your classmates and select seven who will become members of the club. Be sure to choose the best English students and have them bring permission slips from their parents.”
The girls filed out of the office, Chitra and Devika leading the way, their shoulders blocking Achala’s entrance into their muffled conversation and laughter. Achala felt a mixture of disappointment and excitement. She wouldn’t have to try out for a spot in the club, but Miss Lelani’s English was terrible and she was often absent or complaining about aches and stomach upsets. She had barely moved from her chair when she taught Achala’s section 8A English class the year before.
Chitra and Devika were soon huddled over Chitra’s notebook. “Who shall we invite, then, Devika? Let’s make a list!”
Devika began offering candidates. “I’d vote for Geethika and Sita.” Her list continued to grow with all the prettiest, most popular girls.
“But—” Achala interrupted, “Madam told us to interview the candidates. They’re supposed to be the best English speakers.”
Chitra ignored Achala. “If we invite Mala, she’ll bring us ribbons from her father’s store and give us her chapatis at lunch.”
“Add her to the list, then, Chitra! Quick! Quick! Who else? Who else?” Devika and Chitra hunched over the notebook, edging Achala away from the expanding list. Achala withdrew from their laughter, returning to the classroom, reassuring herself that Lucy would make it work and the club would be a success.
AT THE FIRST meeting, Lucy arrived with ten boys and her coteacher, Mr. Jaya, a frail young man who swayed his hips like a girl. The boys often joked about him in cram class, but they admitted that he was an excellent English teacher and cricket bowler, too. He was also a favorite for never using a caning stick, a rarity at the boys’ school. When Chamila entered the classroom, Achala felt her face warm and quickly hid her eyes in her notebook. And when Lucy passed Achala’s desk, she tousled Achala’s hair, making her feel even more embarrassed and exposed.
Miss Lelani still hadn’t arrived as the girls took their seats on the left side of the class. They were soon perched with quiet smiles on their faces, the prettiest girls from grades nine and ten. Chitra and Devika had obviously carried out their selections with great care. The boys, sitting on the right side of the classroom, stole occasional glances at the girls’ indifferent faces, nudging and whispering. Chitra proudly approached Lucy. In a formal voice, her chin tilted upward, she offered Lucy a box of tea biscuits and two red anthuriums. “We welcome you to our school, Miss Lucy, and are grateful for your teaching time with us.”
Lucy blushed, her pale skin suddenly splotchy and bruised looking. “Thank you. We are happy to be here.”
Chitra offered a few sheets of notebook paper. “Madam instructed me to give you our permission slips. Not all the girls have turned them in yet.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem, I don’t think,” Lucy said, smiling. “We won’t be doing anything dangerous.” Achala found herself willing Lucy to act more properly—like a real teacher, stern and authoritative. She suddenly realized she knew Lucy only at home and had, perhaps mistakenly, assumed that at school Lucy transformed herself into someone different, a competent, organized teacher.
Achala watched as Chitra returned to her seat, neatly folding her school uniform beneath her as she sat. She was so prim and poised; nobody would ever guess how sneaky she could be, Achala thought.
Achala could tell that Lucy was nervous, but she couldn’t imagine why. Mr. Illepumera usually started his class by taking attendance and writing a dialogue on the board, but it didn’t look as if Lucy had brought any chalk or textbooks. The boys and girls fidgeted in their seats, waiting for their lesson to begin.
Lucy played with the folds of her sari as she spoke to the class. “Mr. Jaya and I are excited to be spending time with all of you. We want this club to be fun and interesting. You shouldn’t think of it as another school class, but as a way to play with English.”
Achala knew that most of the girls in the classroom didn’t understand a word Lucy was saying. Even Achala was a bit confused. She had expected some formal lessons, some extrachallenging work for the best English students from the two schools. Instead, Lucy paired each girl with a boy, told them they were to pretend to be reporters from the Island. They should interview each other and then they would make a report to the class about what they had learned. “That way,” Lucy added, “we can all start to get to know each other.”
Achala wondered if Lucy had purposefully placed her next to Chamila, who was chewing his nails, looking bored. Chamila hadn’t spoken to Achala since the day she hadn’t let him apologize. She took out her notebook.
“How old are you?” Achala began quietly.
“Fourteen.”
“When is your birthday?”
“June twentieth, 1983.”
“What is your favorite sport?”
“Cricket.”
“What is your favorite color?”
“Green.”
Chamila’s answers were clipped; he refused to meet Achala’s eyes. She continued to document Chamila’s one-word answers. “Where were you born?”
