Operation Oleander (9780547534213) by Valerie O. Patterson Page B

“Jess,” he says.
    But his dad doesn’t react. My words bounce off him like small pebbles pinging against armor.
    â€œWe’ll give you a ride home,” Commander Butler says. “Mrs. Butler’s ordered an ice cream detour.”
    He means to offer me an olive branch.
    I don’t take it. “Mrs. Johnson’s waiting for me over on the next block. I’d better go. Thank you.” I make myself turn and walk away.
    â€œSee you later, Jessica,” Commander Butler says.
    I wince.
    â€œDad.” I hear Sam’s voice. “Jess. Her name’s Jess. Did we have to talk about this today?”
    I walk faster because I don’t want to hear anything else Commander Butler has to say about me or the operation. I should be glad for Sam to even question his dad.
    It doesn’t help.
    Â 
    That night, after Cara goes to sleep, I wander into the living room because Mrs. Johnson’s talking back to the television.
    â€œGet a load of this,” she says, waving at the local news channel like an angry hockey fan. “What a bunch of hooey.”
    â€œWhat?”
    She edges up the volume. “Last week we reported on the deaths and injuries of U.S. soldiers in Kabul when a car bomb exploded outside an orphanage near the market,” says the newscaster. “Now allegations have surfaced among Afghani witnesses. They say they not only saw soldiers tossing toys and pencils to children but that at least one of the soldiers threw something right before the larger bomb exploded. One witness alleges it was a grenade. During the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, decades ago, bombs made to look like toys were responsible for the dismemberment and/or death of thousands of children. Other witnesses deny the soldiers did anything wrong and say they are victims in the same way the orphanage is.”
    â€œThat’s right. Those other ‘witnesses’ are lying.” I find myself speaking to the reporter as if he can hear me. Just like Mrs. Johnson’s doing.
    Mrs. Johnson turns up the volume even more.
    I plop onto the couch.
    The news anchor continues. “Locals familiar with the orphanage say that, if nothing else, the Americans are to blame for the orphanage becoming a target. At least five children and an Afghan teacher were killed, in addition to the U.S. casualties.”
    Five children. My head swirls as I try to conjure the faces of the children at the orphanage. No word yet on Warda. Sam said he would let me know. Does he mean it? But five children. That’s the first word we’ve heard on casualties at the orphanage.
    An Afghani man speaks on camera. “This is how America works. It’s as bad as if they bombed the building themselves. We want to be paid fairly for the damage caused by the U.S.”
    Another man pipes up behind him. “The soldiers kill the children.”
    â€œWe didn’t bomb the orphanage,” I say. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”
    â€œOf course not, Jess,” Mrs. Johnson says. “This is what I mean. It doesn’t pay to meddle. To do something good. Foreigners don’t appreciate it.”
    My eyes sting as though from smoke. It’s horrible enough that the explosion killed Meriwether’s mother and Private Davis and injured Dad. How can anyone blame the unit? They were trying to do something good. It doesn’t make any sense.
    The camera cuts back to the announcer at the news desk. She’s wearing a pink blouse and lipstick the shade of cotton candy. She peers into the camera as if she’s selling cosmetics, not hard-hitting news.
    â€œWe’re waiting for information from the general on the ground. So far, ‘no comment’ is all we’ve been told. On background, we’ve been advised that they’ll wait for an investigation to review what happened. But, off the record, U.S. officials categorically deny any wrongdoing. The investigation is intended to