Ship of Souls

Martin beams at me like she always does before setting a bowl of oatmeal and steaming milk on the table. Mercy’s gurgling contentedly in her carrier.
    “Brown sugar or maple syrup?” Mrs. Martin asks.
    I want to ask for maple syrup, but Mrs. Martin pays a lot for the small jugs they sell at the farmers’ market. I don’t feel right pouring it on thick like the cheap syrup my mom used to buy at the supermarket, and I like my oatmeal sweet. So instead, Perfect-me says, “Brown sugar, please.”
    Mrs. Martin brings the sugar bowl over to me. “You weren’t in the basement last night, were you, D?”
    “The basement? No, ma’am.” Why would I go down there? It’s damp and creepy and full of cobwebs and scurrying things.
    “I came down this morning, and there was a dreadful draft—somehow the basement door came open during the night.”
    Just then icy air wafts into the room, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I glance over at the door leading into the basement, but it’s shut tight and the bolt has been slid into place. I stir a lump of brown sugar into my oatmeal and try to remember more about the dream I had last night. Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. Could I have opened the door to the basement while sleepwalking? I’ve never walked in my sleep before, but these days a lot of things are happening to me that have never happened before.
    After breakfast I rush upstairs to ask the bird about my bad dream, but when I reach my room, she’s too tired to talk. “Keep me close,” is all she says before closing her eyes and falling asleep once more. I carefully slip her into the inside pocket of my coat. Then I grab my book bag and head back downstairs. Before leaving for school, I check the bolt on the basement door and make a mental note to ask the bird more about whatever it is that’s hunting her.

8.
    I t’s Thursday. After my second tutoring session with Keem, I come out of the library and Nyla’s there waiting for me. “About time,” she says, rolling her eyes with pretend irritation. “What took you so long?”
    “Sorry,” I say. “I—I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”
    Nyla pushes herself off the wall and nods at the golden bird she’d been leaning against. The façade of the library is covered with gold images of people and creatures from famous stories. Nyla chose the phoenix rising from the flames. “You said you were going to show me your bird-watching spot, remember?”
    “Oh, yeah.” I look at Keem and figure I better introduce him to Nyla. “You know Keem, right?”
    Nyla gives Keem a once-over with her eyes and then says, “Hey.”
    “Hey,” he replies without revealing a trace of the excitement I know he must be feeling inside.
    “So…I guess I’ll see you next week, Keem. On Tuesday.”
    Before Keem can reply, Nyla taunts him by saying, “I guess a jock like you is way too cool to look at birds.”
    Keem smiles without smiling. Only super cool kids can do that.
    “If you’re going over to the park, I’ll hang with you for a while. I can’t stay too late, though.” Keem looks at me and says, “ Qadaa .”
    I nod, liking that he trusts me to remember the word’s meaning. But apparently it’s not a secret after all because Nyla says, “You’re Muslim?”
    Keem nods, but I see him grow tense, waiting for the joke or the insult that’s to come.
    “Which mosque do you go to?” Nyla asks, surprising us both.
    “The one on Fulton Street. Know it?”
    “Sure,” Nyla replies as she leads us down the stairs and over to the street. “My girl goes to that mosque. Sanaa Jenkins—you know her?”
    Keem nods. “Since we were little kids.”
    “She says you were a real hell-raiser back in the day.”
    Keem looks genuinely surprised. “Me? I don’t think so. My dad doesn’t play that. Ask D—he knows what my dad’s like.”
    Nyla turns to me for confirmation. “I only met Mr. Diallo once, but…he seems pretty strict,” I say.
    “You don’t know strict ’til you’ve met my dad,” she says before darting across the street and nearly getting hit by a car.
    Keem and I wait for the traffic to pass and catch up with Nyla. She’s standing on the triangular island that divides the busy street. I grab hold of her bag to keep her from rushing out into traffic again.
    I’m holding Nyla’s bag, but Keem’s the one holding her attention. They’re still talking about all the things Sanaa Jenkins said about Keem. I hate to think it, but