“Moratuwa.” Chamila paused. “It’s outside Colombo.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen it from the bus.”
“You’ve been to Colombo?” Chamila looked at Achala.
“Yes. When I was younger, we used to visit my aunt Lakshmi and my uncle Sunil.”
“But you don’t anymore?”
Achala was beginning to feel nervous. She had probably said too much already. “It’s my turn to ask questions.”
“You had your chance. Your questions were boring. Now it’s my turn.” Chamila grabbed Achala’s pencil and ripped out a piece of her notebook paper. “Why don’t you go to Colombo anymore?”
“My family doesn’t live there anymore.” Achala looked around her. All the other students were murmuring in Sinhala mostly, sitting inappropriately close, it seemed to Achala. Lucy and Mr. Jaya were chatting by the window, ignoring the students at work.
“Why not?”
“None of your business. Ask me something else.” Achala folded her arms and looked at her feet.
“What’s your favorite color?” Chamila nudged Achala in the arm.
“Yellow.” She disguised her smile.
“What’s your favorite sport?”
“Netball.”
“Are you good at it?” Chamila teased.
“Not really.”
“Where are your uncle and aunt now?” Chamila’s voice lowered. He looked down at the ripped notebook paper.
Achala paused. She felt suddenly hot and uncomfortable. “My uncle is dead,” Achala whispered as though speaking to her own lap. “And my aunt has disappeared.”
Chamila nodded, crushing the notebook paper into a ball and flicking it onto Achala’s desk.
“My aunt lived with us last year, but now she is gone. My mother won’t speak about it and I don’t even know what questions I want to ask her.” Achala waited for Chamila to help her get out of this conversation. Let him ask me about my favorite classes, she thought. Let him ask me about my favorite Hindi film.
“That’s the problem,” he finally said. “No one ever wants to ask questions.” Neither of them knew what they were going to say when, in a few minutes, they would have to stand up in the front of the room and give their reports.
TWO WEEKS LATER, only seven girls showed up to English Club, and the week after that, only three remained—Achala, Chitra, and Devika. Miss Lelani had yet to visit the club, and Lucy hadn’t even bothered to ask for permission slips at the start of the fourth week. Lucy tried to disguise her nervousness, but Achala could sense her forced enthusiasm when she announced, “Today we’re going to play a game called charades. It will take some of the pressure of conversational English off us for the afternoon and strengthen our acting skills.” Achala wanted to tell Lucy that she was too late, that the girls who struggled with English had already left. “Achala, why don’t you make a team with Nihal, Senaka, Chamila, Dasun, and Raveen? And Devika and Chitra can make a team with the other boys.”
Lucy didn’t realize that by separating Achala from the other girls, she was setting Achala up for even more gossip and rumors. Since the first club meeting, Chitra and Devika had begun teasing Achala about Leel. “How sad Leel must be, so quickly replaced,” they said, giggling. “You and Chamila were having such a private conversation. We wondered if you were setting up a secret meeting place.” Achala knew that these comments weren’t made to her alone; others had started to join Chitra and Devika’s teasing. During lunch, she had heard Mala telling Geethika that she had seen Achala and Chamila walking away from the bus stand together, not in the direction of their houses. This whispered rumor, along with some of the others Achala sensed, were, of course, lies, but Achala worried that if she acknowledged the lies at all, she would make herself look even guiltier.
Lucy emptied a bag onto the floor. Out fell a bunch of props—some of Lucy’s American clothes, Achala’s father’s dress pants and tie, a few sarongs, an eye patch, some ribbon, magazines, sunglasses—all in a muddled heap. “Each team will write down either a book title, a famous movie, a celebrity’s name, or a moment in history. We’ll then trade slips of paper, and the opposite team will try to act out the clues on the paper.”
The teams broke into their circles. Chamila led Achala’s group with authority. “We’ll have to include Jayasuriya, our local cricket hero, and what should we do for history?”
“Independence Day,” Achala offered. Soon she and Chamila were huddled over the same notebook. “And how about Buddha’s climb up Sri Pada?”
“Is there a specific date for that?”
“It’s the August Poya Day. What is that? August twelfth this year?”
Chamila smiled at Achala. “You’re such a nerd, you know?”
“I’m a nerd?” Achala grinned back. “How many runs did Jayasuriya mark in Sri Lanka’s match against Pakistan?”
“Sixty-seven off sixty-two balls,” Chamila answered reluctantly. “So what?” Chamila’s smirk betrayed his mock seriousness. “You’re still the nerd.”
