The Jade Notebook

by Laura Resau

  Biting my lip, I lower my voice. “Did you see something?”

  “No, no. Look, Z, I’m okay.” But there’s an undercurrent of something in his voice. Irritation? I can’t tell.

  He stands up. “I’m going to lie down awhile. I’m tired.”

  I blink, not sure what to say. “Okay. Do you want me to—”

  “No, stay here, tell Layla about your mole thing.” And before I can respond, he’s gone off to his cabana, laptop tucked under his arm.

  I stare after him, hurt. We’ve been sharing everything since we got here. Only one week at the Turtle Center and he has secrets? It only took one week for him to drift away from me? Just when I’m feeling strong enough to handle our hours apart, he starts slipping away?

  At sunset, Wendell and I are walking along Comet Point, past carpets of pink-blossomed succulents and clusters of cacti. He’s kicking small stones from his path, almost angrily. Our gazes aren’t on the glittering ocean; his is glued to his feet, and mine is on his distressed face.

  Earlier, Wendell stayed in his cabana for nearly an hour while Layla and I whipped up a scrumptious chicken dinner using the mole paste. After the preparations, I swung by his room to see how he was feeling. Terrible, by the look of him. It took some work to convince him to take a walk with me, but here he is. Wearing a tortured expression.

  “Everything okay?” I ask for the third time tonight.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you okay, Wendell?”

  “Oh, yeah. Just—yeah.”

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Is it something I said? Something I did?”

  “What? No.” He shakes off his gloom, and kisses me. “No, you’re great, Z.”

  The sea rages against jagged rocks on the west side, where the sun falls toward the horizon like a glowing tangerine. I scan Playa Mermejita in the distance, trying to see if any more leatherbacks are coming to shore to nest. From here, it’s hard to tell, but it looks like a clean stretch of uninterrupted beach. When I squint, I think I can make out the faint marks of flipper tracks crisscrossing the sand.

  I wish we were allowed to walk there, the site of our future handfasting. By the date of our handfasting—August second—the leatherbacks will have finished nesting, and another species of turtles will probably be there. Wendell and I will have to break the stay-off-the-beach rule, just that once, to honor the promise we made each other. It’s just a ritual, but somehow, it seems essential to complete it. Especially now, with this disconcerting feeling that our relationship is inexplicably on the rocks.

  By now we’ve reached the tip of the point. White foam slaps against cliffs, forming violent whirlpools around the boulders below. I wonder if this is where Meche’s daughter fell. I shudder, imagining the terrible scene Lupita described.

  Wendell and I stand for a moment, watching the chaos of water; then I tug his hand and we continue to the opposite side of the point. A few other couples are scattered, watching the sunset. The sky has turned to liquid gold and pink, melting into the ocean.

  Now is the kind of moment when our lips usually find each other, when our eyelids fall shut and we get lost in our own sweet, dusky world. I reach for Wendell’s limp hand. “This sunset looks delicious, doesn’t it?” I’m desperate to lighten things up, to somehow connect with him. “Like agua de papaya. Oh, and wait till you try the mole. It tastes like sweaty stars.” I force a smile. “In a good way.”

  He doesn’t laugh or even question me.

  The sun disappears completely into the ocean, and I lean against him, tuck my head into the nook of his neck. Without warning, he leans away, sticks his hands in his pockets. “Speaking of dinner, we should go back. Layla probably needs our help.”

  “Okay,” I say, swallowing my hurt.

  We walk back along the pensinsula, scrambling up the hill, then through the jungle. We’re halfway to the cabanas when something rustles in the trees.

  Last time I heard something rustle in these trees, it didn’t end well. I pick up the pace. We should have brought a flashlight. Dusk has fallen fast in the forest. It’s all shadows. We take a few more steps. Another noise, maybe the snap of a twig. My eyes flicker to the sound. I catch a glimpse of movement in the trees nearby. Is it Gatito? Meche?

  “Let’s hurry,” I say, breaking into a jog.

  “What’s wrong?” Wendell asks, barely keeping up with me.

