“As if you don’t already.”
“Hmm, good point.”
:•─.•─:•─.•─:•☾☼☽•:─•.─•:─•.─•:
I lean against the couch and toss a piece of popcorn into my mouth. The lounge room is silent, except for the film projected onto the white wall. I almost don’t notice when Amias steals from my popcorn bag.
“Have you never seen this before?” He whispers.
“Nope,” I hiss back.
He nods, “It’s a good one.”
“Yeah, I’m figuring that out. Get your own popcorn.”
“Why?” Amias chuckles, digging in my bag. “It’s so much more fun to steal from you.”
“Rude,” I bat his hand.
He doesn’t bother to answer or defend himself. He turns forward, watching the film. I stare at him, momentarily distracted. Golly, Tarni. I hold in a sigh. You are a complete goner for this boy. Head-over-heels.
Unfortunately, I can’t be mad about it—which is proof of how he has messed with my head. So much for plans, remaining detached, and not becoming friends with anyone.
My sigh escapes me. Amias stops stealing my popcorn.
“All right, all right, I’ll get my own,” he stands up.
“What?” I frown. “Oh, yeah. You do that.”
“Tarni . . . you good?” His forehead furrows.
“Everyone keeps asking that,” I avoid his gaze.
“Maybe there’s a good reason.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you when I find out.”
He brushes a piece of my hair behind my ear, “All right. Promise?”
“Yes,” I squeeze his hand.
He smiles so gently my stomach feels like it’s floating and walks towards the popcorn machine—provided by the resort.
Oh, no. I watch Amias walk away. I can’t feel bad about liking him, even if I wish I could stop.
I face the film, munching on my popcorn. An older boy faces off in an argument with the main character’s sister, and my half-pleasant musing fades away. The older boy sneers, and my stomach lurches. My hands start shaking. My ears buzz until I can’t hear what the characters are saying.
I can only watch.
The boy catches the girl’s hand when she tries to slap him. He leans forward, speaking in a low voice. My heart beats like it's trapped. I shut my eyes, trying to shake off my unease. I open my eyes. The older boy smirks and steps back from the girl. He runs a hand through his curly hair.
My popcorn bag slips out of my hands. I stand and hurry out of the room. I run into the cool night air, gasping. My hands refuse to stop shaking. I take several steps onto the grass before my knees give out. I cry out and huddle on the ground. Holding myself.
What on earth is going on?
I rub my throat. It feels like someone strangled me. My eyes dart around, searching for enemies in the darkness. I take fistfuls of grass in my hands. I bite down on my tongue. Hard. Then I bite it again. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
“Ow,” I grind my hands into the grass. “Ow.”
Tears clog my voice. My heart pounds harder. Relentless. I spit blood into the grass.
Luke.
My lip trembles worse than my hands. I hug myself, squeezing my eyes shut.
Three times. That’s how many times he cornered me, talking about things I didn’t understand at ten. Or at eleven. At fourteen, I knew better.
But it was too late then.
He never hurt me. He never touched me. He just . . . stared at me with those too-bright eyes and that smirk touching his lips. And I let him vent nasty things. I should’ve known better. I should have told someone. I should have stopped him. But I was foolish, ignorant, and . . . sinful? And I let him use my ears for his . . . I don’t even know.
He might have gotten better if I’d stopped him. If I’d stopped him, he might have learned. But I was silent. I enabled him.
Don’t think about it. I swallow a sob. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. It happened. You can’t change that. But you must make sure it never happens again. Never. Never. Never.
My jaw tenses. I take deep breaths, wishing my hands would stop shaking. I stare up at the night sky. Stars burn brightly, millions of lightyears away. See? In the scope of the universe, your failure doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
My heartache worsens. I sprawl out on the grass, still gazing at the stars. I can’t be content, can I? When I say it matters, I cry. When I say it doesn’t, I cry?
What happened to not thinking about it?
I sigh, clenching grass in my hands again. I stare at the stars, but my mind hovers on the film scene.