AS THE GAME began, Achala’s team dove into the pile of clothes, the boys throwing Lucy’s dresses over their uniforms when they acted out a scene from a Bollywood film. Achala grabbed at the pile, too, snatching Chamila’s cricket bat when the other team’s clue had also been Jayasuriya. All the students were giggling, swaying to silent Hindi movies, or marching in simulated Independence Day celebrations—all except Chitra and Devika, who stood to the side with small, shy smiles on their faces, their uniforms unadorned by Lucy’s props. Achala sensed that they had been watching her long before she caught their gaze, and that this game would soon become the next rumor, twisted into something shameful and wrong the following day at school.
At the end of club meeting, Lucy reminded the students of their upcoming field trip to Galle Fort. So far, neither Chitra nor Devika had turned in their permission slips. The Galle Fort idea had been Achala’s. She had suggested that they visit the fort museum, walk the circumference of the fort, and then maybe finish the day with some ice cream by the beach. When Lucy had been skeptical, Achala promised she would take care of the details, including asking her cousin for the use of his van and raising money for gasoline. Now, as she watched Chitra and Devika scrutinize the charades game, crafting their distorted stories, she wished she had never thought to bring the club to Galle. A coed field trip out of the watchful gaze of the girls’ school could only fuel the gossip that trailed Achala wherever she went these days.
THE RUMORS WERE worse than Achala imagined. The next afternoon, Madam Principal called Achala into her office. Miss Gayathri stood in the office doorway as Achala approached, shaking her head slowly. “An embarrassment,” she whispered into Achala’s ear. “Madam is not pleased at all.” Achala was already on the brink of tears. Her science teacher had given her a B on her report on photosynthesis. She couldn’t remember the last time a teacher had slashed a B on her paper in angry red ink, and she knew she hadn’t deserved the scolding grade.
When she entered the principal’s office, she quickly bowed to worship Madam’s feet and waited with her head hung low for Madam’s permission to rise. She waited and waited until finally Madam snapped, “Get up! Get up! Enough now.” Achala straightened but kept her eyes focused on the ground. “You look guilty,” Madam observed. “What are you feeling guilty about?”
“Nothing, Madam.” Achala’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Nothing? According to what I’ve been hearing, you should be feeling quite ashamed. This coed English Club, which I believe was your idea, has brought shame to you and to our school. I was informed by some of the other prefects that Miss Lucy had you and the boys exchanging clothes, dressing and undressing in front of one another, and playing the part of movie starlets. They said, specifically, that you were swinging your hips and flirting with the boys, particularly one whom they say you also meet alone after school hours.”
Achala knew better than to interrupt her principal, but the shame and anger that was burning her ears made it impossible to keep silent. “It is not true.”
“Are you calling your classmates liars, then? And Miss Lelani, who also confirmed—”
“But Miss Lelani hasn’t even—”
“Do not interrupt Madam,” Miss Gayathri spat into her ear. Achala felt the frayed edges of the caning stick against her leg.
Madam continued as though no interruption had taken place. “Achala, your behavior is personally shameful, and shameful to the school as well. I forbid you to take part in this English Club, and you will have to give up your prefect status until you earn the school’s trust again.” Madam returned to her chair and started shuffling papers. Without lifting her eyes, she stated flatly, “Leave your badge, and then you may go.”
ACHALA DIDN’T TELL Lucy or her mother about Madam’s decision; she would wait until after the field trip. When her mother asked her about her uniform’s missing badge, Achala explained as best she could, without including any specifics. “I received a B on my science paper, and as a warning, Madam took my badge away until my grades improve,” she had offered. Achala surprised herself with the calmness of her lies. Her mother didn’t question her further, but Achala noticed a trace of confusion in her eyes.
The decision to go forward with the field trip had come just as easily, surprising Achala as she had stared up at her ceiling after lunch. The harm is already done, she counseled herself. I will enjoy this day I have planned and organized, and then I will fix things. She closed her eyes and imagined the movement of the waves hitting the Galle Fort, the whitewashed buildings overlooking the sea. She thought about walking along the footpath with Chamila, pointing out the lighthouse and relating its history, the various Dutch and Portuguese sailors who had used it as a guide hundreds of years ago. She would perhaps also point out the national school up on the far hill and explain that she expected to start there next year, that she had been preparing for it for as long as she could remember. Her daydreams filled her with a sense of friendship that seemed both necessary and impossible. When her eyes opened, she knew she would have to start facing the damage she had done, but for now she sank into the comfort of her make-believe.