  “Didn’t you hear that?”

  “What?”

  I glance at him. He probably wasn’t paying attention, lost in whatever he’s been thinking about. I thought I felt alone before, with Wendell at the Turtle Center. It’s even worse when he’s right beside me but galaxies away. “I don’t know. But hurry.”

  Soon we step into the kitchen hut’s candlelit glow. I breathe out in relief. The tables are packed with guests talking and eating mole. More like devouring mole. Some look up to greet us and compliment me on the dinner, then quickly return to stuffing their faces.

  Layla glides over with two plates for us. “Eat up! This food really is fit for the gods!” She kisses us each on the head, then moves on to the blissed-out guests who are begging for seconds.

  Wendell finds a seat, not in his usual spot in the middle of the hut, but at a table on the edge. I sit down next to him, watching his reaction as he tastes the mole.

  “Yum.” His smile is strained. He takes another small bite, then scoots his rice around with his fork. Something is definitely wrong, so wrong he can’t even talk about it.

  I take a bite of mole, urge the chocolate and chile to send endorphins through me. Not working. Not with Wendell acting like this. Mindlessly, I stare into the darkness falling on the jungle outside the hut. A movement in the branches catches my eye. My eyes adjust, and now I’m certain. Something—or someone—is there. Tiny lights reflect off a pair of eyes. Not the yellow glow of animal eyes. No, they’re human.

  My fork clatters to my plate. I stand up.

  The eyes meet mine. And then disappear.

  I rush out to the trees, calling, “Who’s there?”

  No answer.

  Wendell’s at my side now. I put my finger to my lips and wait for a minute, until Wendell says, “Come on, Z,” leading me by the elbow back to the table.

  “Someone was watching us, Wendell.” Composing myself, I sit back down, hearing my heart thud. I unclench my fists, try to relax into the warm candlelight and mole smells and happy faces. Such a comfortable little island. Comfortable, yet vulnerable. “It might’ve been Meche,” I whisper.

  “Well, there’s no one there now,” Wendell says, giving me a strange look.

  “No, but—”

  He pulls me close, wraps his arm around my shoulder. For the first time tonight, he actually looks at me. It took someone spying on us in the jungle to do it, but at least he’s not obsessing over whatever’s been upsetting him. He’s focused on me now. His voice comes out tender. “You’re still shaken up, aren’t you, Z? From the jaguar? The curse?”

  “But, Wendell, I wasn’t imagining it.… I saw eyes.…” My voice trails off. I press my lips together and shut my eyes. I sink into him, breathing in his fresh-laundry-and-cinnamon-soap smell. What matters most is being close to him. That’s all I want right now.

  But by the middle of the next morning, Wendell’s distant again, light-years away. We’re clearing the network of paths through the jungle. I’ve been using my machete to chop through brush and dead trees for hours. Wood splinters cling to my hair, my tank top, my pants. Soil spots my ankles and arms, leaving the smell of earth. I pause, wiping my forehead. Except for the distant surf and the echoing boom of Wendell’s machete, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

  I watch him chopping a dead log, breathing hard, wordless. We still have a few hours before he leaves for work. I can’t stand this awkwardness anymore. I walk over, wrap my arms around him, let my lips graze his neck.

  No response.

  I turn him toward me, cupping his face in my hands, kiss him long and hard on the
mouth.

  He pulls away, looks down. “We should get some work done.”

  My face hot, I walk away and pick up my machete. There’s no explanation for his acting like this. It must have been a vision, an intense one. But what if it’s me? What if for some reason, he’s not into me anymore?

  I glance around at the giant leaves, the flowers spilling out everywhere, the beginnings of my path network. My little paradise. None of it matters if Wendell isn’t part of it.

  I set down my machete, stand in front of him, look straight into his eyes. “Wendell, the truth. What’s going on?”

  He brushes the stray hairs from his face. “Yesterday I …”

  The dread in his voice scares me. “What?”

  “After work I got an email.” He sighs.

  I brace myself. What if it was from an old girlfriend? Or worse, a death in his family? “From?”