“Tarni?”
Genevieve. I sit up and brush the grass out of my hair.
“Yeah?” My voice trembles despite myself.
I wait for the too-familiar question. “Are you okay? All right? Good? Doing well?”
“You dropped your popcorn,” Genevieve walks over, carrying my popcorn bag. “Thankfully, most of it stayed in the bag.”
She holds it out.
“Thanks,” I offer her a slight smile, taking it.
She sits beside me. We don’t speak for several moments. I eat a piece of popcorn, and my tongue burns.
“Do you want me to sit out here with you?” Genevieve sets a hand on my shoulder.
I hesitate but nod.
“But you don’t want to talk?”
I shake my head.
“All right,” she sits crisscross.
Together, we look at the stars and ignore the laughter from inside. And the moon feels a little brighter.
Chapter Ten: Rose-Colored Past
“I’m so glad we get to be in prayer groups as roomies!” Maya punches the air. “Finally! I wish they would have done this all along. I’m much more comfortable with you, girls.”
“I liked their idea of switching things up. But I am glad we get to be together for once,” Genevieve runs a hand through her ponytail.
Five days have passed since my embarrassing film-freak-out. I’m as confused as I was then. Genevieve told everyone to leave me alone and spared me from more fumbled guesses and answers. I have signed up for the skit that Lena is organizing, played more games, and tried my hardest not to overthink . . . everything.
Everything.
We sit on the beach, in a curve of the bay. A bent tree trunk serves Maya as her seat. And Abi, Genevieve, and I make ourselves comfortable on a tablecloth spread over the sand. I adjust my glasses.
“Does anyone else find the topic a little cliché?” I gesture to the notes Jeff had given us.
“Bullying?” Abi nods her head from side to side. “I don’t know. It’s something most TCKs experience at some point.”
“If anything, ‘bullying’ is too weak a word,” Maya’s face darkens. “My little brother went to a football pitch once, and the boys spit on him until my dad stepped in.”
I grimace, “Oof, why?”
“Because he’s white, which they assume means Christian, which they assume means colonizer-minded.”
“Yeah,” Abi tugs on her box braids. “Because we look Congolese, a lot of people are suspicious of us. Why did we come back? Why did we leave our lives in America? Are we criminals on the run?”
Genevieve nods, “I don’t experience . . . that where we live. But I have been betrayed by friends. And that hurts as much as being bullied.”
Maya pats Genevieve’s shoulder, “How about you, Tarni?”
“Umm,” I look down at the sand. “Let me think about it.”
“Sure. We can go ahead and dive into the questions anyway,” Abi picks up the papers and clears her throat. “‘What’s a time you have felt less-than?’”
“Ugh. My first time back to the USA,” Genevieve makes a face.
“What happened?” I sit up straighter, thinking of my re-entry to the States.
“At first, I was everyone’s favorite show, then they lost interest i
n me. I had never lived there long enough to make any close friends, so I was left alone for the next three months. Until we moved to visit my grandparents.”
“Ouch,” Abi puffs out her cheeks. “For me . . . I was ten the first time a guy catcalled me. Something about that—particularly the first time—it sticks with you. And it was in . . . the capital city. A white tourist.”
Maya toes the sand, “ . . . yeah, I think all of our ‘bullying’ experiences are more like traumatic events. Should I list the time a kid tried to set my hair on fire?”
“What?!” We stare at her bug-eyed.
“Oh yeah. This six-year-old had never seen blonde hair before and tried to light it up. I don’t blame him. He was six, his mom had like fifteen other children, and he’d never seen hair like mine before. Still, it was . . . intense.”
“Wow,” I bite my lip. “I have nothing that compares to that.”
“It wasn’t that traumatic. Just scary for the moment. It’s kinda funny now,” Maya grins.
I narrow my eyes, wondering if she’s gone insane.
“I dunno. That sounds pretty horrific,” Abi shudders.
