the two levels Read online

  “Look, Daddy,” I say, pointing to the map. “We’re about to jump off the cliff into the water.”

  “Yep. Okay, sweetheart,” he says.

  Suddenly, I go from happy to sad—whoosh. It happens to me sometimes.

  “Do you think I’ll ever get to use my seat cushion like a flotation device?” I ask.

  Daddy looks at me for a while without saying anything. I feel weird when he gives me that look—it seems like he forgets who I am and he’s trying to figure it out. Right now, his face looks daddled, which is my word for when Dad gets addled, which means confused.

  “Lord, Jasmine. I hope not,” he says finally.

  I get confused about what he’s not hoping.

  “Hope not what?” I ask.

  Daddy keeps on staring daddled at me.

  “I hope you don’t ever have to use it,” he says.

  I’m not sure what he means. “Use what?”

  “Lord have mercy, Jasmine. Seriously? Your seat cushion. I hope you don’t ever have to use your seat cushion as a floatation device.”

  I wait, hoping for more explanation—I can’t think of a reason why he wouldn’t want me to float with my seat cushion. Well, maybe if it gets wet and doesn’t dry right, mold will grow inside and then it’ll be ruined. That could be the reason.

  “Why do you hope I can’t use it?” I ask.

  Daddy waits a long time to answer.

  “I can’t believe you’re for real sometimes,” he says finally. “Sweetheart, do you understand what it means if you have to use it?” He sounds like he’s not feeling very patient right now.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer.

  I’m also not sure why Daddy keeps saying “have to use it” instead of “get to use it.”

  “You know what? Never mind,” he says. “I hear you—you want to use your flotation device some day. I don’t know, honey. I don’t know when you’ll be able to, okay? Maybe someday. I’m sorry.”

  After that, Daddy says some more things that I don’t hear—I’m too busy looking at the TV screen. Soon, I notice that he’s stopped talking, so I tug at his sleeve and point at the map on the screen. I want to show him the line forming behind the little plane. It’s pretty funny.

  “Check it out, Daddy,” I say when he finally looks. “It’s like the plane is a flying magic marker. Stop that, plane! Don’t you know you can’t draw graffiti, especially on a continent! Stop! It’s against the law!”

  • • •

  I hear a gigantic thump like the landing gear just popped out of the plane’s belly and then an alarm goes off. Bee-boo bee-boo bee-boo. The surprise makes my heart start jumping around my body like a frog trapped in a glass jar.

  I reach out and grab Momma’s arm, gripping it tight. The plane starts to roar and hiss like the ocean waves crashing, and then the ceiling suddenly opens up and sprouts a thousand jellyfish tentacles, coiling and whipping back and forth, trying to take us all away. Before I can jump out of my seat and run, Momma grabs the squirming tentacle above me and pushes the rubbery suction cup over my face, smothering my mouth and nose as I try to scream.

  Chapter Two

  They weren’t jellyfish tentacles, after all.

  They were actually clear plastic air masks to help us breathe—I figured that out later.

  Here’s what happened: The plane got a hole in its body somewhere, which is a really bad thing for a plane. So instead of flying across the ocean, we had to do a U-turn in the air and fly back to the left side of Africa. We landed in a city called Freetown—that’s in a country I’d never heard of called Sierra Leone.

  • • •

  You don’t really get to be free in Freetown.

  At least I don’t get to be. That’s what I know about Sierra Leone so far.

  Right now, I’m sitting on the hard shiny floor of the Freetown airport, and I’m not allowed to move around because Mom and Dad said not to. I don’t even get to go exploring in the hallways like I usually get to do when I’m at the airport.

  So, here’s what I do instead:

  I play video games on the computer until I get bored.

  I look at the people walking by. I see a lot of kids—some from our plane and some not from our plane—which is fun for a little while, but then it makes me wish that I could walk around too.

  I watch Mom and Dad; they’re sitting in chairs next to a giant window that looks out onto the runways—even though it’s nighttime, I can see the white planes parked outside. They’re arguing with each other. Not the planes, silly—my mom and dad. They’re having a conflict about something.

  I’m patient for what seems like hours, but then the millipedes fill me all the way up and I can’t keep them from escaping.

  “Why can’t we go home?” I ask.

  Daddy stops what he’s saying and stares at me. He doesn’t look daddled anymore; he looks maddled.

  “We can,” he says. “Just not this second.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You know why,” Momma says.

  That’s true, actually—I know that the plane broke down—but I’m hoping something is different now that a hundred hours have passed.

  “So why can’t they just fix the plane?” I ask.

  “They can. Just not this second,” Dad answers. “Not everything can happen the moment you want it to, Jasmine. Life doesn’t work that way. You should know that already.”

  “So let’s just get on a different plane.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, baby,” Momma says. “We’re trying to figure out a new plan. Can you help Daddy and me with problem solving?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I think about the problem for a long time.