  “From California College of the Arts.”

  “What?” This is the last thing I expected him to say. I feel a wave of relief that it wasn’t an old girlfriend or a death. Then I wonder where he’s going with this.

  “I didn’t mention it to you before because—well, I didn’t think anything would happen.”

  “What are you talking about, Wendell?” Something in the tone of his voice makes my stomach clench.

  “I was sure I wanted to follow our plan, Z. Stay here while you finished school, then go to CU Boulder together … but in the fall, my parents made me apply to at least one college. In case I changed my mind.”

  I’m motionless, listening.

  He picks up a dead stick, snaps it in half, and in half again. “I applied to this art school in San Francisco, sent them my portfolio of Ecuador and France photos. There’s a famous photographer who teaches there—international nature stuff. I thought there was no way I’d get in, and even if I did, there’s no way we could afford it.” He pauses, rubbing his head.

  “And you got in?”

  He lets out a long, somber breath. “All tuition paid, plus a dorm room and meal plan.” You’d think he was telling me his dog died. “I’d have to take some prerequisites as summer classes. Starting in June.”

  A whole succession of thoughts flies through my mind. First, I’m grateful that his news doesn’t involve weird animals or creepy visions or terminal diseases. Then I envision him in San Francisco having gallery openings and getting his photos published in magazines, and my heart swells with happiness. Then I wonder why he’s so down about it.

  It slams into me like a punch in the gut. June. He’d have to leave a year earlier than me. The other realizations hit me like a storm. A dorm room and meal plan. No place for me. No way could I afford to live in San Francisco, especially on my own, doing my senior year in high school. And even after I graduate, I wouldn’t be going to an arts college. I need something more practical—international relations, maybe—so I can pay back student loans. And a harder punch in the gut: if he’s leaving in June, he won’t be here for our handfasting on the beach. The thought of our perfect spot of beach, empty and abandoned on August second—that’s what makes my lip tremble.

  It takes all my concentration to hold back tears. A hummingbird buzzes by. There’s the distant roar of a motorboat or maybe a truck engine. The insect songs rise and fall. He’s waiting for me to say something. I wish I could kiss him and say congratulations, but if I open my mouth, I might start to cry.

  He takes my hand. “Hey, listen, Z. I’m not gonna take it. I just—” He shakes his head. “I want to be with you. Help with the cabanas. Protect the turtles. I love it here.”

  I find words, make my mouth move. “Did you tell your parents?”

  He nods.

  “And?”

  He answers quietly. “They think I’d be crazy not to take it.” Rubbing his temple, he adds, “They say it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  I try to wrap my head around this. “Why? Couldn’t you postpone it? Till next year? Maybe I could save up money, find a way to go too.”

  He lets out a long breath. “The prof who’s offering me the scholarship—he’s leaving next year. He’ll be working full-time for National Geographic. It’s a one-shot deal, Z.”

  I absorb this. Wendell’s parents are right; he’d be crazy not to take it. But our year together would be gone. And who knows what would happen at college? He could meet anyone, he could change, he could … anything. I bite my lip. I know what the right thing to say is. So I force myself to say it. “Maybe you shouldn’t refuse it yet. Just email them back. Say you need time to decide.”

  “Z, I don’t think—”

  “Just email them, all right?” My words come out almost angry.

  “All right.”

  We clear the rest of the portion of path in silence. My insides are spinning, a whirlpool of emotion. It’s another mess. A mess that makes my stomach hurt, my chest ache. A mess that makes me realize I can’t count on anything. Not my father, who’s hiding from me. Not my mother, who’ll leap at any excuse to make us leave. Not Wendell, the person I thought I could depend on more than anyone.

  By the orange glow of the bonfire, three Australian backpacker girls are dancing as a long-haired Norwegian architect, Sven, plays a wooden flute and Horacio, the blind man, strums his guitar. It would be pleasant if Wendell—a happy Wendell—were here instead of moping in his cabana. If only he’d never gotten that scholarship offer. And if only Joe weren’t sitting next to me, staring at the leaping flames and ranting about the inevitable incineration of the world. “Actually, Joe,” I tell him, “at the moment, I wouldn’t mind if the world burned to ashes.”