“I was ten. I recovered fine. I am homeschooled, so I haven’t ever been bullied, really,” Maya purses her lips. “No. I take that back. There was this one older girl who was struggling and took it out by pointing out every one of my faults. I was twelve, y’all, and crying every day she was around.”
“Yeah, that counts,” Genevieve snorts, running her hand through the sand. “We all have baggage.”
“It doesn’t affect me anymore. But those are my bullying experiences!” Maya holds up a peace-sign and sticks out her tongue.
We laugh.
“Your turn,” Abi gestures to me. “What’s a time you have felt ‘less-than?’”
My forehead furrows. I shift through my mental rack of “not-fun times.”
“There was one time . . . it doesn’t count as bullying because it was my friends. But we were hanging out in Everly’s living room, and the boys were teasing me a ton. Telling me I was stupid and that I didn’t know anything. We were all laughing, so they couldn’t tell how hurt I was,” I lick my lips.
“They still should’ve known,” Abi shakes her head. “How old were you?”
“Umm, thirteen? I think? Anyway, I picked up a candlestick and jabbed at one of the boys. But my friend Everly yelled at me for touching it—because we weren’t supposed to. The boys kept chanting my stupidity, so I burst into tears. Instead of apologizing, they mocked me. But Luke -.” I cut myself off and swallow. “Luke told them to stop and apologize.”
See, Luke was a good person. You’re the one who -.
Stop.
“Aw, Tarni,” Genevieve puts her arm around me. “You aren’t—and weren’t—stupid or overdramatic. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Yeah, I guess their . . . harshness stuck,” I frown at my feet.
Are incidents like that the reason I think I’m overdramatic, annoying, and stupid? If so, have I been right all this time? My heart stutters a bit. Or did they fail to see me for who I am, even after so many years of living together?
Is there beauty in me? And why do I doubt there is? Why do I feel the need to be validated by other people? Why am I never content with the idea that I am still growing? Why do I give grace to other people so generously that it’s almost a problem, but never to myself?
“Earth to Tarni,” Maya waves her hand in front of my face.
I jump, “What? Oh, sorry. Sorry.”
“You’re good,” Abi waves it off.
Genevieve keeps staring at me, “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?” I avoid her gaze.
“The one of confused misery and turmoil.”
“Ouch, Vive.”
“You know what I mean,” Genevieve takes my hand. “Can you tell us what is wrong?”
I gaze out at the ocean. My roommates are silent; the papers and questions lay forgotten.
“I don’t know. Every part of this camp has brought goodness and joy, but also . . . confusion and pain. I thought . . . ,” I rake my hands through my hair. “I thought if I reconnected with my old friends, everything would be perfect. But now . . . I don’t know. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
I clench my jaw and flex my hands. So dramatic!
“That’s a good place to be,” Abi promises me. “When you don’t know who you are, you are about to find out. It can be painful -. It is painful, but there’s joy on the other side.”
“You’ve felt the same way?” I lift my gaze.
“Everyone has, many times. We are complex, ever-changing, ever-growing people. It shouldn’t surprise us. But when we make comfort, safety, or stability—which are all good things—our goals, we are often primed for the opposite.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Abi shrugs, “Just because something aches and takes work doesn’t mean it is bad. I think you are having growing pains, Tarni Bird. Don’t fight them any longer.”
I look at her for several long moments. Then stare out at the ocean. I take a deep breath.
“I wish growing didn’t take hurting.”
“No one wants it to,” Maya snorts. “But it does. And our task is to accept it as gracefully as possible.”
“For the people around you -,” Genevieve squeezes my hand, “- our task is to love you, remind you that you have grown, and give you a hug when the world feels overwhelming.”
My throat aches as I look at my dear, dear friends. I give a watery chuckle.
“I love you, girls.”
“We love you, too,” Abi pulls me into her arms.
Genevieve pounces on us. And Maya. We laugh, and Abi and I crumple under the combined weight.
“Golly,” I pull myself out, wiping my eyes. “No need to kill us.”