  “Maybe we could go on another safari,” I say.

  • • •

  There are no safaris in Sierra Leone.

  At least not for me.

  I cry about the No-Safari problem, even though Dad uses his Stern Voice to get me to stop—I can’t help it. Then Mom and Dad both start talking to me at once, but their voices sound like the airplane roaring after it got a hole in it. I put my hands tight over my ears.

  • • •

  Momma takes me to the bathroom because I’m crying too much to be around other people. I might have to go pee, too; I’m not sure.

  The bathroom is empty. We go into the first stall, but it has the kind of toilet that flushes really loud.

  “I don’t want this one,” I say, wiping my nose with my shirt sleeve.

  Momma makes a big sigh.

  “Okay, hon. Which one do you want?”

  I walk out of the bad stall and go to the next one. I look inside—it has the same loud toilet.

  “I don’t want this one,” I say.

  “Can I ask what the problem is?”

  “I just don’t want it.”

  “Does the pee-pee on the seat bother you?” Momma asks. “It’s normal, hon. Sometimes we have to clean a little before sitting.”

  “I just don’t want to,” I say.

  Momma goes into the stall, unrolls some toilet paper, and scrunches it into a ball. She wipes the seat off and drops the toilet paper ball in the water.

  “Don’t flush it, Momma,” I say. I start to cry again; I don’t want to, but I can’t help it.

  Momma makes another toilet paper ball. She comes out of the stall and wipes my nose and eyes. Before she can finish, I snatch the toilet paper from her hand and throw it down on the tile.

  The five-second rule passes. Momma puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s okay, hon,” she says.

  But Momma is wrong; it isn’t okay. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be at home.

  “You’re tired,” Momma says. “I know. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  I wipe my nose with my shirt sleeve again. “Heck, you mean.”

  “Heck of a day,” Momma says, nodding.

  She turns around and goes to the sink. She looks at herself in the mirror,
takes a few bobby pins out of her hair, and puts them in between her front teeth. Then she picks up a long strand of loose hair and re-pins it.

  I watch Momma fix her hair, pinning loose strands one by one. Soon I’m not crying anymore.

  “I want mine done too,” I say.

  Momma finishes putting in the last pin and waves me over.

  “Okay,” she says.

  I stand in front of Momma so that we’re overlapping in the mirror.

  “We’re like nesting dolls,” I say.

  Momma smiles at me through the mirror. “Nested dolls,” she says. “Yep, we sure are.” Her hands are fiddling around with my hair, but it doesn’t hurt at all.

  We’re both quiet while she makes my hair look almost just like hers, only yellower. All I can hear is the vent on the ceiling making a quiet hum.

  “There,” Momma says. She puts her hands on my cheeks from behind and kisses the top of my head.

  I look at myself and I look at Momma, and then I go back and forth between us a few times. My skin is a lot lighter than hers, but I still look pretty, I think.

  “If we were nesting dolls in real life,” I ask, “would that mean you ate me?”

  Momma smiles. “It sure would,” she answers. Then—really fast—she puts her face in the ticklish area on my neck underneath my ear and pretends to gobble me up.

  I laugh really, really hard.

  The sound echoes.

  • • •

  When we get back to our spot by the window, Daddy is spreading out a red blanket on the floor.

  He smiles big when he sees us.

  My mom rushes over to him, towing me along like I’m a kite.

  “Good news,” Dad says. “They’ve got a plane for us.”

  “Thank God,” Momma says.

  Mom and Dad hug each other. I get sandwiched in the middle.

  “But we’ll have to spend the night here,” Dad says.

  “Where?” I ask.

  Dad spreads his arms out wide. “Here. On the floor or on the chairs, whichever you want. We need to be ready to jump whenever the plane is ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I ask.

  “To take off, hon,” Momma answers, patting my head.

  I smile. I start running in circles around and around Mom and Dad, my arms stretched out like wings.

  “And then we’re going back home!” I shout.

  Momma, Daddy and I work together to build a Family Nest using our sweatshirts and blankets from the airplane. Daddy blows up his inflatable travel pillow and then he blows up Momma’s. He offers to give me his pillow but I shake my head no. I don’t want an inflatable pillow—it makes my head feel too high.

  “You can have it,” I say.

  Daddy looks at me with a tight-lipped smile and nods his head. “That’s my big girl,” he says.

  I’m not sure why he said that, but I decide not to ask.

  Daddy leans down until our foreheads touch. “I’m proud of you, Jazzy,” he says.

  I think maybe he’s proud because I’m staying quiet. I’m not sure, but I don’t ask—I don’t want to jinx it.

  • • •

  For dinner I eat Turkey Jerky, dried apricot slices, Doritos, and trail mix from the gift shop—that’s all Momma buys.

  After that, it’s time to go to bed. Actually, it’s more like time to go to floor.