ON THE DAY of the field trip, Mr. Jaya got behind the wheel of the van as the boys clambered into the back seats. Lucy waited outside with Achala until her watch hand crept fifteen minutes past the hour of departure.
“Should we go?” Lucy looked at her watch one more time.
“I don’t think anyone else is coming,” Achala answered, and she climbed into the middle front seat.
“What about Chitra and Devika?” Lucy asked, climbing in beside Achala.
“They won’t be coming to club anymore either.”
Lucy glanced at Mr. Jaya, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What to do?” he answered shyly.
“I told you this would happen,” Lucy said. “It’s my fault.”
Achala felt the boys grow silent in the back of the van. She felt that there was a long list of blame for why the club had collapsed around her, but most of it didn’t rest on Lucy. The list included Chitra and Devika, but at the top of it was her own name, proud and selfish and blind. “Please, can we just have a good day and talk about this later?”
“If you’re sure,” Lucy answered, and she nodded at Mr. Jaya, who then pulled the van onto the dusty road. The boys’ voices drifted into the front seat. They were arguing over who would win the World Cup this coming season. Sri Lanka had won it the past year, beating out Australia and India, but both India and Pakistan looked strong this season.
Lucy whispered to Achala, “The girls’ not coming. Is this connected to your prefect badge?”
Achala nodded.
“Does your mother know?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you should come today?”
Achala nodded again.
As they approached the fort, the air grew saltier and the wind swayed the palm trees to and fro. In the distance, the turquoise sea stretched out along the horizon. Except for the fort itself, Galle Road stretched flat, northward and southward. As they entered the break in the stone wall, the national girls’ school, bleached white and many storied, gazed down at them from a hilltop.
THE MUSEUM WAS a bit of a bore. Most of the focus was on the early colonizers—the Portuguese, Malay, and Middle Eastern sailors, the Dutch, and lastly the British, who had stayed the longest. It was here, they read, that different languages twisted around their own, mosques dotted the landscape, and the markets exploded with fish, silks, and spices. Chamila kept close to Achala as they toured the museum’s faded plaques and exhibits.
“Your spies are gone,” Chamila joked.
“Yes.” Achala continued reading about a photograph of an old whaling ship.
“So you can smile.” He nudged her.
“As long as I’m not at school or thinking about my scholarship, I’m happy to smile all day long.” She turned from the plaque. “You can ask me any questions you like later, but for now, let’s try to persuade Lucy to take us to the water for a sea bath.”
Between the two of them, it was easy to persuade Lucy to journey down the beach to Unawatuna, a quiet bay south of Galle. Here, there were fewer tourists and it was easy to sit by the water, sip some sweetened lime juice, and dip your feet into the calm ocean. Achala sat down with Lucy as Mr. Jaya took the boys into the water for a swim. They dove into the water fully dressed, only their shoes and socks discarded along the dry stretch of sand. Achala knew that Lucy wanted to join them—she kept waving at their splashing laughter—but she was a good friend and wouldn’t abandon her little sister. Silently they watched the local fishermen step along the distant reef, looking for bright, sparkly fish to sell to the local hotels. Achala suddenly stood up. “Let’s go for a swim, too!”
“But do you know how?”
“You can teach me.” Achala had already started walking to the water. The white sand burned the bottoms of her feet as she stepped between discarded shells and seaweed. The boys started cheering and clapping, appearing and disappearing between the occasional waves. Her whole body felt as if it were smiling back at them, these silly boys who only thought of cricket and different ways to tease her. She waved and kicked the water in their direction.
Lucy gathered up the ends of her dress and charged straight into the water. She dove headfirst, kicking up her pink feet. In a few moments, her head appeared alongside Chamila’s, who laughed and nodded, looking in Achala’s direction. Soon the two appeared at Achala’s side, Chamila on her left, Lucy on her right. They guided her toward the water until her knees were covered by the sea and her dress billowed up around her. The water was slightly cooler than the air and carried bits of sand and shells that tickled the tops of her thighs.
Instantly a larger wave approached them, and Achala’s mouth was suddenly filled with salt, her eyes stung by a murky cloud of silty water. She gasped, certain that she was about to drown. But then, just as quickly, she was on her back, riding gently on the surface of the sea. The sun pressed in on her closed eyelids, making the world orange and yellow. She felt the slightest pressure of hands beneath her back, under her thighs. She couldn’t be certain whom they belonged to—perhaps Lucy, perhaps Chamila, or perhaps it was just the grip of the waves themselves, carrying her in some unknown direction.