  That silences him.

  Then, inspired, Layla stands up, Rumi written all over her face. “Rise into the atmosphere, and even if the whole world’s harp should burn up”—and here she looks pointedly at Joe and me—“there will still be hidden instruments playing.”

  A few guests applaud, murmur appreciation. They tilt back their heads, watching the smoke rise into the sky. Horacio and the architect give an appreciative nod toward Layla and keep playing.

  She sits close beside me and whispers, “What’s wrong, love?”

  I stare at the fire. Layla wouldn’t understand. She’s used to guys flitting in and out of her life. She’d have no clue how I feel. If she were in my place, she’d take it as a sign—or excuse—to move to another country, most likely. “Nothing,” I whisper.

  “Is it about your father?”

  I glance up. I could let her think that.

  “You’re upset you haven’t found him?”

  I pause, listening to the lone flute notes spiral up. “It sucks looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found. Someone I’m not even convinced I want to find anymore. Not now that I know more about him.” I shrug. “I’ve given up for the moment.”

  “Really, love?”

  I wave the smoke from my stinging eyes, forcing my mouth into some semblance of a smile. “I’ve found my cousins and aunt. At least, I think I have. And I’ve met some cool locals—Lupita and Santy and El Loco and the other bolibolistas. Maybe that’s enough.” But even I can tell I’m not convincing.

  “There’s more, isn’t there, Z?” She gives me a sheepish look. “Are you mad I haven’t signed the contract yet?”

  “You haven’t?” I’m too depressed to get angry.

  “I promise I’ll do it soon, Z.” She reaches out, tilts my chin up, studies my watering smoke-stung eyes. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?” Glancing around, she asks, “Where’s Wendell been hiding?”

  I wince, as if she’s just touched the tender skin around a splinter.

  On occasion, Layla can be surprisingly perceptive. She pulls me toward her. I blink back tears, let her hold me.

  “He got a scholarship,” I sputter, my voice muffled in the cotton of her huipil. “He’d have to leave in June. He says he doesn’t think he’ll take it but …” I let my voice fade, and wipe my tears.

  I brace myself for her
to assure me it doesn’t matter, there are more boys out there, on every continent, a world of boys just waiting to meet me. In fact, she’ll probably offer, Hey, why don’t we go find one for you now? Instead, she says, matter-of-factly, “He’s the love of your life, Z. We all know that.”

  I pull away from her and stare. This is the last thing I expected.

  “You’ve just hit a rough patch. Hang in there, love.” She squeezes my hand and says confidently, “It’ll work out.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” My voice sounds so small and vulnerable. Usually, I’m the strong one around Layla. The one with my feet solidly on the ground, pulling her back to earth. “What if everything’s ruined?”

  She pulls me to my feet. “Dance with me, Z!”

  I groan. Dancing is Layla’s solution to just about anything. I glance around, searching for a way out. Joe is passing out Coronas to the guests. Sven and Horacio set down their instruments, clink their bottles together, and sip. The Australian girls are heading back to their cabana, their laughter tinkling behind them.

  “Come on, Z!” Layla insists, her bangles clinking as she snakes her arms through the smoke. “Let’s dance!”

  “Layla, the absolute last thing I want to do is dance.” I scowl, folding my arms tightly. “Anyway, the music’s over. There’s no point.”

  She lets go of my hands and begins dancing herself, just the rush of ocean for music, the metallic tinkling of her bracelets. She whispers Rumi. “We rarely hear the inward music, but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless.”

  The next morning, when I show up at Doña Lupita’s house, I’m groggy from a sleepless night. She gives me a big hug that smells of smoky chile and cinnamon. Today she’s wearing a silvery dress with a pink flower pattern under her checked apron. I wonder if every dress she owns looks like her garden.

  She sits me down on a tree stump and immediately places a steaming cup of chamomile tea in my hands.

  I force a smile, determined not to let my bad mood put a damper on our cooking lesson.