  I’m busy getting comfy in our Family Nest when I see a dark-skinned man wearing a light-blue airport uniform walking toward us. He’s holding three small brown zippered pouches, which he gives to my dad. It’s amazing. We don’t even have to pay for them!

  You know what else? I get to have my own pouch!

  When I unzip it, I find a toothbrush, a tiny toothpaste tube, a nail file, a needle and thread in a little folding packet, a black comb, a small can of shaving cream, and a blue plastic razor.

  While I’m checking out my new things, Daddy climbs out of the nest and stands up.

  “Come on, babe,” he says.

  I look at Momma and then at him. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” he says. “Let’s go to the bathroom. Come on.”

  “I already went.”

  “I know, sweetheart. But we need to brush those teeth of yours, right? Now that we have the means,” he says.

  “What are ‘the means?’”

  Daddy pauses. “I’m not really sure how to explain it,” he says. “The right stuff, I guess.”

  “But I don’t want to do that.”

  “I know, sweetheart. But remember all that sugar you had on the plane? Yes? Well, right now that sugar is busy eating up your pearly whites—I think I can hear the little grains of sugar munching away at your smile right now.”

  I scoff at him. That’s an actual word: scoff. Did you know that?

  “Actually, the sugar doesn’t even know how to eat,” I explain. “The problem is the bacteria that eat up the sugar. Because when they’re done eating, they pee out acid—that’s what burns holes in your teeth. It’s not the sugar’s fault.”

  Daddy smiles. “That’s my girl.” He claps his hands one time. “Now come on—let’s get this thing done.”

  Daddy and I walk over to the boys’ bathroom. I hate going anywhere near the boys’ bathroom—it smells horrible and always will, so I’ll never change my mind about it—but my dad says we have to.

  We stop at the door. Daddy pushes it open and leans inside for a few seconds.

  “All right,” he says. “We’re good. Come on.”

  Daddy goes in first, then I follow him. It stinks like a dead skunk inside, especially when I get too close to the white pee-pee stations along the wall, but the smell isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

  We go up to the sink and I stand in front of Daddy. I look at our reflections, going back and forth from his face to my face.

  Daddy smiles at me through the mirror. “Chip off the old block,” he says.

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “What block?” I ask.

  “You’ve never heard that one? It’s an expression. A thing grownups like to say sometimes.”

  I think about the expression for a while, but it doesn’t really help. Chip off the old block?

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  “Okay. It’s like this: I’m the block, for starters.”

  “The old block.”

  Daddy smiles again. “Yes. The old block,” he says. “I’m the old block, and you’re the chip that came off of me. Like we took a chisel and broke you off.”

  I think about that for a few seconds.

  “But I don’t want to be just a broken piece. I want to be a block too.”

  “It’s not meant to be a bad thing, sweetheart,” Daddy says. “The expression just means that we’re similar, you and me. Does that make sense?”

  I don’t answer; I take my time thinking about whether it makes sense or not.

  I look at my dad’s face again, then at my own face.

  His skin is much paler than mine, but some parts of his face do look a lot like my face.

  Soon I make a decision. “I’m not just one chip,” I say. “I’m a few chips off the old block, glued together into a brand new block.”

  Daddy looks a little bit daddled. “Okay,” he says.

  “My nose is one chip. My chin is one chip. My ears are two chips.”

  Daddy nods his head. “Sounds good. You’re a bunch of chips off the old block, all put together into one.”

  “What about Momma—is she an old block too?”

  “No. Definitely not.” He shakes his head. “This is just a you and me thing, Jas. You can’t go around calling your mom an old block. Okay?”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Just trust me,” he answers. “Now let’s get down to business.” Daddy reaches into his back pocket and brings out one of the zippered pouches. He rests it on top of my head and starts to open it.

  “Wait,” I say. “Is that mine?”

  “The kit?”<
br />
  I point to the brown pouch he’s holding. “That one. Is it mine?”

  Daddy shrugs. “What does it matter, sweetheart? They’re all brand new, and they’re all exactly the same.”

  “But I want mine,” I tell him.

  Daddy makes a big sigh, takes the toothbrush and toothpaste out of the pouch and sets the pouch down on the counter. He unscrews the cap on the toothpaste tube and squirts a blob of toothpaste onto the bristles.

  “Open,” he says.

  “But I want mine.”

  “Sweetheart. They’re all the same. What difference does it make which one you have?”

  I don’t understand what Daddy means. Of course it makes a difference. One pouch is mine and the other pouches aren’t mine.

  “Okay, look,” Daddy says. “It sounds like this is important to you. So if you want to go get your kit, go ahead.”

  “I want you to get it.”

  Daddy shakes his head. “No way, Jas.” He turns on the faucet and wets the toothbrush. “I’ll wait for you right outside the restroom door so I can see you the whole time.”

  I pause to think about Daddy’s idea. I really want my own pouch, but I also really don’t want to go get it by myself.

  “All right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I can just use yours.”