“You would’ve died happy!” Maya cheers morbidly.
Abi, Genevieve, and I swap exasperated frowns. Abi picks up the papers.
“All right,” she brushes the sand off of them. “Let’s keep going.”
She continues reading, and I stare at the water. I don’t want to leave, but it’s worse than that. I won’t find this sense of belonging back home. I study each of my friends’ faces. But . . . maybe . . . just maybe . . . knowing them is worth the pain.
:•─.•─:•─.•─:•☾☼☽•:─•.─•:─•.─•:
I follow Rachelle and Lena into the lounge room. After dinner, Lena stood up and yelled for all her skit actors to gather. Thus, the place is as loud as ever—though less full. Lena leads the way towards the front, aiming for one of the leaders. I frown and glance at Rachelle.
“Lena writes our skit every year,” Rachelle whispers. “So she gets a lot of say in what we do.”
I nod. I spot Genevieve near the middle of the room, sitting beside a good-looking Korean boy. Her crush—if I remember right. I wave, and Genevieve waves back.
“All right, everyone,” the leader—Miss Jan—claps her hands and walks to the front of the group. “You know why you’re here, but let me go over it real quick. Every year, on the night before the last day of camp, we have a display for the parents who come to pick you up. We show photos, sing several songs, and of course, you kids perform a skit.”
We smile, waiting for her to get beyond the unnecessary introduction. Even the kids like me who haven’t been here before have heard about the skit night. It has a place of fame in the hearts of the “old-timers.”
“We have a large crew this year, so I want ideas that use everyone. Is there anyone here who doesn’t want lines or to be on stage?” Miss Jan asks.
A few hands lift. Miss Jan counts them in a murmur and gives a thumbs-up.
“Great, thank you. Now, as before, Lena will be writing this skit. So she will be deciding which ideas are worthy of notice or not.”
Lena clears her throat, “Yes, and actually, I talked with Ellie earlier today. She had a cool concept. Do you want to share, Ellie?�
�
“Sure!” Ellie stands up from the back. “Yeah, we were just discussing all the dumb questions TCKs get asked -.”
Groans fill the room, and I heave my eyes to the ceiling. I once described the dress code of my country (it’s predominately Muslim) to a girl in Georgia. And she was shocked because she didn’t think people wore clothes in Africa. Ellie holds out her hands in a sweeping bow.
“Precisely. Anyway, I just thought we could run with that. Like have a TCK main character who’s just arrived back in the USA or their home country, and they are getting asked all these lame questions,” Ellie sits back down.
“Thank you, Ellie. So, does anyone have objections? Contributions?” Lena traces the crowd with her pen.
I put my hand up.
“Tarni?” Lena winks at me.
“Just . . . the main character could recruit a bunch of fellow TCKs to downgrade the USA to a “developing” country for payback,” I offer, feeling silly.
“No. Upgrade,” Kelly smirks.
Everyone laughs. Lena nods, scribbling on her notebook.
“Then we could show a bunch of dumb Americans trying to transition to life African style,” a boy at the front puts a Swahili accent on “African.”
“Like bad coffee!” Genevieve cups her hands around her mouth.
“And horrible internet!” Someone else calls.
“Bad roads and no cell service.”
“There’s always the goats running wild,” I say with the mental image of goats running across the stage.
“I love this!” Lena adjusts her glasses and grins at the crowd. “Anyone else have a different idea, or are we all good with this one?”
“I think we all like it,” Rachelle shrugs, leaning against the wall.
I look over my shoulder at her. She bugs her eyes.
“I’m here for moral support,” she says in a low whisper. “I am not much of an actress. At all.”
“Relatable, but I needed to distract myself,” I bite my bottom lip.
“You seem to need that a lot.”
I snort, “My mind is as crazy of a rollercoaster as my emotions. And the fact I keep messing things up for myself doesn’t help.”
“Yeah, been there,” Rachelle swipes an eyelash off her cheek.
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